Chapter 1
WE know more of the early days of the Pyramids or of ancientBabylon than we do of our own. The Stone age, the dragons ofthe prime, are not more remote from us than is our earliestchildhood. It is not so long ago for any of us; and yet, ourmemories of it are but veiled spectres wandering in the mazesof some foregone existence.
　　Are we really trailing clouds of glory from afar? Or are our'forgettings' of the outer Eden only? Or, setting poetryaside, are they perhaps the quickening germs of all pastheredity - an epitome of our race and its descent? At anyrate THEN, if ever, our lives are such stuff as dreams aremade of. There is no connected story of events, thoughts,acts, or feelings. We try in vain to re-collect; but thesecrets of the grave are not more inviolable, - for thebeginnings, like the endings, of life are lost in darkness.
　　It is very difficult to affix a date to any relic of that dimpast. We may have a distinct remembrance of some pleasure,some pain, some fright, some accident, but the vivid does nothelp us to chronicle with accuracy. A year or two makes avast difference in our ability. We can remember well enoughwhen we donned the 'CAUDA VIRILIS,' but not when we left offpetticoats.
　　The first remembrance to which I can correctly tack a date isthe death of George IV. I was between three and four yearsold. My recollection of the fact is perfectly distinct -distinct by its association with other facts, then far moreweighty to me than the death of a king.
　　I was watching with rapture, for the first time, the spinningof a peg-top by one of the grooms in the stable yard, whenthe coachman, who had just driven my mother home, announcedthe historic news. In a few minutes four or five servants -maids and men - came running to the stables to learnparticulars, and the peg-top, to my sorrow, had to beabandoned for gossip and flirtation. We were a long way fromstreet criers - indeed, quite out of town. My father's housewas in Kensington, a little further west than the presentmuseum. It was completely surrounded by fields and hedges.
　　I mention the fact merely to show to what age definite memorycan be authentically assigned. Doubtless we have muchearlier remembrances, though we must reckon these by days, orby months at the outside. The relativity of the reckoningwould 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 toa children's ball at St. James's Palace. In my mind's eye Ihave but one distinct vision of it. I cannot see the crowd -there was nothing to distinguish that from what I have sooften seen since; nor the court dresses, nor the soldierseven, who always attract a child's attention in the streets;but I see a raised dais on which were two thrones. WilliamIV. sat on one, Queen Adelaide on the other. I cannot saywhether we were marched past in turn, or how I came there.
　　But I remember the look of the king in his naval uniform. Iremember his white kerseymere breeches, and pink silkstockings, 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 andanchor buttons.
　　Upon this, he fetched from the depths of his waistcoat pocketa capacious gold box, and opened it with a tap, as though hewere about to offer me a pinch of snuff. 'There's for you,'
　　said he.
　　I helped myself, unawed by the situation, and with my smallfist clutching the bonbons, was passed on to Queen Adelaide.
　　She gave me a kiss, for form's sake, I thought; and Iscuttled back to my mother.
　　But here followed the shocking part of the ENFANT TERRIBLE'Sadventure. Not quite sure of Her Majesty's identity - I hadnever heard there was a Queen - I naively asked my mother, ina very audible stage-whisper, 'Who is the old lady with - ?'
　　My mother dragged me off the instant she had made hercurtsey. She had a quick sense of humour; and, judging fromher laughter, when she told her story to another lady in thesupper room, I fancied I had said or done something veryfunny. I was rather disconcerted at being seriouslyadmonished, and told I must never again comment upon thebreath of ladies who condescended to kiss, or to speak to,me.
　　While we lived at Kensington, Lord Anglesey used often to paymy mother a visit. She had told me the story of the battleof Waterloo, in which my Uncle George - 6th Lord Albemarle -had taken part; and related how Lord Anglesey had lost a legthere, and how one of his legs was made of cork. LordAnglesey was a great dandy. The cut of the Paget hat was anheirloom for the next generation or two, and the gallantMarquis' boots and tightly-strapped trousers were patterns ofpolish and precision. The limp was perceptible; but of whichleg, was, in spite of careful investigation, beyond mydiagnosis. His presence provoked my curiosity, till one fineday it became too strong for resistance. While he was busilyengaged in conversation with my mother, I, watching for thechance, sidled up to his chair, and as soon as he lookedaway, rammed my heel on to his toes. They were his toes.
　　And considering the jump and the oath which instantlyresponded to my test, I am persuaded they were abnormallytender ones. They might have been made of corns, certainlynot of cork.
　　Another discovery I made about this period was, for me atleast, a 'record': it happened at Quidenham - my grandfatherthe 4th Lord Albemarle's place.
　　Some excursion was afoot, which needed an early breakfast.
　　When this was half over, one married couple were missing. Mygrandfather called me to him (I was playing with anothersmall boy in one of the window bays). 'Go and tell LadyMaria, with my love,' said he, 'that we shall start in halfan hour. Stop, stop a minute. Be sure you knock at thedoor.' I obeyed orders - I knocked at the door, but failedto wait for an answer. I entered without it. And what did Ibehold? Lady Maria was still in bed; and by the side of LadyM. was, very naturally, Lady M.'s husband, also in bed andfast asleep. At first I could hardly believe my senses. Itwas within the range of my experience that boys of my ageoccasionally slept in the same bed. But that a grown up manshould sleep in the same bed with his wife was quite beyondmy notion of the fitness of things. I was so staggered, solong in taking in this astounding novelty, that I could notat first deliver my grandfathers message. The moment I haddone so, I rushed back to the breakfast room, and in a loudvoice proclaimed to the company what I had seen. My taleproduced all the effect I had anticipated, but mainly in theshape of amusement. One wag - my uncle Henry Keppel - askedfor details, gravely declaring he could hardly credit mystatement. Every one, however, seemed convinced by thecircumstantial nature of my evidence when I positivelyasserted that their heads were not even at opposite ends ofthe bed, but side by side upon the same pillow.
　　A still greater soldier than Lord Anglesey used to come toHolkham every year, a great favourite of my father's; thiswas Lord Lynedoch. My earliest recollections of him owetheir vividness to three accidents - in the logical sense ofthe term: his silky milk-white locks, his Spanish servantwho wore earrings - and whom, by the way, I used to confoundwith Courvoisier, often there at the same time with hismaster Lord William Russell, for the murder of whom he washanged, as all the world knows - and his fox terrier Nettle,which, as a special favour, I was allowed to feed withAbernethy biscuits.
　　He was at Longford, my present home, on a visit to my fatherin 1835, when, one evening after dinner, the two oldgentlemen - no one else being present but myself - sitting inarmchairs over the fire, finishing their bottle of port, LordLynedoch told the wonderful story of his adventures duringthe siege of Mantua by the French, in 1796. For brevity'ssake, it were better perhaps to give the outline in the wordsof Alison. 'It was high time the Imperialists should advanceto the relief of this fortress, which was now reduced to thelast extremity from want of provisions. At a council of warheld in the end of December, it was decided that it wasindispensable that instant intelligence should be sent toAlvinzi of their desperate situation. An English officer,attached to the garrison, volunteered to perform the perilousmission, which he executed with equal courage and success.
　　He set out, disguised as a peasant, from Mantua on December29, at nightfall in the midst of a deep fall of snow, eludedthe vigilance of the French patrols, and, after surmounting athousand hardships and dangers, arrived at the headquartersof Alvinzi, at Bassano, on January 4, the day after theconferences at Vicenza were broken up.
　　'Great destinies awaited this enterprising officer. He wasColonel Graham, afterwards victor at Barrosa, and the firstBritish general who planted the English standard on the soilof France.'
　　This bare skeleton of the event was endued 'with sense andsoul' by the narrator. The 'hardships and dangers' thrilledone's young nerves. Their two salient features were iceperils, and the no less imminent one of being captured andshot as a spy. The crossing of the rivers stands outprominently in my recollection. All the bridges were ofcourse guarded, and he had two at least within the enemy'slines to get over - those of the Mincio and of the Adige.
　　Probably the lagunes surrounding the invested fortress wouldbe his worst difficulty. The Adige he described as besetwith a two-fold risk - the avoidance of the bridges, whichcourted suspicion, and the thin ice and only partially frozenriver, which had to be traversed in the dark. The vigour,the zest with which the wiry veteran 'shoulder'd his crutchand show'd how fields were won' was not a thing to beforgotten.
　　Lord Lynedoch lived to a great age, and it was from his houseat Cardington, in Bedfordshire, that my brother Leicestermarried his first wife, Miss Whitbread, in 1843. That wasthe last time I saw him.
　　Perhaps the following is not out of place here, although itis connected with more serious thoughts:
　　Though neither my father nor my mother were more pious thantheir neighbours, we children were brought up religiously.
　　From infancy we were taught to repeat night and morning theLord's Prayer, and invoke blessings on our parents. It wasinstilled into us by constant repetition that God did notlove naughty children - our naughtiness being for the mostpart the original sin of disobedience, rooted in the love offorbidden fruit in all its forms of allurement. Moseshimself could not have believed more faithfully in the directand immediate intervention of an avenging God. The pain inone's stomach incident to unripe gooseberries, no less thanthe consequent black dose, or the personal chastisement of aresponsible and apprehensive nurse, were but the justvisitations of an offended Deity.
　　Whether my religious proclivities were more pronounced thanthose of other children I cannot say, but certainly, as achild, I was in the habit of appealing to Omnipotence togratify every ardent desire.
　　There were peacocks in the pleasure grounds at Holkham, and Ihad an aesthetic love for their gorgeous plumes. As I huntedunder and amongst the shrubs, I secretly prayed that mysearch might be rewarded. Nor had I a doubt, whensuccessful, that my prayer had been granted by a beneficentProvidence.
　　Let no one smile at this infantine credulity, for is it notthe basis of that religious trust which helps so many of usto support the sorrows to which our stoicism is unequal? Whothat might be tempted thoughtlessly to laugh at the childdoes not sometimes sustain the hope of finding his 'plumes'
　　by appeals akin to those of his childhood? Which of us couldnot 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 seekvengeance, of the ugly who would be beautiful, of the old whowould appear young, of the guilty who would not be found out,and of the lover who would possess. Ah! the lover. Herepossibility is a negligible element. Consequences are of noconsequence. Passion must be served. When could a miraclebe more pertinent?
　　It is just fifty years ago now; it was during the IndianMutiny. A lady friend of mine did me the honour to make meher confidant. She paid the same compliment to many - mostof her friends; and the friends (as is their wont) confidedin one another. Poor thing! her case was a sad one. Whosecase 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 saidthat she knew him only by his well-earned fame. She had seenhim, had even sat by him at dinner. He was young, he washandsome. It was love at sight, accentuated by muchmeditation - 'obsessions [peradventure] des imagesgenetiques.' She told me (and her other confidants, ofcourse) that she prayed day and night that this distinguishedofficer, this handsome officer, might return her passion.
　　And her letters to me (and to other confidants) invariablyended with the entreaty that I (and her other, &c.) wouldoffer up a similar prayer on her behalf. Alas! poor soul,poor body! I should say, the distinguished officer, togetherwith the invoked Providence, remained equally insensible toher 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 notmillions of such entreaties addressed to Heaven on this, andon every day? What difference is there, in spirit, betweenthem and the child's prayer for his feather? Is thereanything great or small in the eye of Omniscience? Or is itnot our thinking only that makes it so?
Chapter 2
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. Iwas taken thither from Holkham by a great friend of myfather's, General Sir Ronald Ferguson, whose statue nowadorns one of the niches in the facade of Wellington College.
　　The school contained about 120 boys; but I cannot name anyone of the lot who afterwards achieved distinction. Therewere 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 asDotheboys Hall. The progress of the last century in manydirections is great indeed; but in few is it greater than inthe comfort and the cleanliness of our modern schools. Theluxury enjoyed by the present boy is a constant source ofastonishment to us grandfathers. We were half starved, wewere exceedingly dirty, we were systematically bullied, andwe were flogged and caned as though the master's pleasure wasin inverse ratio to ours. The inscription on the thresholdshould have been 'Cave canem.'
　　We began our day as at Dotheboys Hall with two largespoonfuls of sulphur and treacle. After an hour's lessons webreakfasted 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 thebutcher's bill. Then mutton - which was quite capable oftaking 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 theschool) during the two years I was there. On Saturdaynights, before bed, our feet were washed by the housemaids,in tubs round which half a dozen of us sat at a time. Woe tothe last comers! for the water was never changed. How wesurvived 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, Inever quite made sure, (for the act was not admissible), thatmy good fairy was a fiery-haired lassie (we called her'Carrots,' though I had my doubts as to this being herChristian name) who hailed from Norfolk. I see her now: herjolly, round, shining face, her extensive mouth, her ampleperson. I recall, with more pleasure than I then endured,the cordial hugs she surreptitiously bestowed upon me when wemet by accident in the passages. Kind, affectionate'Carrots'! Thy heart was as bounteous as thy bosom. May thetenderness of both have met with their earthly deserts; andmayest thou have shared to the full the pleasures thou wastever ready to impart!
　　There were no railways in those times. It amuses me to seepeople nowadays travelling by coach, for pleasure. How manylives must have been shortened by long winter journeys inthose horrible coaches. The inside passengers were hardlybetter off than the outside. The corpulent and heavyoccupied the scanty space allotted to the weak and small -crushed them, slept on them, snored over them, andmonopolised the straw which was supposed to keep their feetwarm.
　　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 otherbody's, way. So that when the distance was great and timeprecious, people avoided coaching, and remained where theywere.
　　For this reason, if a short holiday was given - less than aweek say - Norfolk was too far off; and I was not permittedto spend it at Holkham. I generally went to Charles Fox's atAddison Road, or to Holland House. Lord Holland was a greatfriend of my father's; but, if Creevey is to be trusted -which, as a rule, my recollection of him would permit me todoubt, though perhaps not in this instance - Lord Holland didnot go to Holkham because of my father's dislike to LadyHolland.
　　I speak here of my introduction to Holland House, foralthough Lady Holland was then in the zenith of herascendency, (it was she who was the Cabinet Minister, not hertoo amiable husband,) although Holland House was then theresort of all the potentates of Whig statecraft, and Whigliterature, and Whig wit, in the persons of Lord Grey,Brougham, Jeffrey, Macaulay, Sydney Smith, and others, it wasnot till eight or ten years later that I knew, when I metthem there, who and what her Ladyship's brilliant satelliteswere. I shall not return to Lady Holland, so I will say aparting word of her forthwith.
　　The woman who corresponded with Buonaparte, and consoled theprisoner of St. Helena with black currant jam, was noordinary personage. Most people, I fancy, were afraid ofher. Her stature, her voice, her beard, were obtrusive marksof her masculine attributes. It is questionable whether heramity or her enmity was most to be dreaded. She liked thosebest whom she could most easily tyrannise over. Those in theother category might possibly keep aloof. For my part Ifeared her patronage. I remember when I was about seventeen- a self-conscious hobbledehoy - Mr. Ellice took me to one ofher large receptions. She received her guests from a sort ofelevated dais. When I came up - very shy - to make mysalute, she asked me how old I was. 'Seventeen,' was theanswer. 'That means next birthday,' she grunted. 'Come andgive me a kiss, my dear.' I, a man! - a man whose voice was(sometimes) as gruff as hers! - a man who was beginning toshave for a moustache! Oh! the indignity of it!
　　But it was not Lady Holland, or her court, that concerned mein my school days, it was Holland Park, or the extensivegrounds about Charles Fox's house (there were no other housesat Addison Road then), that I loved to roam in. It was thebirds'-nesting; it was the golden carp I used to fish for onthe sly with a pin; the shying at the swans, the hunt forcockchafers, the freedom of mischief generally, and theexcellent food - which I was so much in need of - that madethe holiday delightful.
　　Some years later, when dining at Holland House, I happened tosit near the hostess. It was a large dinner party. LordHolland, in his bath-chair (he nearly always had the gout),sat at the far end of the table a long way off. But my ladykept an eye on him, for she had caught him drinkingchampagne. She beckoned to the groom of the chambers, whostood behind her; and in a gruff and angry voice shouted:
　　'Go to my Lord. Take away his wine, and tell him if hedrinks any more you have my orders to wheel him into the nextroom.' If this was a joke it was certainly a practical one.
　　And yet affection was behind it. There's a tender place inevery heart.
　　Like all despots, she was subject to fits of cowardice -especially, it was said, with regard to a future state, whichshe professed to disbelieve in. Mr. Ellice told me thatonce, in some country house, while a fearful storm wasraging, and the claps of thunder made the windows rattle,Lady Holland was so terrified that she changed dresses withher maid, and hid herself in the cellar. Whether the storybe a calumny or not, it is at least characteristic.
　　After all, it was mainly due to her that Holland House becamethe focus of all that was brilliant in Europe. In thememoirs of her father - Sydney Smith - Mrs. Austin writes:
　　'The world has rarely seen, and will rarely, if ever, seeagain all that was to be found within the walls of HollandHouse. Genius and merit, in whatever rank of life, became apassport there; and all that was choicest and rarest inEurope seemed attracted to that spot as their natural soil.'
　　Did we learn much at Temple Grove? Let others answer forthemselves. Acquaintance with the classics was the staple ofa liberal education in those times. Temple Grove was theATRIUM 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 manytears, and by temporarily impaired health. It was due to mypallid cheeks that I was removed. It was due to thefollowing six months - summer months - of a happy life thatmy health was completely restored.
Chapter 3
MR. EDWARD ELLICE, who constantly figures in the memoirs ofthe last century as 'Bear Ellice' (an outrageous misnomer, bythe way), and who later on married my mother, was the chiefcontroller of my youthful destiny. His first wife was asister of the Lord Grey of Reform Bill fame, in whoseGovernment he filled the office of War Minister. In manyrespects Mr. Ellice was a notable man. He possessed shrewdintelligence, much force of character, and an autocraticspirit - to which he owed his sobriquet. His kindness ofheart, his powers of conversation, with striking personalityand ample wealth, combined to make him popular. His house inArlington Street, and his shooting lodge at Glen Quoich, werefamous for the number of eminent men who were his frequentguests.
　　Mr. Ellice's position as a minister, and his habitualresidence in Paris, had brought him in touch with the leadingstatesmen of France. He was intimately acquainted with LouisPhilippe, with Talleyrand, with Guizot, with Thiers, and mostof the French men and French women whose names were bruitedin the early part of the nineteenth century.
　　When I was taken from Temple Grove, I was placed, by theadvice and arrangement of Mr. Ellice, under the charge of aFrench family, which had fallen into decay - through thechange of dynasty. The Marquis de Coubrier had been Masterof the Horse to Charles X. His widow - an old lady betweenseventy and eighty - with three maiden daughters, alladvanced in years, lived upon the remnant of their estates ina small village called Larue, close to Bourg-la-Reine, which,it may be remembered, was occupied by the Prussians duringthe siege of Paris. There was a chateau, the former seat ofthe family; and, adjoining it, in the same grounds, a prettyand commodious cottage. The first was let as a country houseto some wealthy Parisians; the cottage was occupied by theMarquise and her three daughters.
　　The personal appearances of each of these four elderlyladies, their distinct idiosyncrasies, and their former highposition as members of a now moribund nobility, left alasting impression on my memory. One might expect, perhaps,from such a prelude, to find in the old Marquise traces ofstately demeanour, or a regretted superiority. Nothing ofthe kind. She herself was a short, square-built woman, withlarge head and strong features, framed in a mob cap, with abroad frill which flopped over her tortoise-shell spectacles.
　　She wore a black bombazine gown, and list slippers. When inthe garden, where she was always busy in the summer-time, sheput on wooden sabots over her slippers.
　　Despite this homely exterior, she herself was a 'lady' inevery sense of the word. Her manner was dignified andcourteous to everyone. To her daughters and to myself shewas gentle and affectionate. Her voice was sympathetic,almost musical. I never saw her temper ruffled. I neverheard her allude to her antecedents.
　　The daughters were as unlike their mother as they were to oneanother. Adele, the eldest, was very stout, with a profusionof 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 withan Englishman, and that the perfidious islander had removedfrom the Continent with her misplaced affections. She was atrifle bitter, I thought - for I applied her insinuations tomyself - against Englishmen generally. But, though cynicalin theory, she was perfectly amiable in practice. Shesuperintended the menage and spent the rest of her life inmaking paper flowers. I should hardly have known they wereflowers, never having seen their prototypes in nature. Sheassured 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 therewas much room for imagination and faith. She was a confirmedinvalid, and, poor thing! showed every symptom of it. Sherarely left her room except for meals; and although it wassummer when I was there, she never moved without herchauffrette. She seemed to live for the sake of patentmedicines and her chauffrette; she was always swallowing theone, and feeding the other.
　　The middle daughter was Aglae. Mademoiselle Aglae tookcharge - 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. Herspeciality, as I soon discovered, was sentiment. Like hersisters, she had had her 'affaires' in the plural. A Greekprince, so far as I could make out, was the last of heradorers. But I sometimes got into scrapes by mixing up theGreek prince with a Polish count, and then confounding eitherone or both with a Hungarian pianoforte player.
　　Without formulating my deductions, I came instinctively tothe conclusion that 'En fait d'amour,' as Figaro puts it,'trop n'est pas meme assez.' From Miss Aglae's point of viewa lover was a lover. As to the superiority of one overanother, this was - nay, is - purely subjective. 'We receivebut 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 careof me. She tucked me up at night, and used to send for me inthe morning before she rose, to partake of her CAFE-AU-LAIT.
　　In return for her indulgences, I would 'make eyes' such as Ihad seen Auguste, the young man-servant, cast at Rose thecook. I would present her with little scraps which I copiedin roundhand from a volume of French poems. Once I drew, andcoloured with red ink, two hearts pierced with an arrow, acopious pool of red ink beneath, emblematic of both thequality and quantity of my passion. This work of artproduced so deep a sigh that I abstained thenceforth fromrepeating such sanguinary endearments.
　　Not the least interesting part of the family was theservants. I say 'family,' for a French family, unlike anEnglish one, includes its domestics; wherein our neighbourshave the advantage over us. In the British establishment thehousehold is but too often thought of and treated asfurniture. 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 topeel potatoes, break eggs, and make POT-AU-FEU. She made melittle delicacies in pastry - swans with split almonds forwings, comic little pigs with cloves in their eyes - for allof which my affection and my liver duly acknowledged receiptin full. She taught me more provincial pronunciation and badgrammar than ever I could unlearn. She was very intelligent,and radiant with good humour. One peculiarity especiallytook my fancy - the yellow bandana in which she enveloped herhead. I was always wondering whether she was born withouthair - there was none to be seen. This puzzled me so thatone day I consulted Auguste, who was my chief companion. Hewas quite indignant, and declared with warmth that Mam'selleRose had the most beautiful hair he had ever beheld. Heflushed even with enthusiasm. If it hadn't been for hismanner, I should have asked him how he knew. But somehow Ifelt the subject was a delicate one.
　　How incessantly they worked, Auguste and Rose, and howcheerfully they worked! One could hear her singing, and himwhistling, at it all day. Yet they seemed to have abundantleisure to exchange a deal of pleasantry and harmless banter.
　　Auguste was a Swiss, and a bigoted Protestant, and never lostan opportunity of holding forth on the superiority of thereformed religion. If he thought the family were out ofhearing, he would grow very animated and declamatory. ButRose, who also had hopes, though perhaps faint, for mysalvation, would suddenly rush into the room with the carpetbroom, and drive him out, with threats of Miss Aglae, and thebroomstick.
　　The gardener, Monsieur Benoit, was also a great favourite ofmine, and I of his, for I was never tired of listening to hiswonderful adventures. He had, so he informed me, been asoldier in the GRANDE ARMEE. He enthralled me with hair-raising accounts of his exploits: how, when leading astorming party - he was always the leader - one dark andterrible night, the vivid and incessant lightning betrayedthem by the flashing of their bayonets; and how in a fewminutes they were mowed down by MITRAILLE. He had ledforlorn 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 'Lep'tit caporal.' There were many, whose deeds were not tocompare 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, andwitnessed my unbounded admiration, his voice would grow moreand more sepulchral, till it dropped to a hoarse and scarcelyaudible whisper.
　　I was a little bewildered one day when, having breathlesslyrepeated some of his heroic deeds to the Marquise, she with aquiet smile assured me that 'ce petit bon-homme,' as shecalled him, had for a short time been a drummer in theNational Guard, but had never been a soldier. This was ablow to me; moreover, I was troubled by the composure of theMarquise. Monsieur Benoit had actually been telling me whatwas not true. Was it, then, possible that grown-up peopleacquired the privilege of fibbing with impunity? I wonderedwhether this right would eventually become mine!
　　At Bourg-la-Reine there is, or was, a large school. Threedays in the week I had to join one of the classes there; onthe other three one of the ushers came up to Larue for acouple of hours of private tuition. At the school itself Idid not learn very much, except that boys everywhere arepretty similar, especially in the badness of their manners.
　　I also learnt that shrugging the shoulders while exhibitingthe palms of the hands, and smiting oneself vehemently on thechest, are indispensable elements of the French idiom. Theindiscriminate use of the word 'parfaitement' I also noticedto 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 andpatient teacher. I incline, however, to think that I taughthim more English than he taught me French. He certainlyworked hard at his lessons. He read English aloud to me, andmade me correct his pronunciation. The mental agony thiscaused me makes me hot to think of still. I had never heardhis kind of Franco-English before. To my ignorance it wasthe most comic language in the world. There were some wordswhich, in spite of my endeavours, he persisted in pronouncingin his own way. I have since got quite used to the most ofthem, and their only effect is to remind me of my own rashventures in a foreign tongue. There are one or two wordswhich recall the pain it gave me to control my emotions. Hewould produce his penknife, for instance; and, contemplatingit with a despondent air, would declare it to be the mostdifficult word in the English language to pronounce. 'Ow yousay 'im?' 'Penknife,' I explained. He would bid me write itdown; then having spelt it, he would, with much effort, and asound like sneezing - oh! the pain I endured! - slowly repeat'Penkneef.' I gave it up at last; and he was gratified withhis success. As my explosion generally occurred about fiveminutes afterwards, Monsieur Vincent failed to connect causeand effect. When we parted he gave me a neatly bound copy ofLa Bruyere as a prize - for his own proficiency, I presume.
　　Many a pleasant half-hour have I since spent with the wittyclassic.
　　Except the controversial harangues of the zealot Auguste, myreligious teaching was neglected on week days. On Sundays,if fine, I was taken to a Protestant church in Paris; notinfrequently to the Embassy. I did not enjoy this at all. Icould have done very well without it. I liked the drive,which took about an hour each way. Occasionally Aglae and Iwent in the Bourg-la-Reine coucou. But Mr. Ellice hadarranged that a carriage should be hired for me. Probably hewas not unmindful of the convenience of the old ladies. Theywere not. The carriage was always filled. Even MademoiselleHenriette managed to go sometimes - aided by a little patentmedicine, and when it was too hot for the chauffrette. Ifshe was unable, a friend in the neighbourhood was offered aseat; and I had to sit bodkin, or on Mademoiselle Aglae'slap. I hated the 'friend'; for, secretly, I felt thecarriage was mine, though of course I never had the bad tasteto say so.
　　They went to Mass, and I was allowed to go with them, inaddition to my church, as a special favour. I liked themusic, the display of candles, the smell of the incense, andthe dresses of the priests; and wondered whether whenundressed - unrobed, that is - they were funny old gentlemenlike Monsieur le Cure at Larue, and took such a prodigiousquantity of snuff up their noses and under their finger-nails. The ladies did a good deal of shopping, and wefinished 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; forthe dear old lady always presented me with a stick of barley-sugar in return. As I never possessed a sou (Miss Aglae keptaccount of all my expenses and disbursements) I was stronglyin favour of buying plants for 'Maman.'
　　I loved the garden. It was such a beautiful garden; sobeautifully kept by Monsieur Benoit, and withered old MereMichele, who did the weeding and helped Rose once a week inthe laundry. There were such pretty trellises, covered withroses and clematis; such masses of bright flowers and sweetmignonette; such tidy gravel walks and clipped box edges;such floods of sunshine; so many butterflies and lizardsbasking in it; the birds singing with excess of joy. I usedto fancy they sang in gratitude to the dear old Marquise, whonever forgot them in the winter snows.
　　What a quaint but charming picture she was amidst thisquietude, - she who had lived through the Reign of Terror:
　　her mob cap, garden apron, and big gloves; a trowel in onehand, a watering-pot in the other; potting and unpotting; sobusy, seemingly so happy. She loved to have me with her, andlet me do the watering. What a pleasure that was! Thescores of little jets from the perforated rose, the gushingsound, the freshness and the sparkle, the gratitude of theplants, to say nothing of one's own wet legs. 'Maman' didnot 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 asmall one painted red within and green outside was discoveredin Bourg-la-Reine, and I was happy ever afterwards.
　　Much of my time was spent with the children and nurses of thefamily which occupied the chateau. The costume of the headnurse with her high Normandy cap (would that I had a femalepen for details) invariably suggested to me that she wouldmake any English showman's fortune, if he could only exhibither stuffed. At the cottage they called her 'La GrosseNormande.' Not knowing her by any other name, I always soaddressed her. She was not very quick-witted, but I thinkshe a little resented my familiarity, and retaliated bycomparisons between her compatriots and mine, always in atone derogatory to the latter. She informed me as a matterof history, patent to all nurses, that the English race werenotoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the viciouspractice of allowing children to use their legs before thegristle had become bone. Being of an inquiring turn of mind,I listened with awe to this physiological revelation, andwith chastened and depressed spirits made a mental note ofour national calamity. Privately I fancied that the mottledand spasmodic legs of Achille - whom she carried in her arms- or at least so much of the infant Pelides' legs as were notenveloped in a napkin, gave every promise of refuting hergeneralisation.
　　One of my amusements was to set brick traps for small birds.
　　At Holkham in the winter time, by baiting with a few grainsof corn, I and my brothers used, in this way, to capturerobins, hedge-sparrows, and tits. Not far from the chateauwas a large osier bed, resorted to by flocks of the commonsparrow. Here I set my traps. But it being summer time, and(as I complained when twitted with want of success) Frenchbirds being too stupid to know what the traps were for, Inever caught a feather. Now this osier bed was a favouritegame covert for the sportsmen of the chateau; and what was mydelight and astonishment when one morning I found a dead harewith its head under the fallen brick of my trap. Howtriumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose andAuguste, - who more than the rest had 'mocked themselves' ofmy traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as itwas (I could not make out how both its hind legs were broken)into the salon to show it to the old Marquise. MademoiselleHenriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect)at sight of the blood. Everybody was pleased. But when Ioverheard Rose's SOTTO VOCE to the Marquise: 'Comme ils sontgentils!' I indignantly retorted that 'it wasn't kind of thehare at all: it was entirely due to my skill in setting thetraps. They would catch anything that put its head intothem. Just you try.'
　　How severe are the shocks of early disillusionment! It wasnot until long after the hare was skinned, roasted, served asCIVET and as PUREE that I discovered the truth. I was not atall grateful to the gentlemen of the chateau whose dupe I hadbeen; was even wrath with my dear old 'Maman' for treatingthem with extra courtesy for their kindness to her PETITCHERI.
　　That was a happy summer. After it was ended, and it was timefor me to return to England and begin my education for theNavy I never again set eyes on Larue, or that charming nestof old ladies who had done their utmost to spoil me. Manyand many a time have I been to Paris, but nothing could temptme to visit Larue. So it is with me. Often have Iquestioned the truth of the NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE than thememory of happy times in the midst of sorry ones. Thethought of happiness, it would seem, should surely make ushappier, and yet - not of happiness for ever lost. And arenot the deepening shades of our declining sun deepened byyouth's contrast? Whatever our sweetest songs may tell usof, we are the sadder for our sweetest memories. The grasscan never be as green again to eyes grown watery. The lambsthat skipped when we did were long since served as mutton.
　　And ifDie Fusse tragen mich so muthig nicht emporDie hohen Stufen die ich kindisch ubersprang,why, I will take the fact for granted. My youth is fled, myfriends are dead. The daisies and the snows whiten by turnsthe grave of him or her - the dearest I have loved. Shall Imake a pilgrimage to that sepulchre? Drop futile tears uponit? Will they warm what is no more? I for one have not theheart for that. Happily life has something else for us todo. Happily 'tis best to do it.
Chapter 4
THE passage from the romantic to the realistic, from thechimerical to the actual, from the child's poeticinterpretation 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 isstill, for yet another stage, the same and even greaterreceptivity, - delight in new experiences, in gratifiedcuriosity, in sensuous enjoyment, in the exercise of growingfaculties. But the belief in the impossible and the bliss ofignorance are seen, when looking back, to have assumed almostabruptly a cruder state of maturer dulness. Between thepublic schoolboy and the child there is an essentialdifference; and this in a boy's case is largely due, I fancy,to the diminished influence of woman, and the increasedinfluence of men.
　　With me, certainly, the rough usage I was ere long to undergomaterially modified my view of things in general. In 1838,when I was eleven years old, my uncle, Henry Keppel, thefuture Admiral of the Fleet, but then a dashing youngcommander, took me (as he mentions in his Autobiography) tothe Naval Academy at Gosport. The very afternoon of myadmittance - as an illustration of the above remarks - I hadthree fights with three different boys. After that the 'newboy' was left to his own devices, - QUA 'new boy,' that is;as an ordinary small boy, I had my share. I have spoken ofthe starvation at Dr. Pinkney's; here it was the terriblebullying 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, madeby stringing a button on a loop of thread, the twisting anduntwisting of which by approaching and separating the handscauses the button to revolve. Upon this design, and bysubstituting a jagged disk of slate for the button, thesenior 'Bull-dogs' (we were all called 'Burney's bull-dogs')constructed a very simple instrument of torture. One big boyspun the whirligig, while another held the small boy's palmtill the sharp slate-edge gashed it. The wound was severe.
　　For many years a long white cicatrice recorded the fact in myright hand. The ordeal was, I fancy, unique - a prerogativeof the naval 'bull-dogs.' The other torture was, in thosedays, not unknown to public schools. It was to hold a boy'sback and breech as near to a hot fire as his clothes wouldbear without burning. I have an indistinct recollection of aboy 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 withouta howl, and thus obtained immunity, and admission to theroasting guild for the future. What, however, served mebest, in all matters of this kind, was that as soon as I wastwelve years old my name was entered on the books of the'Britannia,' then flag-ship in Portsmouth Harbour, and thoughI remained at the Academy, I always wore the uniform of avolunteer of the first class, now called a naval cadet. Theuniform 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 SirThomas, whose portrait is now in the National PortraitGallery. He had seen much service, and had been flag-captainto Nelson's Hardy. In the middle of that winter we sailedfor China, where troubles had arisen anent the opium trade.
　　What would the cadet of the present day think of thetreatment we small boys had to put up with sixty or seventyyears ago? Promotion depended almost entirely on interest.
　　The service was entered at twelve or thirteen. After twoyears at sea, if the boy passed his examination, he mountedthe white patch, and became a midshipman. At the end of fouryears more he had to pass a double examination, - one forseamanship before a board of captains, and another fornavigation at the Naval College. He then became a master'smate, and had to serve for three years as such before he waseligible for promotion to a lieutenancy. Unless an officerhad family interest he often stuck there, and as often had toserve under one more favoured, who was not born when hehimself was getting stale.
　　Naturally enough these old hands were jealous of thefortunate 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 andsnowstorm, that we had to put back and anchor at St. Helensin the Isle of Wight. The next night we were at sea. Ithappened to be my middle watch. I had to turn out of myhammock at twelve to walk the deck till four in the morning.
　　Walk! I could not stand. Blinded with snow, drenched by theseas, frozen with cold, home sick and sea sick beyonddescription, 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 asleepthan awake; every now and then brought to my senses bybreaking my shins against the carronade slides; or, if I satdown upon one of them to rest, by a playful whack with arope's end from one of the crusty old mates aforesaid, whoperhaps anticipated in my poor little personality thearrogance of a possible commanding officer. Oh! those cruelnight watches! But the hard training must have been a usefultonic too. One got accustomed to it by degrees; and hence,indifferent to exposure, to bad food, to kicks and cuffs, tocalls of duty, to subordination, and to all that constitutesdiscipline.
　　Luckily for me, the midshipman of my watch, Jack Johnson, wasa trump, and a smart officer to boot. He was six years olderthan I, and, though thoroughly good-natured, was formidableenough from his strength and determination to have his willrespected. He became my patron and protector. Rightly, orwrongly I am afraid, he always took my part, made excuses forme to the officer of our watch if I were caught napping underthe half-deck, or otherwise neglecting my duty. Sometimes hewould even take the blame for this upon himself, and give mea 'wigging' in private, which was my severest punishment. Hetaught me the ropes, and explained the elements ofseamanship. If it was very cold at night he would make mewear his own comforter, and, in short, took care of me inevery possible way. Poor Jack! I never had a better friend;and I loved him then, God knows. He was one of those whoseadvancement depended on himself. I doubt whether he wouldever have been promoted but for an accident which I shallspeak of presently.
　　When we got into warm latitudes we were taught not only toknot and splice, but to take in and set the mizzen royal.
　　There were four of us boys, and in all weathers at last wewere practised aloft until we were as active and as smart asany of the ship's lads, even in dirty weather or in suddensqualls.
　　We had a capital naval instructor for lessons in navigation,and the quartermaster of the watch taught us how to handlethe wheel and con.
　　These quartermasters - there was one to each of the threewatches - were picked men who had been captains of tops orboatswains' mates. They were much older than any of thecrew. Our three in the 'Blonde' had all seen service in theFrench and Spanish wars. One, a tall, handsome old fellow,had been a smuggler; and many a fight with, or narrow escapefrom, the coast-guard he had to tell of. The other two hadbeen badly wounded. Old Jimmy Bartlett of my watch had ahole in his chest half an inch deep from a boarding pike. Hehad also lost a finger, and a bullet had passed through hischeek. 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 takecare of itself almost, he would spin me a yarn about hotactions, cutting-outs, press-gangings, and perils which hehad gone through, or - what was all one to me - had invented.
　　From England to China round the Cape was a long voyage beforethere was a steamer in the Navy. It is impossible todescribe the charm of one's first acquaintance with tropicalvegetation after the tedious monotony unbroken by any eventbut an occasional flogging or a man overboard. The islandsseemed afloat in an atmosphere of blue; their jungles rootingin the water's edge. The strange birds in the daytime, theflocks of parrots, the din of every kind of life, the flyingfoxes at night, the fragrant and spicy odours, captivate thesenses. How delicious, too, the fresh fruits brought off bythe Malays in their scooped-out logs, one's first taste ofbananas, juicy shaddocks, mangoes, and custard apples - aftermonths of salt junk, disgusting salt pork, and biscuit alldust and weevils. The water is so crystal-clear it seems asthough one could lay one's hands on strange coloured fish andcoral beds at any depth. This, indeed, was 'kissing the lipsof unexpected change.' It was a first kiss moreover. Thetropics now have ceased to remind me even of this spell ofnovelty and wonder.
Chapter 5
THE first time I 'smelt powder' was at Amoy. The 'Blonde'
　　carried out Lord Palmerston's letter to the ChineseGovernment. Never was there a more iniquitous war thanEngland then provoked with China to force upon her the opiumtrade with India in spite of the harm which the Chineseauthorities believed that opium did to their people.
　　Even Macaulay advocated this shameful imposition. China hadto submit, and pay into the bargain four and a half millionssterling to prove themselves in the wrong. Part of this wentas prize money. My share of it - the DOUCEUR for a middy'sparticipation in the crime - was exactly 100L.
　　To return to Amoy. When off the mouth of the Canton river wehad taken on board an interpreter named Thom. What ourinstructions were I know not; I can only tell what happened.
　　Our entry into Amoy harbour caused an immediate commotion onland. As soon as we dropped anchor, about half a mile fromthe shore, a number of troops, with eight or ten field-pieces, took up their position on the beach, evidentlyresolved to prevent our landing. We hoisted a flag of truce,at the same time cleared the decks for action, and dropped akedge astern so as to moor the ship broadside to the fortsand invested shore. The officer of my watch, the late SirFrederick Nicholson, together with the interpreter, wereordered to land and communicate with the chief mandarin. Tocarry out this as inoffensively as possible, Nicholson tookthe jolly-boat, manned by four lads only. As it was mywatch, I had charge of the boat. A napkin or towel servedfor a flag of truce. But long before we reached the shore,several mandarins came down to the water's edge waving theirswords and shouting angrily to warn us off. Mr. Thom, whounderstood what they said, was frightened out of his wits,assuring us we should all be sawed in half if we attempted toland. Sir Frederick was not the man to disobey orders evenon such a penalty; he, however, took the precaution - a verywise one as it happened - to reverse the boat, and back herin stern foremost.
　　No sooner did the keel grate on the shingle than a score ofsoldiers rushed down to seize us. Before they could do so wehad shoved off. The shore was very steep. In a moment wewere in deep water, and our lads pulling for dear life. Thencame a storm of bullets from matchlocks and jingals and thebigger guns, fortunately just too high to hit us. One bulletonly struck the back-board, but did no harm. What, however,seemed a greater danger was the fire from the ship. Ere wewere halfway back broadside after broadside was fired overour heads into the poor devils massed along the beach. Thiswas kept up until not a living Chinaman was to be seen.
　　I may mention here a curious instance of cowardice. One ofour men, a ship's painter, soon after the firing began andwas returned by the fort's guns, which in truth were quiteharmless, jumped overboard and drowned himself. I have seenmen's courage tried under fire, and in many other ways since;yet I have never known but one case similar to this, when afriend of my own, a rich and prosperous man, shot himself toavoid death! So that there are men like 'MonsieurGrenouille, qui se cachait dans l'eau pour eviter la pluie.'
　　Often have I seen timid and nervous men, who were thought tobe cowards, get so excited in action that their timidity hasturned to rashness. In truth 'on est souvent ferme parfaiblesse, et audacieux par timidite.'
　　Partly for this reason, and partly because I look upon it asa remnant of our predatory antecedents and of animalpugnacity, I have no extravagant admiration for merecombativeness or physical courage. Honoured and rewarded asone of the noblest of manly attributes, it is one of thecommonest of qualities, - one which there is not a mammal, abird, a fish, or an insect even, that does not share with us.
　　Such is the esteem in which it is held, such the ignominywhich punishes the want of it, that the most cautious and themost timid by nature will rather face the uncertain risks ofa fight than the certain infamy of imputed cowardice.
　　Is it likely that courage should be rare under suchcircumstances, especially amongst professional fighters, whoin England at least have chosen their trade? That there arepoltroons, and plenty of them, amongst our soldiers andsailors, I do not dispute. But with the fear of shame on onehand, the hope of reward on the other, the merest dastardwill fight like a wild beast, when his blood is up. Theextraordinary merit of his conduct is not so obvious to thepeaceful thinker. I speak not of such heroism as that of theJapanese, - their deeds will henceforth be bracketed withthose of Leonidas and his three hundred, who died for a likecause. With the Japanese, as it was with the Spartans, everyman is a patriot; nor is the proportionate force of theirbarbaric invaders altogether dissimilar.
　　Is then the Victoria Cross an error? To say so would be anoutrage in this age of militarism. And what would all theQueens of Beauty think, from Sir Wilfred Ivanhoe's days toours, if mighty warriors ceased to poke each other in theribs, and send one another's souls untimely to the 'viewlessshades,' for the sake of their 'doux yeux?' Ah! who knowshow many a mutilation, how many a life, has been the price ofthat requital? Ye gentle creatures who swoon at the sight ofblood, is it not the hero who lets most of it that finds mostfavour in your eyes? Possibly it may be to the heroes ofmoral courage that some distant age will award its choicestdecorations. As it is, the courage that seeks the rewards ofFame seems to me about on a par with the virtue that investsin Heaven.
　　Though an anachronism as regards this stage of my career, Icannot resist a little episode which pleasantly illustratesmoral courage, or chivalry at least, combined with physicalbravery.
　　In December, 1899, I was a passenger on board a NorddeutscherLloyd on my way to Ceylon. The steamer was crowded withGermans; there were comparatively few English. Things hadbeen going very badly with us in the Transvaal, and thetelegrams both at Port Said and at Suez supplemented theprevious ill-news. At the latter place we heard of thecatastrophe at Magersfontein, of poor Wauchope's death, andof the disaster to the Highland Light Infantry. The momentit 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 Englisharmy - returning from leave to rejoin his regiment atColombo. If one might judge by his choice of a second-classfare, and by his much worn apparel, he was what one wouldcall 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 oftenwent to the fore part of the ship on the chance of getting aword with him. But he was either shy or proud, certainlyreserved; and always addressed me as 'Sir,' which was notencouraging.
　　That same evening, after dinner in the steerage cabin, aGerman got up and, beginning with some offensive allusions tothe British army, proposed the health of General Cronje andthe 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 endedand silence restored, my reserved friend calmly rose, tappedthe table with the handle of his knife (another steeragepassenger - an Australian - told me what happened), took hiswatch from his pocket, and slowly said: 'It is just sixminutes to eight. If the person who proposed the last toasthas not made a satisfactory apology to me before the hand ofmy watch points to the hour, I will thrash him till he does.
　　I am an officer in the English army, and always keep myword.' A small band of Australians was in the cabin. Oneand all of them applauded this laconic speech. It wasprobably due in part to these that the offender did not waittill the six minutes had expired.
　　Next day I congratulated my reserved friend. He was reticentas usual. All I could get out of him was, 'I never allow alady to be insulted in my presence, sir.' It was his Queen,not his cloth, that had roused the virility in this quietman.
　　Let us turn to another aspect of the deeds of war. Aboutdaylight on the morning following our bombardment, it beingmy morning watch, I was ordered to take the surgeon andassistant surgeon ashore. There were many corpses, but noliving or wounded to be seen. One object only dwellsvisually in my memory.
　　At least a quarter of a mile from the dead soldiers, a strayshell had killed a grey-bearded old man and a young woman.
　　They were side by side. The woman was still in her teens andpretty. She lay upon her back. Blood was oozing from herside. A swarm of flies were buzzing in and out of her openmouth. Her little deformed feet, cased in the high-heeledand embroidered tiny shoes, extended far beyond herpetticoats. It was these feet that interested the men ofscience. They are now, I believe, in a jar of spirits atHaslar hospital. At least, my friend the assistant surgeontold me, as we returned to the ship, that that was theirultimate destination. The mutilated body, as I turned fromit with sickening horror, left a picture on my youthful mindnot 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-gunbrigs. We took Hong Kong, Chusan, Ningpo, Canton, andreturned to take Amoy. One or two incidents only in theseveral engagements seem worth recording.
　　We have all of us supped full with horrors this last year orso, and I have no thought of adding to the surfeit. Butsometimes common accidents appear exceptional, if they befallourselves, or those with whom we are intimate. If thesufferer has any special identity, we speculate on hispeculiar way of bearing his misfortune; and are thus led onto place ourselves in his position, and imagine ourselves thesufferers.
　　Major Daniel, the senior marine officer of the 'Blonde,' wasa reserved and taciturn man. He was quiet and gentlemanlike,always very neat in his dress; rather severe, still kind tohis men. His aloofness was in no wise due to lack of ideas,nor, I should say, to pride - unless, perhaps, it were thepride which some men feel in suppressing all emotion byhabitual restraint of manner. Whether his SANGFROID wasconstitutional, or that nobler kind of courage which feelsand masters timidity and the sense of danger, none couldtell. Certain it is he was as calm and self-possessed inaction as in repose. He was so courteous one fancied hewould almost have apologised to his foe before heremorselessly 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 morestrongly fortified, and the ship was several-times hulled.
　　We were at very close quarters, as it is necessary to passunder high ground as the harbour is entered. Those who hadthe option, excepting our gallant old captain, naturally keptunder shelter of the bulwarks and hammock nettings. Not soMajor Daniel. He stood in the open gangway watching theeffect of the shells, as though he were looking at a game ofbilliards. While thus occupied a round shot struck him fullin 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 navalbrigade was commanded by Sir Thomas Bouchier. Our men werelying under the ridge of a hill protected from the guns onthe city walls. Fully exposed to the fire, which was prettyhot, 'old Tommy' as we called him, paced to and fro withcontemptuous indifference, stopping occasionally to spy theenemy with his long ship's telescope. A number ofbluejackets, in reserve, were stationed about half a milefurther off at the bottom of the protecting hill. They werecompletely screened from the fire by some buildings of thesuburbs abutting upon the slope. Those in front werewatching the cannon-balls which had struck the crest and wererolling as it were by mere force of gravitation down thehillside. Some jokes were made about football, when suddenlya smart and popular young officer - Fox, first lieutenant ofone of the brigs - jumped out at one of these spent balls,which looked as though it might have been picked up by thehands, and gave it a kick. It took his foot off just abovethe ankle. There was no surgeon at hand, and he was bleedingto death before one could be found. Sir Thomas had come downthe hill, and seeing the wounded officer on the ground with agroup around him, said in passing, 'Well, Fox, this is a badjob, but it will make up the pair of epaulets, which issomething.'
　　'Yes sir,' said the dying man feebly, 'but without a pair oflegs.' Half an hour later he was dead.
　　I have spoken lightly of courage, as if, by implication, Imyself possessed it. Let me make a confession. From my soulI pity the man who is or has been such a miserable coward asI was in my infancy, and up to this youthful period of mylife. No fear of bullets or bayonets could ever equal mine.
　　It was the fear of ghosts. As a child, I think that at timeswhen shut up for punishment, in a dark cellar for instance, Imust have nearly gone out of my mind with this appallingterror.
　　Once when we were lying just below Whampo, the captain tooknearly every officer and nearly the whole ship's crew on apunitive expedition up the Canton river. They were awayabout a week. I was left behind, dangerously ill with feverand ague. In his absence, Sir Thomas had had me put into hiscabin, where I lay quite alone day and night, seeing hardlyanyone save the surgeon and the captain's steward, who washimself a shadow, pretty nigh. Never shall I forget mymental sufferings at night. In vain may one attempt todescribe what one then goes through; only the victims knowwhat that is. My ghost - the ghost of the Whampo Reach - theghost of those sultry and miasmal nights, had no shape, novaporous form; it was nothing but a presence, a vagueamorphous dread. It may have floated with the swollen andputrid corpses which hourly came bobbing down the stream, butit never appeared; for there was nothing to appear. Still itmight appear. I expected every instant through the night tosee it in some inconceivable form. I expected it to touchme. It neither stalked upon the deck, nor hovered in thedark, nor moved, nor rested anywhere. And yet it was thereabout me, - where, I knew not. On every side I wasthreatened. 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 anightmare when every sense was strained with wakefulness,when all the powers of imagination were concentrated toparalyse my shattered reason.
　　The experience here spoken of is so common in some form orother that we may well pause to consider it. What is themeaning of this fear of ghosts? - how do we come by it? Itmay be thought that its cradle is our own, that we arepurposely frightened in early childhood to keep us calm andquiet. But I do not believe that nurses' stories wouldexcite dread of the unknown if the unknown were not alreadyknown. The susceptibility to this particular terror is therebefore the terror is created. A little reflection willconvince us that we must look far deeper for the solution ofa mystery inseparable from another, which is of the lastimportance to all of us.
Chapter 6
THE belief in phantoms, ghosts, or spirits, has frequentlybeen discussed in connection with speculations on the originof religion. According to Mr. Spencer ('Principles ofSociology') 'the first traceable conception of a supernaturalbeing is the conception of a ghost.' Even Fetichism is 'anextension of the ghost theory.' The soul of the Fetich 'incommon with supernatural agents at large, is originally thedouble of a dead man.' How do we get this notion - 'thedouble of a dead man?' Through dreams. In the Old Testamentwe are told: 'God came to' Abimelech, Laban, Solomon, andothers 'in a dream'; also that 'the angel of the Lord'
　　appeared to Joseph 'in a dream.' That is to say, these mendreamed that God came to them. So the savage, who dreams ofhis dead acquaintance, believes he has been visited by thedead man's spirit. This belief in ghosts is confirmed, Mr.
　　Spencer argues, by other phenomena. The savage who faintsfrom the effect of a wound sustained in fight looks just likethe dead man beside him. The spirit of the wounded manreturns after a long or short period of absence: why shouldthe spirit of the other not do likewise? If reanimationfollows comatose states, why should it not follow death?
　　Insensibility is but an affair of time. All the modes ofpreserving the dead, in the remotest ages, evince the beliefin casual separation of body and soul, and of their possiblereunion.
　　Take another theory. Comte tells us there is a primarytendency in man 'to transfer the sense of his own nature, inthe radical explanation of all phenomena whatever.' Writingin the same key, Schopenhauer calls man 'a metaphysicalanimal.' He is speaking of the need man feels of a theory,in regard to the riddle of existence, which forces itselfupon his notice; 'a need arising from the consciousness thatbehind the physical in the world, there is a metaphysicalsomething permanent as the foundation of constant change.'
　　Though not here alluding to the ghost theory, this bearsindirectly on the conception, as I shall proceed to show.
　　We need not entangle ourselves in the vexed question ofinnate ideas, nor inquire whether the principle of casualityis, as Kant supposed, like space and time, a form ofintuition given A PRIORI. That every change has a cause mustnecessarily (without being thus formulated) be one of theinitial beliefs of conscious beings far lower in the scalethan man, whether derived solely from experience orotherwise. The reed that shakes is obviously shaken by thewind. But the riddle of the wind also forces itself intonotice; and man explains this by transferring to the wind'the sense of his own nature.' Thunderstorms, volcanicdisturbances, ocean waves, running streams, the motions ofthe heavenly bodies, had to be accounted for as involvingchange. And the natural - the primitive - explanation was byreference to life, analogous, if not similar, to our own.
　　Here then, it seems to me, we have the true origin of thebelief in ghosts.
　　Take an illustration which supports this view. While sittingin my garden the other day a puff of wind blew a lady'sparasol across the lawn. It rolled away close to a dog lyingquietly in the sun. The dog looked at it for a moment, butseeing nothing to account for its movements, barkednervously, put its tail between its legs, and ran away,turning occasionally to watch and again bark, with every signof fear.
　　This was animism. The dog must have accounted for theeccentric behaviour of the parasol by endowing it with anuncanny spirit. The horse that shies at inanimate objects bythe roadside, and will sometimes dash itself against a treeor a wall, is actuated by a similar superstition. Is thereany essential difference between this belief of the dog orhorse and the belief of primitive man? I maintain that anintuitive animistic tendency (which Mr. Spencer repudiates),and not dreams, lies at the root of all spiritualism. WouldMr. Spencer have had us believe that the dog's fear of therolling parasol was a logical deduction from its caninedreams? This would scarcely elucidate the problem. The dogand the horse share apparently Schopenhauer's metaphysicalpropensity with man.
　　The familiar aphorism of Statius: PRIMUS IN ORBE DEOS FECITTIMOR, points to the relation of animism first to the beliefin ghosts, thence to Polytheism, and ultimately toMonotheism. I must apologise to those of the transcendentalschool who, like Max Muller for instance (Introduction to the'Science of Religion'), hold that we have 'a primitiveintuition of God'; which, after all, the professor derives,like many others, from the 'yearning for something thatneither sense nor reason can supply'; and from the assumptionthat 'there was in the heart of man from the very first afeeling of incompleteness, of weakness, of dependency, &c.'
　　All this, I take it, is due to the aspirations of a muchlater creature than the 'Pithecanthropus erectus,' to whom wehere refer.
　　Probably spirits and ghosts were originally of an evil kind.
　　Sir John Lubbock ('The Origin of Civilisation') says: 'Thebaying of the dog to the moon is as much an act of worship assome ceremonies which have been so described by travellers.'
　　I think he would admit that fear is the origin of theworship. In his essay on 'Superstition,' Hume writes:
　　'Weakness, fear, melancholy, together with ignorance, are thetrue sources of superstition.' Also 'in such a state ofmind, infinite unknown evils are dreaded from unknownagents.'
　　Man's impotence to resist the forces of nature, and theirterrible ability to injure him, would inspire a sense ofterror; which in turn would give rise to the twofold notionof omnipotence and malignity. The savage of the present daylives in perpetual fear of evil spirits; and thesuperstitious dread, which I and most others have suffered,is inherited from our savage ancestry. How much further backwe must seek it may be left to the sage philosophers of thefuture.
Chapter 7
THE next winter we lay for a couple of months off Chinhai,which we had stormed, blockading the mouth of the Ningporiver. Here, I regret to think, I committed an act which hasoften haunted my conscience as a crime; although I hadfrequently promised the captain of a gun a glass of grog tolet me have a shot, and was mightily pleased if death anddestruction rewarded my aim.
　　Off Chinhai, lorchers and fast sailing junks laden withmerchandise would try to run the blockade before daylight.
　　And it sometimes happened that we youngsters had a long chasein a cutter to overhaul them. This meant getting back to anine or ten o'clock breakfast at the end of the morning'swatch; equivalent to five or six hours' duty on an emptystomach.
　　One cold morning I had a hard job to stop a small junk. Themen were sweating at their oars like galley slaves, andmuttering curses at the apparent futility of their labour. Ihad fired a couple of shots from a 'brown Bess' - the musketof the day - through the fugitive's sails; and fearingpunishment if I let her escape, I next aimed at the boatherself. Down came the mainsail in a crack. When I boardedour capture, I found I had put a bullet through the thigh ofthe man at the tiller. Boys are not much troubled withscruples about bloodguiltiness, and not unfrequently are verycruel, for cruelty as a rule (with exceptions) mostlyproceeds from thoughtlessness. But when I realised what Ihad done, and heard the wretched man groan, I was seized withremorse for what, at a more hardened stage, I should haveexcused on the score of duty.
　　It was during this blockade that the accident, which I havealready alluded to, befell my dear protector, Jack Johnson.
　　One night, during his and my middle watch, the forecastlesentries hailed a large sampan, like a Thames barge, driftingdown stream and threatening to foul us. Sir FrederickNicholson, the officer of the watch, ordered Johnson to takethe cutter and tow her clear.
　　I begged leave to go with him. Sir Frederick refused, for heat once suspected mischief. The sampan was reached anddiverted just before she swung athwart our bows. Butscarcely was this achieved, when an explosion took place. Myfriend was knocked over, and one or two of the men fell backinto the cutter. This is what had happened: Johnson findingno one in the sampan, cautiously raised one of the deckhatches with a boat-hook before he left the cutter. The mine(for such it proved) was so arranged that examination of thiskind drew a lighted match on to the magazine, which instantlyexploded.
　　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 andface swelled so that all was a round black charred ball. Onecould hardly see where the eyes were, buried beneath thepowder-ingrained and incrusted flesh.
　　For weeks, at night, I used to sit on a chest near hishammock, listening for his slightest movement, too happy ifhe called me for something I could get him. In time herecovered, and was invalided home, and I lost my dearcompanion and protector. A couple of years afterwards I hadthe happiness to dine with him on board another ship inPortsmouth, no longer in the midshipman's berth, but in thewardroom.
　　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 stormstaysails. The 'Blenheim,' with Captain Elliott ourplenipotentiary on board, was with us, and the onecircumstance left in my memory is the sight of a line-of-battle ship rolling and pitching so that one caught sight ofthe whole of her keel from stem to stern as if she had been afishing smack. We had been wintering in the Yellow Sea, andat the time I speak of were on a foraging expedition roundthe Liau-tung peninsula. Those who have followed the eventsof the Japanese war will have noticed on the map, not farnorth of Ta-lien-wan in the Korean Bay, three groups ofislands. So little was the geography of these parts thenknown, that they had no place on our charts. On this veryoccasion, one group was named after Captain Elliott, one wascalled the Bouchier Islands, and the other the BlondeIslands. The first surveying of the two latter groups, andthe placing of them upon the map, was done by our navalinstructor, and he always took me with him as his assistant.
　　Our second typhoon was while we were at anchor in Hong Kongharbour. Those who have knowledge only of the gales, howeverviolent, of our latitudes, have no conception of what wind-force can mount to. To be the toy of it is enough to fillthe stoutest heart with awe. The harbour was full oftransports, merchant ships, opium clippers, besides four orfive men-of-war, and a steamer belonging to the East IndiaCompany - the first steamship I had ever seen.
　　The coming of a typhoon is well known to the natives at leasttwenty-four hours beforehand, and every preparation is madefor it. Boats are dragged far up the beach; buildings evenare fortified for resistance. Every ship had laid out itsanchors, lowered its yards, and housed its topmasts. We hadboth bowers down, with cables paid out to extreme length.
　　The danger was either in drifting on shore or, what was moreimminent, collision. When once the tornado struck us therewas nothing more to be done; no men could have worked ondeck. The seas broke by tons over all; boats beached asdescribed were lifted from the ground, and hurled, in someinstances, over the houses. The air was darkened by thespray.
　　But terrible as was the raging of wind and water, far moreawful was the vain struggle for life of the human beings whosuccumbed to it. In a short time almost all the ships exceptthe men-of-war, which were better provided with anchors,began to drift from their moorings. Then wreck followedwreck. I do not think the 'Blonde' moved; but from first tolast we were threatened with the additional weight and strainof a drifting vessel. Had we been so hampered our anchoragemust have given way. As a single example of the force of atyphoon, the 'Phlegethon' with three anchors down, andengines working at full speed, was blown past us out of theharbour.
　　One tragic incident I witnessed, which happened within a fewfathoms of the 'Blonde.' An opium clipper had driftedathwart the bow of a large merchantman, which in turn wasalmost foul of us. In less than five minutes the clippersank. One man alone reappeared on the surface. He was soclose, that from where I was holding on and crouching underthe lee of the mainmast I could see the expression of hisface. He was a splendidly built man, and his strength andactivity must have been prodigious. He clung to the cable ofthe merchantman, which he had managed to clasp. As thevessel reared between the seas he gained a few feet before hewas again submerged. At last he reached the hawse-hole. Hadhe hoped, in spite of his knowledge, to find it large enoughto admit his body? He must have known the truth; and yet hestruggled on. Did he hope that, when thus within arms'
　　length of men in safety, some pitying hand would be stretchedout to rescue him, - a rope's end perhaps flung out to haulhim inboard? Vain desperate hope! He looked upwards: animploring look. Would Heaven be more compassionate than man?
　　A mountain of sea towered above his head; and when again thebow was visible, the man was gone for ever.
　　Before taking leave of my seafaring days, I must say one wordabout corporal punishment. Sir Thomas Bouchier was a goodsailor, a gallant officer, and a kind-hearted man; but he wasone of the old school. Discipline was his watchword, and heendeavoured to maintain it by severity. I dare say that, onan average, there was a man flogged as often as once a monthduring the first two years the 'Blonde' was in commission. Aflogging on board a man-of-war with a 'cat,' the nine tailsof which were knotted, and the lashes of which were slowlydelivered, up to the four dozen, at the full swing of thearm, and at the extremity of lash and handle, was very severepunishment. Each knot brought blood, and the shock of theblow 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 firmconviction is that the bad man was very little the better;the good man very much the worse. The good man felt thedisgrace, and was branded for life. His self-esteem waspermanently maimed, and he rarely held up his head or did hisbest again. Besides which, - and this is true of allpunishment - any sense of injustice destroys respect for thepunisher. Still I am no sentimentalist; I have a contemptfor, and even a dread of, sentimentalism. For boyhousebreakers, 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 inconnection with flogging. About the year 1840 or 1841, amidshipman on the Pacific station was flogged. I think theship was the 'Peak.' The event created some sensation, andwas brought before Parliament. Two frigates were sent out tofurnish a quorum of post-captains to try the responsiblecommander. The verdict of the court-martial was a severereprimand. This was, of course, nuts to every midshipman inthe service.
　　Shortly after it became known I got into a scrape forlaughing 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 saidofficer was tipsy. Nevertheless, I was reported, and had upbefore the captain. 'Old Tommy' was, or affected to be, veryangry. I am afraid I was very 'cheeky.' Whereupon SirThomas did lose his temper, and threatened to send for theboatswain to tie me up and give me a dozen, - not on theback, but where the back leaves off. Undismayed by thethreat, and mindful of the episode of the 'Peak' (?) I lookedthe old gentleman in the face, and shrilly piped out, 'It'sas much as your commission is worth, sir.' In spite of hisprevious wrath, he was so taken aback by my impudence that heburst out laughing, and, to hide it, kicked me out of thecabin.
　　After another severe attack of fever, and during a longconvalescence, I was laid up at Macao, where I enjoyed thehospitality of Messrs. Dent and of Messrs. Jardine andMatheson. Thence I was invalided home, and took my passageto Bombay in one of the big East India tea-ships. As I wasbeing carried up the side in the arms of one of the boatmen,I overheard another exclaim: 'Poor little beggar. He'llnever see land again!'
　　The only other passenger was Colonel Frederick Cotton, of theMadras Engineers, one of a distinguished family. He, too,had been through the China campaign, and had also brokendown. We touched at Manila, Batavia, Singapore, and severalother ports in the Malay Archipelago, to take in cargo.
　　While that was going on, Cotton, the captain, and I madeexcursions inland. Altogether I had a most pleasant time ofit till we reached Bombay.
　　My health was now re-established; and after a couple of weeksat Bombay, where I lived in a merchant's house, Cotton tookme to Poonah and Ahmadnagar; in both of which places I stayedwith his friends, and messed with the regiments. Here a copyof the 'Times' was put into my hands; and I saw a notice ofthe death of my father.
　　After a fortnight's quarantine at La Valetta, where two youngEnglishmen - one an Oxford man - shared the same rooms in thefort with me, we three returned to England; and (I supposefew living people can say the same) travelled from Naples toCalais before there was a single railway on the Continent.
　　At the end of two months' leave in England I was appointed tothe 'Caledonia,' flagship at Plymouth. Sir Thomas Bouchierhad written to the Admiral, Sir Edward Codrington, ofNavarino fame (whose daughter Sir Thomas afterwards married),giving me 'a character.' Sir Edward sent for me, and wasmost kind. He told me I was to go to the Pacific in thefirst ship that left for South America, which would probablybe 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 relationsbetween England and America were severely strained by whatwas called 'the Oregon question.' The dispute was concerningthe right of ownership of the mouth of the Columbia river,and of Vancouver's Island. The President as well as theAmerican people took the matter up very warmly; and muchdiscretion was needed to avert the outbreak of hostilities.
　　In Sir Edward's letter, which he read out and gave to meopen, he requested Admiral Thomas to put me into any ship'that was likely to see service'; and quoted a word or twofrom my dear old captain Sir Thomas, which would probablyhave given me a lift.
　　The prospect before me was brilliant. What could be moredelectable than the chance of a war? My fancy pictured allsorts of opportunities, turned to the best account, - myseniors 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 lifehas been. The ship in which I was to have sailed to the westwas suddenly countermanded to the east. She was to leave forChina 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. Thenotion of returning for another three years to China, whereall was now peaceful and stale to me, the excitement of thewar at an end, every port reminding me of my old comrades,visions of renewed fevers and horrible food, - were more thanI could stand.
　　I instantly made up my mind to leave the Navy. It was awilful, and perhaps a too hasty, impulse. But I am impulsiveby nature; and now that my father was dead, I fancied myselfto a certain extent my own master. I knew moreover, by myfather's will, that I should not be dependent upon aprofession. Knowledge of such a fact has been the ruin ofmany a better man than I. I have no virtuous superstitionsin favour of poverty - quite the reverse - but I am convincedthat the rich man, who has never had to earn his position orhis living, is more to be pitied and less respected than thepoor man whose comforts certainly, if not his bread, havedepended on his own exertions.
　　My mother had a strong will of her own, and I could not guesswhat line she might take. I also apprehended the oppositionof my guardians. On the whole, I opined a woman's heartwould be the most suitable for an appeal AD MISERICORDIAM.
　　So I pulled out the agony stop, and worked the pedals ofdespair with all the anguish at my command.
　　'It was easy enough for her to REVEL IN LUXURY and consign meto a life worse than a CONVICT'S. But how would SHE like tolive on SALT JUNK, to keep NIGHT WATCHES, to have to cut upher blankets for PONCHOS (I knew she had never heard theword, and that it would tell accordingly), to save her frombeing FROZEN TO DEATH? How would SHE like to be mast-headedwhen a ship was rolling gunwale under? As to the wishes ofmy guardians, were THEIR FEELINGS to be considered beforemine? I should like to see Lord Rosebery or Lord Spencer inmy 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 postit. Feeling utterly miserable, I had my hair cut; and,rendered perfectly reckless by my appearance, I consented tohave what was left of it tightly curled with a pair of tongs.
　　I cannot say that I shared in any sensible degree thepleasure which this operation seemed to give to the artist.
　　But when I got back to the ship the sight of my adornmentkept my messmates in an uproar for the rest of the afternoon.
　　Whether the touching appeal to my mother produced tears, orof what kind, matters little; it effectually determined mycareer. Before my new ship sailed for China, I was homeagain, and in full possession of my coveted freedom as acivilian.
Chapter 8
IT was settled that after a course of three years at aprivate tutor's I was to go to Cambridge. The life I had ledfor the past three years was not the best training for thefellow-pupil of lads of fifteen or sixteen who had just leftschool. They were much more ready to follow my lead than Itheirs, especially as mine was always in the pursuit ofpleasure.
　　I was first sent to Mr. B.'s, about a couple of miles fromAlnwick. Before my time, Alnwick itself was considered outof bounds. But as nearly half the sin in this world consistsin being found out, my companions and I managed never tocommit any in this direction.
　　We generally returned from the town with a bottle of somenoxious compound called 'port' in our pockets, which wasserved out in our 'study' at night, while I read aloud theinstructive adventures of Mr. Thomas Jones. We were, ofcourse, supposed to employ these late hours in preparing ourwork for the morrow. One boy only protested that, under thecombined seductions of the port and Miss Molly Seagrim, hecould never make his verses scan.
　　Another of our recreations was poaching. From my earliestdays I was taught to shoot, myself and my brothers being eachprovided with his little single-barrelled flint and steel'Joe Manton.' At - we were surrounded by grouse moors on oneside, and by well-preserved coverts on the other. The grouseI used to shoot in the evening while they fed amongst thecorn stooks; for pheasants and hares, I used to get the otherpupils to walk through the woods, while I with a gun walkedoutside. Scouts were posted to look out for keepers.
　　Did our tutor know? Of course he knew. But think of thesaving in the butcher's bill! Besides which, Mr. B. wasotherwise preoccupied; he was in love with Mrs. B. I say 'inlove,' for although I could not be sure of it then, (havingno direct experience of the AMANTIUM IRAE,) subsequentobservation has persuaded me that their perpetual quarrelscould mean nothing else. This was exceedingly favourable tothe independence of Mr. B.'s pupils. But when asked by Mr.
　　Ellice how I was getting on, I was forced in candour to admitthat I was in a fair way to forget all I ever knew.
　　By the advice of Lord Spencer I was next placed under thetuition of one of the minor canons of Ely. The Bishop of Ely- Dr. Allen - had been Lord Spencer's tutor, hence hiselevation to the see. The Dean - Dr. Peacock, of algebraicand Trinity College fame - was good enough to promise 'tokeep an eye' on me. Lord Spencer himself took me to Ely; andthere I remained for two years. They were two very importantyears of my life. Having no fellow pupil to beguile me, Iwas the more industrious. But it was not from the betteracquaintance with ancient literature that I mainly benefited,- it was from my initiation to modern thought. I was aconstant guest at the Deanery; where I frequently met suchmen as Sedgwick, Airey the Astronomer-Royal, Selwyn, Phelpsthe Master of Sydney, Canon Heaviside the master ofHaileybury, and many other friends of the Dean's,distinguished in science, literature, and art. Here I hearddiscussed opinions on these subjects by some of their leadingrepresentatives. 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, uponMosaic cosmogony, or Biblical exegesis generally.
　　The knowledge of these learned men, the lucidity with whichthey expressed their views, and the earnestness with whichthey defended them, captivated my attention, and opened to mea new world of surpassing interest and gravity.
　　What startled me most was the spirit in which a man ofSedgwick's intellectual power protested against the possibleencroachments of his own branch of science upon the orthodoxtenets of the Church. Just about this time an anonymous bookappeared, which, though long since forgotten, caused noslight disturbance amongst dogmatic theologians. Thetendency of this book, 'Vestiges of the Creation,' was, orwas then held to be, antagonistic to the arguments fromdesign. Familiar as we now are with the theory of evolution,such a work as the 'Vestiges' would no more stir the ODIUMTHEOLOGICUM than Franklin's kite. Sedgwick, however,attacked it with a vehemence and a rancour that wouldcertainly have roasted its author had the professor held theoffice of Grand Inquisitor.
　　Though incapable of forming any opinion as to the scientificmerits of such a book, or of Hugh Miller's writings, which healso attacked upon purely religious grounds, I was staggeredby the fact that the Bible could possibly be impeached, orthat it was not profanity to defend it even. Was it not the'Word of God'? And if so, how could any theories ofcreation, any historical, any philological researches, shakeits eternal truth?
　　Day and night I pondered over this new revelation. I boughtthe books - the wicked books - which nobody ought to read.
　　The INDEX EXPURGATORIUS became my guide for books to bedigested. I laid hands on every heretical work I could hearof. By chance I made the acquaintance of a young man who,together with his family, were Unitarians. I got, anddevoured, Channing's works. I found a splendid copy ofVoltaire in the Holkham library, and hunted through theendless volumes, till I came to the 'DialoguesPhilosophiques.' The world is too busy, fortunately, todisturb its peace with such profane satire, such witheringsarcasm as flashes through an 'entretien' like that between'Frere Rigolet' and 'L'Empereur de la Chine.' Every Frenchman of letters knows it by heart; but it would wound ourEnglish susceptibilities were I to cite it here. Then, too,the impious paraphrase of the Athanasian Creed, with itsterrible climax, from the converting Jesuit: 'Or vous voyezbien . . . qu'un homme qui ne croit pas cette histoire doitetre 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 firstgoadings of the questioning spirit, resist such logic, suchscorn, 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 alike tendency. Passive obedience, blind submission toauthority, was never one of my virtues, and once my faith wasshattered, I knew not where to stop - what to doubt, what tobelieve. If the injunction to 'prove all things' wasanything 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 meanything but peace. I never was more restless, or, at times,more unhappy. Shallow, indeed, must be the soul that canlightly sever itself from beliefs which lie at the roots ofour moral, intellectual, and emotional being, sanctified tooby associations of our earliest love and reverence. I usedto wander about the fields, and sit for hours in sequesteredspots, longing for some friend, some confidant to takecounsel with. I knew no such friend. I did not dare tospeak of my misgivings to others. In spite of my earnestdesire for guidance, for more light, the strong grip ofchildhood's influences was impossible to shake off. I couldnot 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, thatperpetuates the infantile character of human creeds; and,what is worse, generates the hideous bigotry which justifiesthat sad reflection of Lucretius: 'Tantum Religio potuitsuadere malorum!'
Chapter 9
TO turn again to narrative, and to far less serious thoughts.
　　The last eighteen months before I went to Cambridge, I wasplaced, or rather placed myself, under the tuition of Mr.
　　Robert Collyer, rector of Warham, a living close to Holkhamin the gift of my brother Leicester. Between my Ely tutorand myself there was but little sympathy. He was a man ofmuch refinement, but with not much indulgence for suchaberrant proclivities as mine. Without my knowledge, hewrote to Mr. Ellice lamenting my secret recusancy, and itsmoral dangers. Mr. Ellice came expressly from London, andstayed 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 theclandestine representations of Mr. S., and, without a word toMr. Ellice or to anyone else, wrote next day to Mr. Collyerto beg him to take me in at Warham, and make what he could ofme, before I went to Cambridge. It may here be said that Mr.
　　Collyer had been my father's chaplain, and had lived atHolkham for several years as family tutor to my brothers andmyself, as we in turn left the nursery. Mr. Collyer, uponreceipt of my letter, referred the matter to Mr. Ellice; withhis approval I was duly installed at Warham. Beforedescribing my time there, I must tell of an incident whichcame near to affecting me in a rather important way.
　　My mother lived at Longford in Derbyshire, an old place, nowmy home, which had come into the Coke family in James I.'sreign, through the marriage of a son of Chief Justice Coke'swith the heiress of the De Langfords, an ancient family fromthat time extinct. While staying there during my summerholidays, my mother confided to me that she had had an offerof marriage from Mr. Motteux, the owner of considerableestates in Norfolk, including two houses - Beachamwell andSandringham. Mr. Motteux - 'Johnny Motteux,' as he wascalled - was, like Tristram Shandy's father, the son of awealthy 'Turkey merchant,' which, until better informed, Ialways took to mean a dealer in poultry. 'Johnny,' likeanother man of some notoriety, whom I well remember in myyounger days - Mr. Creevey - had access to many large housessuch as Holkham; not, like Creevey, for the sake of hisscandalous tongue, but for the sake of his wealth. He had no(known) relatives; and big people, who had younger sons toprovide for, were quite willing that one of them should behis heir. Johnny Motteux was an epicure with the best ofCHEFS. His capons came from Paris, his salmon fromChristchurch, and his Strasburg pies were made to order. Oneof these he always brought with him as a present to mymother, who used to say, 'Mr. Motteux evidently thinks thenearest way to my heart is down my throat.'
　　A couple of years after my father's death, Motteux wrote tomy mother proposing marriage, and, to enhance his personalattractions, (in figure and dress he was a duplicate of theimmortal Pickwick,) stated that he had made his will and hadbequeathed Sandringham to me, adding that, should he diewithout issue, I was to inherit the remainder of his estates.
　　Rather to my surprise, my mother handed the letter to me withevident signs of embarrassment and distress. My firstexclamation was: 'How jolly! The shooting's first rate, andthe old boy is over seventy, if he's a day.'
　　My mother apparently did not see it in this light. Sheclearly, 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'tyou care for Johnny Motteux?'
　　She confessed that she did not.
　　'Then why don't you tell him so, and not bother about hisbeastly 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 forSandringham either.'
　　In more lady-like terms she acted in accordance with myadvice; and, it may be added, not long afterwards married Mr.
　　Ellice.
　　Mr. Motteux's first love, or one of them, had been LadyCowper, then Lady Palmerston. Lady Palmerston's youngest sonwas Mr. Spencer Cowper. Mr. Motteux died a year or two afterthe above event. He made a codicil to his will, and leftSandringham 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 'ExpensiveCowper.' As an attache at Paris he was famous for hispatronage of dramatic art - or artistes rather; the votariesof Terpsichore were especially indebted to his liberality.
　　At the time of Mr. Motteux's demise, he was attached to theEmbassy at St. Petersburg. Mr. Motteux's solicitors wroteimmediately to inform him of his accession to their lateclient's wealth. It being one of Mr. Cowper's maxims neverto read lawyers' letters, (he was in daily receipt of morethan he could attend to,) he flung this one unread into thefire; and only learnt his mistake through the congratulationsof his family.
　　The Prince Consort happened about this time to be in quest ofa suitable country seat for his present Majesty; andSandringham, through the adroit negotiations of LordPalmerston, became the property of the Prince of Wales. Thesoul of the 'Turkey merchant,' we cannot doubt, will reposein peace.
　　The worthy rector of Warham St. Mary's was an odditydeserving of passing notice. Outwardly he was no Adonis.
　　His plain features and shock head of foxy hair, hisantiquated and neglected garb, his copious jabot - muchaffected by the clergy of those days - were becominginvestitures of the inward man. His temper was inflammatory,sometimes leading to excesses, which I am sure he rued inmental sackcloth and ashes. But visitors at Holkham (unawareof the excellent motives and moral courage which inspired hisconduct) were not a little amazed at the austerity with whichhe obeyed the dictates of his conscience.
　　For example, one Sunday evening after dinner, when thedrawing-room was filled with guests, who more or lesspreserved the decorum which etiquette demands in the presenceof royalty, (the Duke of Sussex was of the party,) CharlesFox and Lady Anson, great-grandmother of the present LordLichfield, happened to be playing at chess. When theirascible dominie beheld them he pushed his way through thebystanders, swept the pieces from the board, and, withrigorous impartiality, denounced these impious desecrators ofthe Sabbath eve.
　　As an example of his fidelity as a librarian, Mr. Panizziused to relate with much glee how, whenever he was atHolkham, Mr. Collyer dogged him like a detective. One day,not wishing to detain the reverend gentleman while he himselfspent the forenoon in the manuscript library, (where not onlythe ancient manuscripts, but the most valuable of the printedbooks, are kept under lock and key,) he considerately beggedMr. Collyer to leave him to his researches. The dominiereplied 'that he knew his duty, and did not mean to neglectit.' He did not lose sight of Mr. Panizzi.
　　The notion that he - the great custodian of the nation'sliterary treasures - would snip out and pocket the title-pageof the folio edition of Shakespeare, or of the CoverdaleBible, tickled Mr. Panizzi's fancy vastly.
　　In spite, however, of our rector's fiery temperament, orperhaps in consequence of it, he was remarkably susceptibleto the charms of beauty. We were constantly invited todinner and garden parties in the neighbourhood; nor was thegood rector slow to return the compliment. It must beconfessed that the pupil shared to the full theimpressibility of the tutor; and, as it happened, unknown toboth, the two were in one case rivals.
　　As the young lady afterwards occupied a very distinguishedposition in Oxford society, it can only be said that she wascelebrated for her many attractions. She was then sixteen,and the younger of her suitors but two years older. As faras age was concerned, nothing could be more compatible. Norin the matter of mutual inclination was there any disparitywhatever. What, then, was the pupil's dismay when, after adinner party at the rectory, and the company had left, thetutor, in a frantic state of excitement, seized the pupil byboth 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 wouldaccept me?'
　　'No one,' said I, with doleful sincerity. 'But did youpropose 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 hairechoed the fatal word.
　　'O Smintheus of the silver bow!' I groaned. 'It is thewoman's part to create delusions, and - destroy them! Tothink of it! after all that has passed between us these -these three weeks, next Monday! "Once and for ever." Didever woman use such words before? And I - believed them!'
　　'Did you speak to the mother?' I asked in a fit ofdesperation.
　　'There was no time for that. Mrs. - was in the carriage, andI didn't pop [the odious word!] till I was helping her onwith her cloak. The cloak, you see, made it less awkward.
　　My offer was a sort of OBITER DICTUM - a by-the-way, as itwere.'
　　'To the carriage, yes. But wasn't she taken by surprise?'
　　'Not a bit of it. Bless you! they always know. Shepretended not to understand, but that's a way they have.'
　　'And when you explained?'
　　'There wasn't time for more. She laughed, and sprang intothe 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'swhat you mean. A mere matter of form. I shall go over afterlunch. But it needn't interfere with your work. You can goon with the "Anabasis" till I come back. And remember -NEANISKOS is not a proper name, ha! ha! ha! The quadraticswill keep till the evening.' He was merry over hisprospects, and I was not altogether otherwise.
　　But there was no Xenophon, no algebra, that day! Dire wasthe distress of my poor dominie when he found the mother asmuch bewildered as the daughter was frightened, by themistake. 'She,' the daughter, 'had never for a momentimagined, &c., &c.'
　　My tutor was not long disheartened by such caprices - so hedeemed them, as Miss Jemima's (she had a prettier name, youmay be sure), and I did my best (it cost me little now) toencourage his fondest hopes. I proposed that we should drinkthe health of the future mistress of Warham in tea, which hecheerfully acceded to, all the more readily, that it gave himan opportunity to vent one of his old college jokes. 'Yes,yes,' said he, with a laugh, 'there's nothing like tea. TEVENIENTE DIE, TE DECEDENTE CANEBAM.' Such sallies ofinnocent playfulness often smoothed his path in life. Hetook a genuine pleasure in his own jokes. Some men do. Oneday I dropped a pot of marmalade on a new carpet, and shouldcertainly have been reprimanded for carelessness, had it notoccurred to him to exclaim: 'JAM SATIS TERRIS!' and thenlaugh immoderately at his wit.
　　That there are as good fish in the sea as ever came out ofit, was a maxim he acted upon, if he never heard it. Within amonth of the above incident he proposed to another lady uponthe sole grounds that, when playing a game of chess, anexchange of pieces being contemplated, she innocently, butincautiously, observed, 'If you take me, I will take you.'
　　He referred the matter next day to my ripe judgment. As Ihad no partiality for the lady in question, I stronglyadvised him to accept so obvious a challenge, and go down onhis knees to her at once. I laid stress on the knees, as theaccepted form of declaration, both in novels and on thestage.
　　In this case the beloved object, who was not embarrassed byexcess of amiability, promptly desired him, when he urged hissuit, 'not to make a fool of himself.'
　　My tutor's peculiarities, however, were not confined to hisendeavours to meet with a lady rectoress. He sometimessurprised his hearers with the originality of his abstrusetheories. One morning he called me into the stable yard tojoin in consultation with his gardener as to the advisabilityof killing a pig. There were two, and it was not easy todecide which was the fitter for the butcher. The rectorselected one, I the other, and the gardener, who had nurturedboth from their tenderest age, pleaded that they should beallowed to 'put on another score.' The point was warmlyargued 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 whiteone only six. Ergo, if history repeats itself, as I haveheard you say, you should keep the black, and sacrifice thewhite.'
　　'But,' objected the rector, 'that was the white's firstlitter, and the black's second. Why shouldn't the white doas well as the black next time?'
　　'And better, your reverence,' chimed in the gardener. 'Thenumber 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 yourreverence is right, as no doubt you will be, that'll makejust 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 samething.'
　　'Not to the pigs,' retorted the rector.
　　'To your reverence, I means.'
　　'A pig at the butcher's,' I suggested, 'is worth a dozenunborn.'
　　'No one can deny it,' said the rector, as he fingered thesmall change in his breeches pocket; and pointing with theother hand to the broad back of the black sow, exclaimed,'This is the one, DUPLEX AGITUR PER LUMBOS SPINA! She's gota back like an alderman's chin.'
　　'EPICURI DE GREGE PORCUS,' I assented, and the fate of theblack sow was sealed.
　　Next day an express came from Holkham, to say that LadyLeicester had given birth to a daughter. My tutor jumped outof his chair to hand me the note. 'Did I not anticipate theevent'? he cried. 'What a wonderful world we live in!
　　Unconsciously I made room for the infant by sacrificing thelife of that pig.' As I never heard him allude to thedoctrine of Pythagoras, as he had no leaning to Buddhism,and, as I am sure he knew nothing of the correlation offorces, it must be admitted that the conception was anoriginal one.
　　Be this as it may, Mr. Collyer was an upright andconscientious man. I owe him much, and respect his memory.
　　He died at an advanced age, an honorary canon, and - abachelor.
　　Another portrait hangs amongst the many in my memory'spicture gallery. It is that of his successor to thevicarage, the chaplaincy, and the librarianship, at Holkham -Mr. Alexander Napier - at this time, and until his deathfifty years later, one of my closest and most cherishedfriends. Alexander Napier was the son of Macvey Napier,first editor of the 'Edinburgh Review.' Thus, associatedwith many eminent men of letters, he also did some goodliterary work of his own. He edited Isaac Barrow's works forthe University of Cambridge, also Boswell's 'Johnson,' andgave various other proofs of his talents and his scholarship.
　　He was the most delightful of companions; liberal-minded inthe highest degree; full of quaint humour and quick sympathy;an excellent parish priest, - looking upon Christianity as alife and not a dogma; beloved by all, for he had a kindthought and a kind word for every needy or sick being in hisparish.
　　With such qualities, the man always predominated over thepriest. Hence his large-hearted charity and indulgence forthe faults - nay, crimes - of others. Yet, if taken aback byan outrage, or an act of gross stupidity, which even theperpetrator himself had to suffer for, he would momentarilylose his patience, and rap out an objurgation that wouldstagger the straiter-laced gentlemen of his own cloth, or anoutsider who knew less of him than - the recording angel.
　　A fellow undergraduate of Napier's told me a characteristicanecdote of his impetuosity. Both were Trinity men, and hadbeen keeping high jinks at a supper party at Caius. Thefriend suddenly pointed to the clock, reminding Napier theyhad but five minutes to get into college before Trinity gateswere closed. 'D-n the clock!' shouted Napier, and snatchingup the sugar basin (it was not EAU SUCREE they weredrinking), incontinently flung it at the face of theoffending timepiece.
　　This youthful vivacity did not desert him in later years. Anold college friend - also a Scotchman - had become Bishop ofEdinburgh. Napier paid him a visit (he described it to mehimself). They talked of books, they talked of politics,they talked of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, ofBrougham, Horner, Wilson, Macaulay, Jeffrey, of Carlyle'sdealings with Napier's father - 'Nosey,' as Carlyle callshim. They chatted into the small hours of the night, as booncompanions, and as what Bacon calls 'full' men, are wont.
　　The claret, once so famous in the 'land of cakes,' had givenplace to toddy; its flow was in due measure to the flow ofsoul. But all that ends is short - the old friends had spenttheir last evening together. Yes, their last, perhaps. Itwas bed-time, and quoth Napier to his lordship, 'I tell youwhat it is, Bishop, I am na fou', but I'll be hanged if Ihaven't got two left legs.'
　　'I see something odd about them,' says his lordship. 'We'dbetter go to bed.'
　　Who the bishop was I do not know, but I'll answer for it hewas one of the right sort.
　　In 1846 I became an undergraduate of Trinity College,Cambridge. I do not envy the man (though, of course, oneought) whose college days are not the happiest to look backupon. One should hope that however profitably a young manspends his time at the University, it is but the preparationfor something better. But happiness and utility are notnecessarily concomitant; and even when an undergraduate'scourse 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 myconfession! But surely there are some pleasures pertainingto this unique epoch that are harmless in themselves, and arecertainly not to be met with at any other. These are thefirst years of comparative freedom, of manhood, ofresponsibility. The novelty, the freshness of everypleasure, the unsatiated appetite for enjoyment, the animalvigour, the ignorance of care, the heedlessness of, orrather, the implicit faith in, the morrow, the absence ofmistrust or suspicion, the frank surrender to generousimpulses, the readiness to accept appearances for realities -to believe in every profession or exhibition of good will, torush into the arms of every friendship, to lay bare one'stenderest secrets, to listen eagerly to the revelations whichmake us all akin, to offer one's time, one's energies, one'spurse, one's heart, without a selfish afterthought - these, Isay, are the priceless pleasures, never to be repeated, ofhealthful 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 matchwith this enjoyment of the young, the bright, the bygone,hour? The wisdom of the worldly teacher - at least, theCARPE DIEM - was practised here before the injunction wasever thought of. DU BIST SO SCHON was the unutteredinvocation, while the VERWEILE DOCH was deemed unneedful.
　　Little, I am ashamed to own, did I add either to my smallclassical or mathematical attainments. But I madefriendships - lifelong friendships, that I would not barterfor the best of academical prizes.
　　Amongst my associates or acquaintances, two or three of whomhave since become known - were the last Lord Derby, SirWilliam Harcourt, the late Lord Stanley of Alderley, LatimerNeville, late Master of Magdalen, Lord Calthorpe, of racingfame, with whom I afterwards crossed the Rocky Mountains, thelast Lord Durham, my cousin, Sir Augustus Stephenson, ex-solicitor to the Treasury, Julian Fane, whose lyrics wereedited by Lord Lytton, and my life-long friend CharlesBarrington, private secretary to Lord Palmerston and to LordJohn Russell.
　　But the most intimate of them was George Cayley, son of themember for the East Riding of Yorkshire. Cayley was a youngman of much promise. In his second year he won theUniversity prize poem with his 'Balder,' and soon afterpublished some other poems, and a novel, which met withmerited oblivion. But it was as a talker that he shone. Hisquick 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 inhis father's house in Dean's Yard, and thus made theacquaintance of some celebrities whom his fascinating andversatile talents attracted thither. As I shall return tothis later on, I will merely mention here the names of suchmen as Thackeray, Tennyson, Frederick Locker, Stirling ofKeir, Tom Taylor the dramatist, Millais, Leighton, and othersof lesser note. Cayley was a member of, and regularattendant at, the Cosmopolitan Club; where he met Dickens,Foster, Shirley Brooks, John Leech, Dicky Doyle, and the witsof the day; many of whom occasionally formed part of ourcharming coterie in the house I shared with his father.
　　Speaking of Tom Taylor reminds me of a good turn he once didme in my college examination at Cambridge. Whewell was thenMaster of Trinity. One of the subjects I had to take up waseither the 'Amicitia' or the 'Senectute' (I forget which).
　　Whewell, more formidable and alarming than ever, opened thebook at hazard, and set me on to construe. I broke down. Heturned over the page; again I stuck fast. The truth is, Ihad hardly looked at my lesson, - trusting to my recollectionof parts of it to carry me through, if lucky, with the whole.
　　'What's your name, sir?' was the Master's gruff inquiry. Hedid 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 inthe late war.' He then took the book out of Whewell's hands,and giving it to me closed, said good-naturedly: 'Let ushave another try, Mr. Coke.' The chance was not thrown away;I turned to a part I knew, and rattled off as if my firstexaminer had been to blame, not I.
Chapter 10
BEFORE dropping the curtain on my college days I must relatea little adventure which is amusing as an illustration of myreverend friend Napier's enthusiastic spontaneity. My ownshare 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 hadneither father nor mother) had rented a place in theneighbourhood. At the end of his visit he invited me toshoot there the following week. For what else had I paid himassiduous attention, and listened like an angel to theinterminable history of his gout? I went; and before I left,proposed to, and was accepted by, the young lady. I wasstill at Cambridge, not of age, and had but moderate means.
　　As for the maiden, 'my face is my fortune' she might havesaid. The aunt, therefore, very properly pooh-poohed thewhole affair, and declined to entertain the possibility of anengagement; the elderly gentleman got a bad attack of gout;and every wire of communication being cut, not an obstaclewas 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 andlong were our consultations, but they generally ended insuggestions and schemes so preposterous, that the only resultwas an immoderate fit of laughter on both sides. At lengthit came to this (the proposition was not mine): we were tohire a post chaise and drive to the inn at G-. I was towrite a note to the young lady requesting her to meet me atsome trysting place. The note was to state that a clergymanwould accompany me, who was ready and willing to unite usthere and then in holy matrimony; that I would bring thelicence in my pocket; that after the marriage we could conferas to ways and means; and that - she could leave the REST tome.
　　No enterprise was ever more merrily conceived, or moreseriously undertaken. (Please to remember that my friend wasnot so very much older than I; and, in other respects, wasquite as juvenile.)Whatever was to come of it, the drive was worth the venture.
　　The number of possible and impossible contingencies providedfor kept us occupied by the hour. Furnished with a well-filled luncheon basket, we regaled ourselves and fortifiedour courage; while our hilarity increased as we neared, orimagined that we neared, the climax. Unanimously we repeatedDr. Johnson's exclamation in a post chaise: 'Life has notmany things better than this.'
　　But where were we? Our watches told us that we had been twohours covering a distance of eleven miles.
　　'Hi! Hullo! Stop!' shouted Napier. In those days posthorses were ridden, not driven; and about all we could see ofthe post boy was what Mistress Tabitha Bramble saw ofHumphrey Clinker. 'Where the dickens have we got to now?'
　　'Don't know, I'm sure, sir,' says the boy; 'never was inthese 'ere parts afore.'
　　'Why,' shouts the vicar, after a survey of the landscape, 'ifI can see a church by daylight, that's Blakeney steeple; andwe are only three miles from where we started.'
　　Sure enough it was so. There was nothing for it but to stopat the nearest house, give the horses a rest and a feed, andmake a fresh start, - better informed as to our topography.
　　It was past four on that summer afternoon when we reached ourdestination. The plan of campaign was cut and dried. Icalled for writing materials, and indicted my epistle asagreed upon.
　　'To whom are you telling her to address the answer?' asked myaccomplice. 'We're INCOG. you know. It won't do for eitherof 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 anaristocratic flavour. We can't afford to risk ourrespectability.'
　　The note sealed, I rang the bell for the landlord, desiredhim to send it up to the hall and tell the messenger to waitfor an answer.
　　As our host was leaving the room he turned round, with hishand on the door, and said:
　　'Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Cook, would you and Mr. Napeerplease to take dinner here? I've soom beatiful lamb chops,and you could have a ducklin' and some nice young peas toyour second course. The post-boy says the 'osses is prettynigh 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' yourpardon, Mr. Napeer, my daughter, she lives in Holkhamwillage; 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, withsolemnity, 'I'll summon the landlord for defamation ofcharacter. 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 tothe head of the lake.'
　　We had not gone far, when we heard the sound of anapproaching 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 wascompleted, the speaker's long legs were scampering out ofsight in the direction of a clump of trees, I following ashard as I could go.
　　As the carriage drove past, my Friar Lawrence was lying in aditch, while I was behind an oak. We were near enough todiscern the niece, and consequently we feared to berecognised. The situation was neither dignified norromantic. My friend was sanguine, though big ardour wasslightly damped by the ditch water. I doubted the expediencyof trying the boat-house, but he urged the risk of herdisappointment, which made the attempt imperative.
　　The padre returned to the inn to dry himself, and, in duecourse, I rejoined him. He met me with the answer to mynote. 'The boat-house,' it declared, 'was out of thequestion. But so, of course, was the POSSIBILITY of CHANGE.
　　We must put our trust in PROVIDENCE. Time could make NOdifference in OUR case, whatever it might do with OTHERS.
　　SHE, at any rate, could wait for YEARS.' Upon the whole theresult was comforting - especially as the 'years' dispensedwith the necessity of any immediate step more desperate thandinner. This we enjoyed like men who had earned it; and longbefore I deposited my dear friar in his cell both of us weresnoring in our respective corners of the chaise.
　　A word or two will complete this romantic episode. The nextlong vacation I spent in London, bent, needless to say, on ahappy issue to my engagement. How simple, in the retrospect,is the frustration of our hopes! I had not been a week intown, had only danced once with my FIANCEE, when, one day,taking a tennis lesson from the great Barre, a forced ballgrazed the frame of my racket, and broke a blood vessel in myeye.
　　For five weeks I was shut up in a dark room. It was two morebefore I again met my charmer. She did not tell me, but herman did, that their wedding day was fixed for the 10th of thefollowing month; and he 'hoped they would have the pleasureof seeing me at the breakfast!' [I made the following noteof 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,' asshe afterwards discovered, he was the heir to a peerage andgreat wealth. Both he and she, like most of my collaboratorsin this world, have long since passed into the other.
　　The fashions of bygone days have always an interest for theliving: the greater perhaps the less remote. We like tothink of our ancestors of two or three generations off - theheroes and heroines of Jane Austen, in their pantaloons andhigh-waisted, short-skirted frocks, their pigtails andpowdered hair, their sandalled shoes, and Hessian boots. Ournear connection with them entrances our self-esteem. Theirprim manners, their affected bows and courtesies, the 'dearMr. So-and-So' of the wife to her husband, the 'Sir' and'Madam' of the children to their parents, make us wonderwhether their flesh and blood were ever as warm as ours; orwhether they were a race of prigs and puppets?
　　My memory carries me back to the remnants of these lostexternals - that which is lost was nothing more; the men andwomen were every whit as human as ourselves. My half-sisterswore turbans with birds-of-paradise in them. My mother woregigot sleeves; but objected to my father's pigtail, so cut itoff. But my father powdered his head, and kept to his knee-breeches to the last; so did all elderly gentlemen, when Iwas a boy. For the matter of that, I saw an old fellow witha 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 thehistorian to assign their initiatory date. Does the youngdandy 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 sotoo. Not a bit of it. The young Englander of the Coningsbytype - the Count d'Orsays of my youth, scorned the white tiealike of their fathers and their sons. At dinner-parties orat balls, they adorned themselves in satin scarfs, with ajewelled pin or chained pair of pins stuck in them. I wellremember the rebellion - the protest against effeminacy -which the white tie called forth amongst some of us upon itsfirst invasion on evening dress. The women were in favour ofit, and, of course, carried the day; but not without astruggle. One night at Holkham - we were a large party, Idaresay at least fifty at dinner - the men came down in blackscarfs, the women in white 'chokers.' To make the contestcomplete, these all sat on one side of the table, and we menon the other. The battle was not renewed; both factionssurrendered. But the women, as usual, got their way, and -their men.
　　For my part I could never endure the original whiteneckcloth. It was stiffly starched, and wound twice roundthe neck; so I abjured it for the rest of my days; now andthen I got the credit of being a coxcomb - not for my pains,but for my comfort. Once, when dining at the Viceregal Lodgeat Dublin, I was 'pulled up' by an aide-de-camp for myunbecoming attire; but I stuck to my colours, and was nonethe worse. Another time my offence called forth a touch ofgood nature on the part of a great man, which I hardly knowhow to speak of without writing me down an ass. It was at acrowded party at Cambridge House. (Let me plead my youth; Iwas but two-and-twenty.) Stars and garters were scarcely adistinction. White ties were then as imperative as shoes andstockings; I was there in a black one. My candid friendssuggested withdrawal, my relations cut me assiduously,strangers by my side whispered at me aloud, women turnedtheir shoulders to me; and my only prayer was that myaccursed tie would strangle me on the spot. One pair ofsharp eyes, however, noticed my ignominy, and their owner wasmoved by compassion for my sufferings. As I was slinkingaway, Lord Palmerston, with a BONHOMIE peculiarly his own,came up to me; and with a shake of the hand and heartymanner, asked after my brother Leicester, and when he wasgoing to bring me into Parliament? - ending with a smile:
　　'Where are you off to in such a hurry?' That is the sort oftact that makes a party leader. I went to bed a proud,instead of a humiliated, man; ready, if ever I had thechance, to vote that black was white, should he but state itwas 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 Mountainsin 1851, I was still unshaven. Meeting my younger brother -a fashionable guardsman - in St. James's Street, heexclaimed, with horror and disgust at my barbarity, 'Isuppose you mean to cut off that thing!'
　　Smoking, as indulged in now, was quite out of the questionhalf a century ago. A man would as soon have thought ofmaking a call in his dressing-gown as of strolling about theWest End with a cigar in his mouth. The first whom I eversaw smoke a cigarette at a dining-table after dinner was theKing; some forty years ago, or more perhaps. One of the manysocial benefits we owe to his present Majesty.
Chapter 11
DURING my blindness I was hospitably housed in Eaten Place byMr. Whitbread, the head of the renowned firm. After myrecovery I had the good fortune to meet there Lady Morgan,the once famous authoress of the 'Wild Irish Girl.' Shestill bore traces of her former comeliness, and had probablylost little of her sparkling vivacity. She was known to likethe company of young people, as she said they made her feelyoung; so, being the youngest of the party, I had the honourof sitting next her at dinner. When I recall herconversation and her pleasing manners, I can well understandthe homage paid both abroad and at home to the bright geniusof 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 asGlenarvon's letters to the heroine. Lady Morgan had been theconfidante of Lady Caroline, had seen many of Byron'sletters, and possessed many of her friend's - full of detailsof the extraordinary intercourse which had existed betweenthe two.
　　Lady Morgan evidently did not believe (in spite of LadyCaroline's mad passion for the poet) that the liaison everreached the ultimate stage contemplated by her lover. Thisopinion was strengthened by Lady Caroline's undoubtedattachment to her husband - William Lamb, afterwards LordMelbourne - who seems to have submitted to his wife'svagaries with his habitual stoicism and good humour.
　　Both Byron and Lady Caroline had violent tempers, and werealways 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 firstsuccess as the youthful author of 'Vivian Grey.' He wasnaturally made much of, but rather in the Bohemian world thanby such queens of society as Lady Holland or Lady Jersey.
　　'And faith!' she added, with the piquante accent whichexcitement evoked, 'he took the full shine out of his janius.
　　And how do ye think he was dressed? In a black velvet jacketand suit to match, with a red sash round his waist, in whichwas stuck a dagger with a richly jew'lled sheath and handle.'
　　The only analogous instance of self-confidence that I cancall to mind was Garibaldi's costume at a huge reception atStafford House. The ELITE of society was there, in diamonds,ribbons, and stars, to meet him. Garibaldi's uppermost andoutermost garment was a red flannel shirt, nothing more norless.
　　The crowd jostled and swayed around him. To get out of theway of it, I retreated to the deserted picture gallery. Theonly person there was one who interested me more than thescarlet patriot, Bulwer-Lytton the First. He was saunteringto and fro with his hands behind his back, looking dingy inhis black satin scarf, and dejected. Was he envying theItalian hero the obsequious reverence paid to his miner'sshirt? (Nine tenths of the men, and still more of the womenthere, knew nothing of the wearer, or his cause, beyondthat.) Was he thinking of similar honours which had beenlavished upon himself when HIS star was in the zenith? Washe muttering to himself the usual consolation of the 'have-beens' - VANITAS VANITATUM? Or what new fiction, what oldlove, was flitting through that versatile and fantasticbrain? Poor Bulwer! He had written the best novel, the bestplay, and had made the most eloquent parliamentary oration ofany man of his day. But, like another celebrated statesmanwho has lately passed away, he strutted his hour and willsoon be forgotten - 'Quand on broute sa gloire en herbe deson vivant, on ne la recolte pas en epis apres sa mort.' The'Masses,' so courted by the one, however blatant, are not thearbiters of immortal fame.
　　To go back a few years before I met Lady Morgan: when mymother was living at 18 Arlington Street, Sydney Smith usedto be a constant visitor there. One day he called just as wewere going to lunch. He had been very ill, and would not eatanything. My mother suggested the wing of a chicken.
　　'My dear lady,' said he, 'it was only yesterday that mydoctor positively refused my request for the wing of abutterfly.'
　　Another time when he was making a call I came to the doorbefore 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 thatfairly took Jeames' breath away.
　　As Sydney's face was perfectly impassive, I never felt quitesure whether this was for the benefit of myself or of theastounded footman; or whether it was the genuine expressionof an absent mind. He was a great friend of my mother's, andof 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 shallI say?" I looked at the man's face astonished. What name?
　　what name? aye, that is the question. What is my name? Ihad no more idea who I was than if I had never existed. Idid not know whether I was a dissenter or a layman. I feltas dull as Sternhold and Hopkins. At last, to my greatrelief, it flashed across me that I was Sydney Smith.'
　　In the summer of the year 1848 Napier and I stayed a coupleof nights with Captain Marryat at Langham, near Blakeney. Heused constantly to come over to Holkham to watch our cricketmatches. His house was a glorified cottage, very comfortableand prettily decorated. The dining and sitting-rooms werehung with the original water-colour drawings - mostly byStanfield, 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, butclever young man with considerable artistic abilities, andhis talented daughter, Miss Florence, since so well known tonovel readers.
　　Often as I had spoken to Marryat, I never could quite makehim out. Now that I was his guest his habitual reservedisappeared, and despite his failing health he was genialityitself. Even this I did not fully understand at first. Atthe dinner-table his amusement seemed, I won't say to make a'butt' of me - his banter was too good-natured for that - buthe treated me as Dr. Primrose treated his son after thebushel-of-green-spectacles bargain. He invented the mostwonderful stories, and told them with imperturbablesedateness. Finding a credulous listener in me, he drew allthe more freely upon his invention. When, however, hegravely asserted that Jonas was not the only man who hadspent three days and three nights in a whale's belly, butthat he himself had caught a whale with a man inside it whohad lived there for more than a year on blubber, which, hedeclared, was better than turtle soup, it was impossible toresist the fooling, and not forget that one was the Moses ofthe extravaganza.
　　In the evening he proposed that his son and daughter and Ishould act a charade. Napier was the audience, and Marryathimself the orchestra - that is, he played on his fiddle suchtunes as a ship's fiddler or piper plays to the heaving ofthe anchor, or for hoisting in cargo. Everyone was inromping spirits, and notwithstanding the cheery Captain'ssigns of fatigue and worn looks, which he evidently strove toconceal, the evening had all the freshness and spirit of animpromptu pleasure.
　　When I left, Marryat gave me his violin, with some sad wordsabout his not being likely to play upon it more. Perhaps heknew better than we how prophetically he was speaking.
　　Barely three weeks afterwards I learnt that the humorouscreator of 'Midshipman Easy' would never make us laugh again.
　　In 1846 Lord John Russell succeeded Sir Robert Peel aspremier. At the General Election, a brother of mine was theLiberal candidate for the seat in East Norfolk. He wasreturned; but was threatened with defeat through anoccurrence in which I was innocently involved.
　　The largest landowner in this division of the county, next tomy brother Leicester, was Lord Hastings - great-grandfatherof the present lord. On the occasion I am referring to, hewas a guest at Holkham, where a large party was thenassembled. Leicester was particularly anxious to be civil tohis powerful neighbour; and desired the members of his familyto show him every attention. The little lord was anexceedingly punctilious man: as scrupulously dapper inmanner as he was in dress. Nothing could be more courteous,more smiling, than his habitual demeanour; but his bite wasworse than his bark, and nobody knew which candidate hisagents had instructions to support in the coming contest. Itwas quite on the cards that the secret order would turn thescales.
　　One evening after dinner, when the ladies had left us, themen were drawn together and settled down to their wine. Itwas before the days of cigarettes, and claret was plentifullyimbibed. I happened to be seated next to Lord Hastings onhis left; on the other side of him was Spencer Lyttelton,uncle of our Colonial Secretary. Spencer Lyttelton was anotable character. He had much of the talents and amiabilityof his distinguished family; but he was eccentric,exceedingly comic, and dangerously addicted to practicaljokes. One of these he now played upon the spruce andvigilant little potentate whom it was our special aim to win.
　　As the decanters circulated from right to left, Spencerfilled himself a bumper, and passed the bottles on. LordHastings followed suit. I, unfortunately, was speaking toLyttelton behind Lord Hastings's back, and as he turned andpushed the wine to me, the incorrigible joker, catching sightof the handkerchief sticking out of my lord's coat-tail,quick as thought drew it open and emptied his full glass intothe gaping pocket. A few minutes later Lord Hastings, whotook snuff, discovered what had happened. He held thedripping cloth up for inspection, and with perfect urbanitydeposited it on his dessert plate.
　　Leicester looked furious, but said nothing till we joined theladies. He first spoke to Hastings, and then to me. Whatpassed between the two I do not know. To me, he said:
　　'Hastings tells me it was you who poured the claret into hispocket. This will lose the election. After to-morrow, Ishall want your room.' Of course, the culprit confessed; andmy brother got the support we hoped for. Thus it was thatthe political interests of several thousands of electorsdepended on a glass of wine.
Chapter 12
I HAD completed my second year at the University, when, inOctober 1848, just as I was about to return to Cambridgeafter the long vacation, an old friend - William Grey, theyoungest of the ex-Prime-Minister's sons - called on me at myLondon lodgings. He was attached to the Vienna Embassy,where his uncle, Lord Ponsonby, was then ambassador. Shortlybefore this there had been serious insurrections both inParis, Vienna, and Berlin.
　　Many may still be living who remember how Louis Philippe fledto England; how the infection spread over this country; how25,000 Chartists met on Kennington Common; how the upper andmiddle classes of London were enrolled as special constables,with the future Emperor of the French amongst them; how thepromptitude of the Iron Duke saved London, at least, from thefate of the French and Austrian capitals.
　　This, however, was not till the following spring. Up toOctober, no overt defiance of the Austrian Government had yetasserted itself; but the imminence of an outbreak was theanxious thought of the hour. The hot heads of Germany,France, and England were more than meditating - they werethreatening, and preparing for, a European revolution.
　　Bloody battles were to be fought; kings and emperors were tobe dethroned and decapitated; mobs were to take the place ofparliaments; the leaders of the 'people' - I.E. the stumporators - were to rule the world; property was to be dividedand 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, whichclearly proved our equality. This was the simple, thebeautiful programme; once carried out, peace, fraternal andeternal peace, would reign - till it ended, and the earthlyParadise would be an accomplished fact.
　　I was an ultra-Radical - a younger-son Radical - in thosedays. I was quite ready to share with my elder brother; Ihad no prejudice in favour of my superiors; I had oftendreamed of becoming a leader of the 'people' - a stumporator, I.E. - with the handsome emoluments of ministerialoffice.
　　William Grey came to say good-bye. He was suddenly recalledin consequence of the insurrection. 'It is a most criticalstate of affairs,' he said. 'A revolution may break out allover the Continent at any moment. There's no saying where itmay end. We are on the eve of a new epoch in the history ofEurope. I wouldn't miss it on any account.'
　　'Most interesting! most interesting!' I exclaimed. 'How Iwish 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 chanceagain.'
　　'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 mydespatches. Dine with me to-night at my mother's - nobodyelse - and I'll bring your passport in my pocket.'
　　'So be it, then. Billy Whistle [the irreverend nickname weundergraduates gave the Master of Trinity] will rusticate meto 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 hadalready heard, while changing carriages at Breslau station,that the revolution had broken out at Vienna, that the railswere torn up, the Bahn-hof burnt, the military defeated anddriven from the town. William Grey's official papers, aidedby his fluent German, enabled us to pass the barriers, andfind our way into the city. He went straight to the Embassy,and sent me on to the 'Erzherzog Carl' in the Karnthner ThorStrasse, at that time the best hotel in Vienna. It beingstill nearly dark, candles were burning in every window byorder of the insurgents.
　　The preceding day had been an eventful one. Theproletariats, headed by the students, had sacked the arsenal,the troops having made but slight resistance. They thenmarched to the War Office and demanded the person of the WarMinister, Count Latour, who was most unpopular on account ofhis known appeal to Jellachich, the Ban of Croatia, toassist, if required, in putting down the disturbances. Somesharp fighting here took place. The rioters defeated thesmall body of soldiers on the spot, captured two guns, andtook possession of the building. The unfortunate ministerwas found in one of the upper garrets of the palace. Theruffians dragged him from his place of concealment, andbarbarously murdered him. They then flung his body from thewindow, and in a few minutes it was hanging from a lamp-postabove the heads of the infuriated and yelling mob.
　　In 1848 the inner city of Vienna was enclosed within a broadand lofty bastion, fosse, and glacis. These were levelled in1857. As soon as the troops were expelled, cannon wereplaced on the Bastei so as to command the approaches fromwithout. The tunnelled gateways were built up, andbarricades erected across every principal thoroughfare.
　　Immediately after these events Ferdinand I. abdicated infavour of the present Emperor Francis Joseph, who retiredwith 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, afterwardsSir George, Governor of New Zealand, with whom I was glad tofraternise.
　　These humble pages do not aspire to the dignity of History;but a few words as to what took place are needful for thewriter's purposes. The garrison in Vienna had beencomparatively small; and as the National Guard had joined thestudents and proletariats, it was deemed advisable by theGovernment to await the arrival of reinforcements underPrince Windischgratz, who, together with a strong body ofServians and Croats under Jellachich, might overawe theinsurgents; or, if not, recapture the city withoutunnecessary bloodshed. The rebels were buoyed up by hopes ofsupport from the Hungarians under Kossuth. But in this theywere disappointed. In less than three weeks from the day ofthe outbreak the city was beleaguered. Fighting beganoutside the town on the 24th. On the 25th the soldiersoccupied the Wieden and Nussdorf suburbs. Next day theGemeinderath (Municipal Council) sent a PARLEMENTAR to treatwith Windischgratz. The terms were rejected, and the citywas taken by storm on October 30.
　　A few days before the bombardment, the Austrian commandergave the usual notice to the Ambassadors to quit the town.
　　This they accordingly did. Before leaving, Lord Ponsonbykindly sent his private secretary, Mr. George Samuel, to warnme and invite me to join him at Schonbrunn. I politelyelected to stay and take my chance. After the attack on thesuburbs began I had reason to regret the decision. Thehotels were entered by patrols, and all efficient waitersKOMMANDIERE'D to work at the barricades, or carry arms. Onthe fourth day I settled to change sides. The constantbanging of big guns, and rattle of musketry, with theimpossibility of getting either air or exercise without therisk of being indefinitely deprived of both, was becomingless amusing than I had counted on. I was already providedwith a PASSIERSCHEIN, which franked me inside the town, andup to the insurgents' outposts. The difficulty was how tocross the neutral ground and the two opposing lines. Broaddaylight was the safest time for the purpose; the officioussentry is not then so apt to shoot his friend. With muchstalking and dodging I made a bolt; and, notwithstandingviolent gesticulations and threats, got myself safely seizedand hurried before the nearest commanding officer.
　　He happened to be a general or a colonel. He was a fiercelooking, stout old gentleman with a very red face, all theredder for his huge white moustache and well-filled whiteuniform. He began by fuming and blustering as if about toorder me to summary execution. He spoke so fast, it was noteasy to follow him. Probably my amateur German was aspuzzling to him. The PASSIERSCHEIN, which I produced, wasnot in my favour; unfortunately I had forgotten my ForeignOffice passport. What further added to his suspicion was hisinability to comprehend why I had not availed myself of thenotice, duly given to all foreigners, to leave the citybefore active hostilities began. How anyone, who had thechoice, could be fool enough to stay and be shelled orbayoneted, was (from his point of view) no proof ofrespectability. I assured him he was mistaken if he thoughtI had a predilection for either of these alternatives.
　　'It was just because I desired to avoid both that I hadsought, not without risk, the protection I was so sure offinding 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 surfaceas his bad. I detected a pleasant sparkle in his eye.
　　'Pardon me, Excellenz,' said I, 'my presence here is the bestproof of my sincerity.'
　　'That,' said he sharply, 'is what every rascal might pleadwhen caught with a rebel's pass in his pocket. Geleitsbriefefur 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 noone knows the difference better than your Excellenz.' Theterm 'Schurken' (knaves) had stirred my fire; and though Imade a deferential bow, I looked as indignant as I felt.
　　'Well, well,' he said pacifically, 'you may go about yourbusiness. But SEHEN SIE, young man, take my advice, don'tsatisfy your curiosity at the cost of a broken head. Dazugehoren Kerle die eigens geschaffen sind.' As much as tosay: 'Leave halters to those who are born to be hanged.'
　　Indeed, the old fellow looked as if he had enjoyed life toowell to appreciate parting with it gratuitously.
　　I had nothing with me save the clothes on my back. When Ishould again have access to the 'Erzherzcg Carl' wasimpossible to surmise. The only decent inn I knew of outsidethe walls was the 'Golden Lamm,' on the suburb side of theDonau Canal, close to the Ferdinand bridge which faces theRothen Thurm Thor. Here I entered, and found it occupied bya company of Nassau JAGERS. A barricade was thrown up acrossthe street leading to the bridge. Behind it were two guns.
　　One end of the barricade abutted on the 'Golden Lamm.' Withthe exception of the soldiers, the inn seemed to be deserted;and I wanted both food and lodging. The upper floor was fullof JAGERS. The front windows over-looked the Bastei. Thesewere now blocked with mattresses, to protect the men frombullets. The distance from the ramparts was not more than150 yards, and woe to the student or the fat grocer, in hisNational Guard uniform, who showed his head above the walls.
　　While I was in the attics a gun above the city gate fired atthe battery below. I ran down a few minutes later to see theresult. One artilleryman had been killed. He was alreadylaid under the gun-carriage, his head covered with a cloak.
　　The storming took place a day or two afterwards. One of theprincipal points of resistance had been at the bottom of theJagerzeile. The insurgents had a battery of several gunshere; and the handsome houses at the corners facing thePrater had been loop-holed and filled with students. Iwalked round the town after all was over, and was especiallyimpressed with the horrors I witnessed. The beautifulhouses, with their gorgeous furniture, were a mass of smokingruins. 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 theroasted flesh was a disgusting association for a long time tocome. But the whole was sickening to look at, and still moreso, if possible, to reflect upon; for this was the pricewhich so often has been, so often will be, paid for thealluring dream of liberty, and for the pursuit of thatmischievous will-o'-the-wisp - jealous Equality.
Chapter 13
VIENNA in the early part of the last century was looked uponas the gayest capital in Europe. Even the frightfulconvulsion it had passed through only checked for a while itschronic pursuit of pleasure. The cynical philosopher mightbe tempted to contrast this not infrequent accessory ofpaternal rule with the purity and contentment so fondlyexpected from a democracy - or shall we say a demagoguey?
　　The cherished hopes of the so-called patriots had beencrushed; and many were the worse for the struggle. But themajority 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 deStael in 1810: 'Dans ce pays, l'on traite les plaisirs commeles devoirs. . . . Vous verrez des hommes et des femmesexecuter gravement, l'un vis-a-vis de l'autre, les pas d'unmenuet 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, beingextremely fond of music, I worked industriously at theviolin, also at German. My German master, Herr Mauthner byname, was a little hump-backed Jew, who seemed to know everyman and woman (especially woman) worth knowing in Vienna.
　　Through him I made the acquaintance of several families ofthe middle class, - amongst them that of a veteran musicianwho had been Beethoven's favourite flute-player. As myveneration for Beethoven was unbounded, I listened with aweto every trifling incident relating to the great master. Ifear the conviction left on my mind was that my idol, thoughtranscendent amongst musicians, was a bear amongst men.
　　Pride (according to his ancient associate) was his strongpoint. This he vindicated by excessive rudeness to everyonewhose social position was above his own. Even those that didhim a good turn were suspected of patronising. Condescensionwas a prerogative confined to himself. In this respect, tobe 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, Ithe second, the son the 'cello, and his daughter the piano.
　　It was an atmosphere of music that we all inhaled; and myhappiness on these occasions would have been unalloyed, hadnot the young lady - a damsel of six-and-forty - insisted onpoisoning me (out of compliment to my English tastes) with abitter decoction she was pleased to call tea. This delicateattention, I must say, proved an effectual souvenir till wemet again - I dreaded it.
　　Now and then I dined at the Embassy. One night I met therePrince Paul Esterhazy, so distinguished by his diamonds whenAustrian Ambassador at the coronation of Queen Victoria. Hetalked to me of the Holkham sheep-shearing gatherings, atwhich from 200 to 300 guests sat down to dinner every day,including crowned heads, and celebrities from both sides ofthe Atlantic. He had twice assisted at these in my father'stime. He also spoke of the shooting; and promised, if Iwould visit him in Hungary, he would show me as good sport ashad ever seen in Norfolk. He invited Mr. Magenis - theSecretary of Legation - to accompany me.
　　The following week we two hired a BRITZCKA, and posted toEisenstadt. The lordly grandeur of this last of the feudalprinces manifested itself soon after we crossed the Hungarianfrontier. The first sign of it was the livery and badge wornby the postillions. Posting houses, horses and roads, wereall the property of His Transparency.
　　Eisenstadt itself, though not his principal seat, is a largepalace - three sides of a triangle. One wing is theresidence, that opposite the barrack, (he had his owntroops,) and the connecting base part museum and partconcert-hall. This last was sanctified by the spirit ofJoseph Haydn, for so many years Kapellmeister to theEsterhazy family. The conductor's stand and his spinetremained intact. Even the stools and desks in the orchestra(so the Prince assured me) were ancient. The very dust wassacred. Sitting alone in the dim space, one could fancy thegreat little man still there, in his snuff-coloured coat andruffles, half buried (as on state occasions) in his 'ALLONGEPERUCKE.' A tap of his magic wand starts into life hisquaint old-fashioned band, and the powder flies from theirwigs. Soft, distant, ghostly harmonies of the SurpriseSymphony float among the rafters; and now, as in a dream, weare listening to - nay, beholding - the glorious process ofCreation; till suddenly the mighty chord is struck, and weare startled from our trance by the burst of myriad voicesechoing the command and its fulfilment, 'Let there be light:
　　and there was light.'
　　Only a family party was assembled in the house. A Baronsomething, and a Graf something - both relations, - and theson, afterwards Ambassador at St. Petersburg during theCrimean War. The latter was married to Lady Sarah Villiers,who was also there. It is amusing to think that thebeautiful daughter of the proud Lady Jersey should be lookedupon by the Austrians as somewhat of a MESALLIANCE for one ofthe chiefs of their nobility. Certain it is that the youngPrincess was received by them, till they knew her, with morecondescension than enthusiasm.
　　An air of feudal magnificence pervaded the palace: spaciousreception-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 thecomestibles - wild boar with marmalade, venison and game ofall sorts with excellent 'Eingemachtes' and 'Mehlspeisen'
　　galore - a feast for a Gamache or a Gargantua. But then, allsave three, remember, were Germans - and Germans! Noteworthywas the delicious Chateau Y'quem, of which the Princedeclared he had a monopoly - meaning the best, I presume.
　　After dinner the son, his brother-in-law, and I, smoked ourmeerschaums and played pools of ECARTE in the young Prince'sroom. Magenis, who was much our senior, had his rubberdownstairs with the elders.
　　The life was pleasant enough, but there was one littlemedieval peculiarity which almost made one look for retainersin goat-skins and rushes on the floor, - there was not a bath(except the Princess's) in the palace! It was withdifficulty that my English servant foraged a tub from thekitchen or the laundry. As to other sanitary arrangements,they were what they doubtless had been in the days of Almosand his son, the mighty Arped. In keeping with thesevenerable customs, I had a sentry at the door of myapartments; to protect me, belike, from the ghosts ofpredatory barons and marauders.
　　During the week we had two days' shooting; one in thecoverts, quite equal to anything of the kind in England, theother at wild boar. For the latter, a tract of theCarpathian Mountains had been driven for some days beforeinto a wood of about a hundred acres. At certain pointsthere were sheltered stands, raised four or five feet fromthe ground, so that the sportsmen had a commanding view ofthe broad alley or clearing in front of him, across which thestags or boar were driven by an army of beaters.
　　I had my own double-barrelled rifle; but besides this, a manwith a rack on his back bearing three rifles of the prince's,a loader, and a FORSTER, with a hunting knife or short swordto despatch the wounded quarry. Out of the first rush ofpigs that went by I knocked over two; and, in my keenness,jumped out of the stand with the FORSTER who ran to finishthem off. I was immediately collared and brought back; andas far as I could make out, was taken for a lunatic, or atleast for a 'duffer,' for my rash attempt to approach unarmeda wounded tusker. When we all met at the end of the day, thebag of the five guns was forty-five wild boars. The biggest- and he was a monster - fell to the rifle of the Prince, aswas of course intended.
　　The old man took me home in his carriage. It was a beautifuldrive. One's idea of an English park - even such a park asWindsor's - dwindled into that of a pleasure ground, whencompared with the boundless territory we drove through. Tobe sure, it was no more a park than is the New Forest; but ithad all the character of the best English scenery - miles offine turf, dotted with clumps of splendid trees, and giganticoaks standing alone in their majesty. Now and then a herd ofred deer were startled in some sequestered glade; but nocattle, no sheep, no sign of domestic care. Struck with thecharm of this primeval wilderness, I made some remark aboutthe richness of the pasture, and wondered there were no sheepto be seen. 'There,' said the old man, with a touch ofpride, as he pointed to the blue range of the Carpathians;'that is my farm. I will tell you. All the celebrities ofthe day who were interested in farming used to meet atHolkham for what was called the sheep-shearing. I once toldyour father I had more shepherds on my farm than there weresheep on his.'
Chapter 14
IT WAS with a sorry heart that I bade farewell to my Viennafriends, my musical comrades, the Legation hospitalities, andmy faithful little Israelite. But the colt frisks over thepasture from sheer superfluity of energy; and between one'ssecond and third decades instinctive restlessness -spontaneous movement - is the law of one's being. 'Tis thenthat 'Hope builds as fast as knowledge can destroy.' Theenjoyment we abandon is never so sweet as that we seek.
　　'Pleasure never is at home.' Happiness means action for itsown sake, change, incessant change.
　　I sought and found it in Bavaria, Bohemia, Russia, all overGermany, and dropped anchor one day in Cracow; a weekafterwards in Warsaw. These were out-of-the-way places then;there were no tourists in those days; I did not meet a singlecompatriot either in the Polish or Russian town.
　　At Warsaw I had an adventure not unlike that which befell meat Vienna. The whole of Europe, remember, was in a state ofpolitical ferment. Poland was at least as ready to riseagainst its oppressor then as now; and the police wasproportionately strict and arbitrary. An army corps wasencamped on the right bank of the Vistula, ready for expectedemergencies. Under these circumstances, passports, as may besupposed, were carefully inspected; except in those ofBritish subjects, the person of the bearer was described -his height, the colour of his hair (if he had any), or anymark that distinguished him.
　　In my passport, after my name, was added 'ET SON DOMESTIQUE.'
　　The inspector who examined it at the frontier pointed tothis, and, in indifferent German, asked me where thatindividual was. I replied that I had sent him with mybaggage to Dresden, to await my arrival there. Aconsultation thereupon took place with another official, in alanguage I did not understand; and to my dismay I wasinformed that I was - in custody. The small portmanteau Ihad with me, together with my despatch-box, was seized; thelatter contained a quantity of letters and my journal. Moneyonly was I permitted to retain.
　　Quite by the way, but adding greatly to my discomfort, wasthe fact that since leaving Prague, where I had relinquishedeverything I could dispense with, I had had much nighttravelling amongst native passengers, who so valuedcleanliness that they economised it with religious care. Bythe time I reached Warsaw, I may say, without metonymy, thatI was itching (all over) for a bath and a change of linen.
　　My irritation, indeed, was at its height. But there was noappeal; and on my arrival I was haled before the authorities.
　　Again, their head was a general officer, though not the leastlike my portly friend at Vienna. His business was to sit injudgment upon delinquents such as I. He was a spare, austereman, surrounded by a sharp-looking aide-de-camp, severalclerks in uniform, and two or three men in mufti, whom I tookto be detectives. The inspector who arrested me was presentwith my open despatch-box and journal. The journal he handedto the aide, who began at once to look it through while hischief was disposing of another case.
　　To be suspected and dragged before this tribunal was, for thetime being (as I afterwards learnt) almost tantamount tocondemnation. As soon as the General had sentenced mypredecessor, I was accosted as a self-convicted criminal.
　　Fortunately he spoke French like a Frenchman; and, as itpresently appeared, a few words of English.
　　'What country do you belong to?' he asked, as if the questionwas but a matter of form, put for decency's sake - a mereprelude to committal.
　　'England, of course; you can see that by my passport.' I wasdetermined to fence him with his own weapons. Indeed, inthose innocent days of my youth, I enjoyed a genuine Britishcontempt for foreigners - in the lump - which, after all, isabout as impartial a sentiment as its converse, that one'sown 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 followyou.' (Don't forget, please, that said prisoner's apparelwas unvaleted, his hands unwashed, his linen unchanged, hishair 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 sayshere, "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 acertain page): 'You state here you were caught by theAustrians in a pretended escape from the Viennese insurgents;and add, "They evidently took me for a spy" [returningjournal to aide]. What is your explanation of this?'
　　PRISONER (shrugging shoulders disdainfully): 'In the firstplace, the word "pretended" is not in my journal. In thesecond, although of course it does not follow, if one takesanother person for a man of sagacity or a gentleman - it doesnot follow that he is either - still, when - '
　　GENERAL (with signs of impatience): 'I have here aPASSIERSCHEIN, found amongst your papers and signed by therebels. They would not have given you this, had you not beenon friendly terms with them. You will be detained until Ihave further particulars.'
　　PRISONER (angrily): 'I will assist you, through Her BritannicMajesty'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'ssignature is to be set at naught and treated with contumacy.'
　　The General beckoned to the inspector to put an end to theproceedings. But the aide, who had been studying thejournal, again placed it in his chief's hands. A colloquyensued, in which I overheard the name of Lord Ponsonby. Theenemy seemed to waver, so I charged with a renewed request tosee the English Consul. A pause; then some remarks inRussian 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 nothaving your passport altered and REVISE when you parted withyour servant. How long do you wish to remain here?'
　　Said I, 'Vous avez bien raison, Monsieur. Je suis evidemmentdans 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 mydays.'
　　Eventually my portmanteau and despatch-box were restored tome; and I took up my quarters in the filthiest inn (there wasno better, I believe) that it was ever my misfortune to lodgeat. It was ancient, dark, dirty, and dismal. My sitting-room (I had a cupboard besides to sleep in) had but onewindow, looking into a gloomy courtyard. The furnitureconsisted of two wooden chairs and a spavined horsehair sofa.
　　The ceiling was low and lamp-blacked; the stained paper fellin strips from the sweating walls; fortunately there was nocarpet; but if anything could have added to the occupier'sdepression it was the sight of his own distorted features ina shattered glass, which seemed to watch him like a detectiveand 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 PULEXIRRITANS. I inquired for a LAQUAIS DE PLACE, - some humanbeing to consort with was the most pressing of immediatewants. As luck would have it, the very article was in thedreary courtyard, lurking spider-like for the innocenttraveller just arrived. Elective affinity brought us at onceto friendly intercourse. He was of the Hebrew race, as thelarger half of the Warsaw population still are. He was atypical Jew (all Jews are typical), though all are not sothin as was Beninsky. His eyes were sunk in sockets deepenedby the sharpness of his bird-of-prey beak; a single corkscrewringlet dropped tearfully down each cheek; and his one fronttooth seemed sometimes in his upper, sometimes in his lowerjaw. His skull-cap and his gabardine might have beenheirlooms from the Patriarch Jacob; and his poor hands seemedmade for clawing. But there was a humble and contrite spiritin his sad eyes. The history of his race was written inthem; but it was modern history that one read in theirhopeless and appealing look.
　　His cringing manner and his soft voice (we conversed inGerman) touched my heart. I have always had a liking for theJews. Who shall reckon how much some of us owe them! Theyhave always interested me as a peculiar people - admittingsometimes, as in poor Beninsky's case, of purifying, nodoubt; yet, if occasionally zealous (and who is not?) ofinterested works - cent. per cent. works, often - yes, moreoften than we Christians - zealous of good works, of open-handed, large-hearted munificence, of charity in itsdemocratic and noblest sense. Shame upon the nations whichdespise and persecute them for faults which they, thepersecutors, have begotten! Shame on those who have extortedboth their money and their teeth! I think if I were a Jew Ishould chuckle to see my shekels furnish all the wars inwhich 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 thetricksy little Zilpahs, and the Rebekahs, from the wife ofIsaac of Gerar to the daughter of Isaac of York? Who wouldnot love to sit with Jessica where moonlight sleeps, andwatch the patines of bright gold reflected in her heavenlyorbs? I once knew a Jessica, a Polish Jessica, who - butthat was in Vienna, more than half a century ago.
　　Beninsky's orbs brightened visibly when I bade him break hisfast at my high tea. I ordered everything they had in thehouse I think, - a cold Pomeranian GANSEBRUST, a garlickyWURST, and GERAUCHERTE LACHS. I had a packet of my ownFortnum and Mason's Souchong; and when the stove gave out itsglow, and the samovar its music, Beninsky's gratitude and hishunger passed the limits of restraint. Late into the nightwe smoked our meerschaums.
　　When I spoke of the Russians, he got up nervously to see thedoor was shut, and whispered with bated breath. What arelief it was to him to meet a man to whom he could pour outhis griefs, his double griefs, as Pole and Israelite. Beforewe parted I made him put the remains of the sausage (!) andthe goose-breast under his petticoats. I bade him come to mein the morning and show me all that was worth seeing inWarsaw. When he left, with tears in his eyes, I was consoledto think that for one night at any rate he and his GANSEBRUSTand sausage would rest peacefully in Abraham's bosom. WhatAbraham would say to the sausage I did not ask; nor perhapsdid my poor Beninsky.
Chapter 15
THE remainder of the year '49 has left me nothing to tell.
　　For me, it was the inane life of that draff of Society - theyoung man-about-town: the tailor's, the haberdasher's, thebootmaker's, and trinket-maker's, young man; the dancing and'hell'-frequenting young man; the young man of the 'CiderCellars' and Piccadilly saloons; the valiant dove-slayer, thepark-lounger, the young lady's young man - who puts his hatinto mourning, and turns up his trousers because - becausethe 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 toGrisi and Mario, Alboni and Lablache, Viardot and Ronconi,Persiani and Tamburini, - and Jenny Lind too, though she wasat the other house. And what an orchestra was Costa's - withSainton leader, and Lindley and old Dragonetti, who togetherbut alone, accompanied the RECITATIVE with their harmoniouschords on 'cello and double-bass. Is singing a lost art? Oris that but a TEMPORIS ACTI question? We who heard those nowsilent voices fancy there are none to match them nowadays.
　　Certainly there are no dancers like Taglioni, and Cerito, andFanny Elsler, and Carlotta Grisi.
　　After the opera and the ball, one finished the night atVauxhall or Ranelagh; then as gay, and exactly the same, asthey were when Miss Becky Sharpe and fat Jos supped thereonly five-and-thirty years before.
　　Except at the Opera, and the Philharmonic, and Exeter Hall,one rarely heard good music. Monsieur Jullien, that princeof musical mountebanks - the 'Prince of Waterloo,' as JohnElla called him, was the first to popularise classical musicat his promenade concerts, by tentatively introducing asingle movement of a symphony here and there in the programmeof his quadrilles and waltzes and music-hall songs.
　　Mr. Ella, too, furthered the movement with his Musical Unionand quartett parties at Willis's Rooms, where Sainton andCooper led alternately, and the incomparable Piatti and Hillmade up the four. Here Ernst, Sivori, Vieuxtemps, andBottesini, and Mesdames Schumann, Dulcken, Arabella Goddard,and all the famous virtuosi played their solos.
　　Great was the stimulus thus given by Ella's energy andenthusiasm. As a proof of what he had to contend with, andwhat he triumphed over, Halle's 'Life' may be quoted, whereit says: 'When Mr. Ella asked me [this was in 1848] what Iwished to play, and heard that it was one of Beethoven'spianoforte sonatas, he exclaimed "Impossible!" andendeavoured to demonstrate that they were not works to beplayed in public.' What seven-league boots the world hasstridden in within the memory of living men!
　　John Ella himself led the second violins in Costa's band, andhad begun life (so I have been told) as a pastry-cook. Iknew both him and the wonderful little Frenchman 'at home.'
　　According to both, in their different ways, Beethoven andMozart would have been lost to fame but for their heroicefforts to save them.
　　I used occasionally to play with Ella at the house of a ladywho gave musical parties. He was always attuned to thehighest pitch, - most good-natured, but most excitable wheremusic was to the fore. We were rehearsing a quintett, thepianoforte part of which was played by the young lady of thehouse - a very pretty girl, and not a bad musician, butnervous to the point of hysteria. Ella himself was in ahypercritical state; nothing would go smoothly; and the pianowas always (according to him) the peccant instrument. Againand again he made us restart the movement. There were a goodmany friends of the family invited to this last rehearsal,which made it worse for the poor girl, who was obviously onthe brink of a breakdown. Presently Ella again jumped offhis chair, and shouted: 'Not E flat! There's no E flatthere; E natural! E natural! I never in my life knew ayoung 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 aboutsixteen, I suppose. He had not yet performed in London. Allthe musical celebrities were present to hear the youthfulprodigy. Two quartetts were played, Ernst leading one andJoachim the other. After it was over, everyone wasenraptured, but no one more so than Ernst, who unhesitatinglypredicted the fame which the great artist has so eminentlyachieved.
　　One more amusing little story belongs to my experiences ofthese days. Having two brothers and a brother-in-law in theGuards, I used to dine often at the Tower, or the Bank, orSt. James's. At the Bank of England there is always at nightan officer's guard. There is no mess, as the officer isalone. But the Bank provides dinner for two, in case theofficer should invite a friend. On the occasion I speak of,my brother-in-law, Sir Archibald Macdonald, was on duty. Thesoup and fish were excellent, but we were young and hungry,and the usual leg of mutton was always a dish to be lookedforward to.
　　When its cover was removed by the waiter we looked in vain;there was plenty of gravy, but no mutton. Our surprise waseven greater than our dismay, for the waiter swore 'So 'elphis gawd' that he saw the cook put the leg on the dish, andthat he himself put the cover on the leg. 'And what did youdo with it then?' questioned my host. 'Nothing, S'Archibald.
　　Brought it straight in 'ere.' 'Do you mean to tell me it wasnever out of your hands between this and the kitchen?'
　　'Never, but for the moment I put it down outside the door tochange the plates.' 'And was there nobody in the passage?'
　　'Not a soul, except the sentry.' 'I see,' said my host, whowas a quick-witted man. 'Send the sergeant here.' Thesergeant came. The facts were related, and the order givento parade the entire guard, sentry included, in the passage.
　　The sentry was interrogated first. 'No, he had not seennobody 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 hadpopped it into his shako. For long after that day, when theguard either for the Tower or Bank marched through thestreets, the little blackguard boys used to run beside it andcry, 'Who stole the leg o' mutton?'
Chapter 16
PROBABLY the most important historical event of the year '49was the discovery of gold in California, or rather, the greatWestern Exodus in pursuit of it. A restless desire possessedme to see something of America, especially of the Far West.
　　I had an hereditary love of sport, and had read and heardwonderful tales of bison, and grisly bears, and wapitis. Nobooks 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 toCalifornia, and hunt my way across the continent. Ruxton's'Life in the Far West' inspired a belief in self-reliance andindependence only rivalled by Robinson Crusoe. If I couldnot find a companion, I would go alone. Little did I dreamof the fortune which was in store for me, or how nearly Imissed carrying out the scheme so wildly contemplated, orindeed, any scheme at all.
　　The only friend I could meet with both willing and able tojoin me was the last Lord Durham. He could not undertake togo to California; but he had been to New York during hisfather's reign in Canada, and liked the idea of revisitingthe States. He proposed that we should spend the winter inthe West Indies, and after some buffalo-shooting on theplains, 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 asmall club in Covent Garden. Amongst our mutual friends wasAndrew Arcedeckne - pronounced Archdeacon - a character towhom attaches a peculiar literary interest, of which anon.
　　Arcedeckne - Archy, as he was commonly called - was about acouple of years older than we were. He was the owner ofGlevering 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 ofthe finest estates in Jamaica - Golden Grove. When he heardof our intended trip, he at once volunteered to go with us.
　　He had never seen Golden Grove, but had often wished to visitit. Thus it came to pass that we three secured our cabins inone of the West India mailers, and left England in December1849.
　　To return to our little Suffolk squire. The description ofhis figure, as before said, is all-important, though theworld is familiar with it, as drawn by the pencil of a mastercaricaturist. 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, solike 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 wouldyou not like to hear him talk? Here is a specimen in hisbest manner. Surely it must have been taken down by ashorthand writer, or a phonograph:
　　MR. HARRY FOKER LOQUITUR: 'He inquired for Rincer and thecold in his nose, told Mrs. Rincer a riddle, asked MissRincer when she would be prepared to marry him, and paid hiscompliments to Miss Brett, another young lady in the bar, allin a minute of time, and with a liveliness and facetiousnesswhich set all these young ladies in a giggle. "Have a drop,Pen: it's recommended by the faculty, &c. Give the youngone a glass, R., and score it up to yours truly."'
　　I fancy the great man who recorded these words was moreafraid of Mr. Harry PHOCA than of any other man in theGarrick Club - possibly for the reason that honest Harry wasnot the least bit afraid of him. The shy, the proud, thesensitive satirist would steal quietly into the room,avoiding notice as though he wished himself invisible. Phocawould be warming his back at the fire, and calling for aglass of 'Foker's own.' Seeing the giant enter, he wouldadvance a step or two, with a couple of extended fingers, andexclaim, quite affably, 'Ha! Mr. Thackry! litary cove! Gladto see you, sir. How's Major Dobbings?' and likely enoughwould turn to the waiter, and bid him, 'Give this gent aglass of the same, and score it up to yours truly!' We havehis biographer's word for it, that he would have winked atthe 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 tothe comicality, the simplicity, the sweetness of temper(though hardly doing justice to the loveableness of thelittle man), the famous caricature fits him to a T.
　　The night before we left London we had a convivial dinner atthe Garrick - we three travellers, with Albert Smith, hisbrother, and John Leech. It was a merry party, to which allcontributed good fellowship and innocent jokes. The latestarrival at the Zoo was the first hippopotamus that hadreached England, - a present from the Khedive. Someonewondered how it had been caught. I suggested a trout-fly;which so tickled John Leech's fancy that he promised to drawit for next week's 'Punch.' Albert Smith went with us toSouthampton to see us off.
　　On our way to Jamaica we stopped a night at Barbadoes tocoal. Here I had the honour of making the acquaintance ofthe renowned Caroline Lee! - Miss Car'line, as the negroescalled her. She was so pleased at the assurance that herfriend Mr. Peter Simple had spread her fame all the worldover, that she made us a bowl of the most delicious icedsangaree; and speedily got up a 'dignity ball' for ourentertainment. She was rather too much of an armful to dancewith herself, but there was no lack of dark beauties, (not awhite woman or white man except ourselves in the room.) Wedanced pretty nearly from daylight to daylight. The blendingof rigid propriety, of the severest 'dignity,' with thesudden guffaw and outburst of wildest spirits and comichumour, is beyond description, and is only to be met withamongst these ebullient children of the sun.
　　On our arrival at Golden Grove, there was a great turn-out ofthe natives to welcome their young lord and 'massa.' Archywas touched and amused by their frantic loyalty. But theirmode of exhibiting it was not so entirely to his taste. Notonly the young, but the old women wanted to hug him. 'Eigh!
　　Dat you, Massa? Dat you, sar? Me no believe him. Out o' deway, you trash! Eigh! me too much pleased like devil.' Theone constant and spontaneous ejaculation was, 'Yah! Massa toomuchy handsome! Garamighty! Buckra berry fat!' The latterattribute was the source of genuine admiration; but theobject of it hardly appreciated its recognition, and wavedoff his subjects with a mixture of impatience and alarm.
　　We had scarcely been a week at Golden Grove, when my twocompanions and Durham's servant were down with yellow fever.
　　Being 'salted,' perhaps, I escaped scot-free, so helpedArchy's valet and Mr. Forbes, his factor, to nurse and tocarry out professional orders. As we were thirty miles fromKingston the doctor could only come every other day. Theresponsibility, therefore, of attending three patientssmitten with so deadly a disease was no light matter. Thefactor seemed to think discretion the better part of valour,and that Jamaica rum was the best specific for keeping hisup. All physicians were SANGRADOS in those days, and whenthe Kingston doctor decided upon bleeding, the hystericalstate of the darky girls (we had no men in the bungalowexcept Durham's and Archy's servants) rendered them worsethan useless. It fell to me, therefore, to hold the basinwhile Archy's man was attending to his master.
　　Durham, who had nerves of steel, bore his lot with the grimstoicism which marked his character. But at one time thedoctor considered his state so serious that he thought hislordship's family should be informed of it. Accordingly Iwrote to the last Lord Grey, his uncle and guardian, statingthat there was little hope of his recovery. Poor Phoca wasat once tragic and comic. His medicine had to beadministered every, two hours. Each time, he begged andprayed in lacrymose tones to be let off. It was doing him nogood. He might as well be allowed to die in peace. If wewould only spare him the beastliness this once, on his honourhe 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 threebegan to recover. During their convalescence, I amusedmyself by shooting alligators in the mangrove swamps atHolland Bay, which was within half an hour's ride of thebungalow. It was curious sport. The great saurians wouldlie motionless in the pools amidst the snake-like tangle ofmangrove roots. They would float with just their eyes andnoses out of water, but so still that, without a glass,(which I had not,) it was difficult to distinguish theirheads from the countless roots and rotten logs around them.
　　If one fired by mistake, the sport was spoiled for an hour tocome.
　　I used to sit watching patiently for one of them to showitself, or for something to disturb the glassy surface of thedark waters. Overhead the foliage was so dense that the heatwas not oppressive. All Nature seemed asleep. The deathlikestillness was rarely broken by the faintest sound, - thoughunseen life, amidst the heat and moisture, was teemingeverywhere; life feeding upon life. For what purpose? Towhat end? Is this a primary law of Nature? Does cannibalismprevail in Mars? Sometimes a mocking-bird would pipe itsweird notes, deepening silence by the contrast. But besidespestilent mosquitos, the only living things in sight werehumming-birds of every hue, some no bigger than a butterfly,fluttering over the blossoms of the orchids, or darting fromflower to flower like flashes of prismatic rays.
　　I killed several alligators; but one day, while stalking whatseemed to be an unusual monster, narrowly escaped anaccident. Under the excitement, my eye was so intently fixedupon the object, that I rather felt than saw my way.
　　Presently over I went, just managed to save my rifle, and, tomy amazement, found I had set my foot on a sleeping reptile.
　　Fortunately the brute was as much astonished as I was, andplunged with a splash into the adjacent pool.
　　A Cambridge friend, Mr. Walter Shirley, owned an estate atTrelawny, on the other side of Jamaica; while the invalidswere recovering, I paid him a visit; and was initiated intothe mysteries of cane-growing and sugar-making. As the greatsplit between the Northern and Southern States on thequestion of slavery was pending, the life, condition, andtreatment of the negro was of the greatest interest. Mr.
　　Shirley was a gentleman of exceptional ability, and full ofvaluable information on these subjects. He passed me on toother plantations; and I made the complete round of theisland before returning to my comrades at Golden Grove. Afew weeks afterwards I stayed with a Spanish gentleman, theMarquis d'Iznaga, who owned six large sugar plantations inCuba; and rode with his son from Casilda to Cienfuegos, fromwhich port I got a steamer to the Havana. The ride affordedabundant opportunities of comparing the slave with the freenegro. But, as I have written on the subject elsewhere, Iwill pass to matters more entertaining.
Chapter 17
ON my arrival at the Havana I found that Durham, who wasstill an invalid, had taken up his quarters at Mr.
　　Crauford's, the Consul-General. Phoca, who was nearly wellagain, was at the hotel, the only one in the town. And whoshould I meet there but my old Cambridge ally, Fred, the lastLord Calthorpe. This event was a fruitful one, - itdetermined the plans of both of us for a year or more tocome.
　　Fred - as I shall henceforth call him - had just returnedfrom a hunting expedition in Texas, with another sportsmanwhom he had accidentally met there. This gentlemanultimately became of even more importance to me than my oldfriend. I purposely abstain from giving either his name orhis profession, for reasons which will become obvious enoughby-and-by; the outward man may be described. He stood wellover six feet in his socks; his frame and limbs were thoseof a gladiator; he could crush a horseshoe in one hand; hehad a small head with a bull-neck, purely Grecian features,thick curly hair with crisp beard and silky moustache. He soclosely resembled a marble Hercules that (as he must have aname) we will call him Samson.
　　Before Fred stumbled upon him, he had spent a winter campingout in the snows of Canada, bear and elk shooting. He wassix 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 hiscourage, though sometimes reckless, was by no means of thebrute kind. He did not run risks unless he thought the gainwould compensate them; and no one was more capable ofweighing consequences than he. His temper was admirable, hisspirits excellent; and for any enterprise where danger andhardship were to be encountered few men could have beenbetter qualified. By the end of a week these two had agreedto accompany me across the Rocky Mountains.
　　Before leaving the Havana, I witnessed an event which, thoughdisgusting 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, apologyis 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 criminalwas to be garrotted on the following morning; and asked mewhether I cared to look over the prison and see the man inhis cell that afternoon. We went together. The poor wretchbore the stamp of innate brutality. His crime was the mostrevolting that a human being is capable of - the violationand murder of a mere child. When we were first admitted hewas sullen, merely glaring at us; but, hearing the warderdescribe his crime, he became furiously abusive, and workedhimself into such a passion that, had he not been chained tothe wall, he would certainly have attacked us.
　　At half-past six next morning I went with Mr. Smith to theCampo del Marte, the principal square. The crowd had alreadyassembled, and the tops of the houses were thronged withspectators. The women, dressed as if for a bull-fight or aball, occupied the front seats. By squeezing and pushing wecontrived to get within eight or nine yards of the machine,where I had not long been before the procession was seenmoving up the Passeo. A few mounted troops were in front toclear the road; behind them came the Host, with a number ofpriests and the prisoner on foot, dressed in white; a largeguard brought up the rear. The soldiers formed an opensquare. The executioner, the culprit, and one priestascended the steps of the platform.
　　The garrotte is a short stout post, at the top of which is aniron crook, just wide enough to admit the neck of a manseated in a chair beneath it. Through the post, parallelwith the crook, is the loop of a rope, whose ends arefastened to a bar held by the executioner. The loop, beinground the throat of the victim, is so powerfully tightenedfrom behind by half a turn of the bar, that an extra twistwould sever a man's head from his body.
　　The murderer showed no signs of fear; he quietly seatedhimself, but got up again to adjust the chair and makehimself comfortable! The executioner then arranged the roperound his neck, tied his legs and his arms, and retiredbehind the post. At a word or a look from the priest thewrench was turned. For a single instant the limbs of thevictim were convulsed, and all was over.
　　No exclamation, no whisper of horror escaped from the lookerson. Such a scene was too familiar to excite any feeling butmorbid curiosity; and, had the execution taken place at theusual spot instead of in the town, few would have giventhemselves the trouble to attend it.
　　It is impossible to see or even to think of what is heredescribed without gravely meditating on its suggestions. Iscapital punishment justifiable? This is the question Ipurpose to consider in the following chapter.
Chapter 18
ALL punishments or penal remedies for crime, except capitalpunishment, may be considered from two points of view:
　　First, as they regard Society; secondly, as they regard theoffender.
　　Where capital punishment is resorted to, the sole end in viewis the protection of Society. The malefactor being put todeath, there can be no thought of his amendment. And so faras this particular criminal is concerned, Society ishenceforth in safety.
　　But (looking to the individual), as equal security could beobtained by his imprisonment for life, the extreme measure ofputting him to death needs justification. This is found inthe assumption that death being the severest of allpunishments now permissible, no other penalty is soefficacious in preventing the crime or crimes for which it isinflicted. Is the assumption borne out by facts, or byinference?
　　For facts we naturally turn to statistics. Switzerlandabolished capital punishment in 1874; but cases ofpremeditated murder having largely increased during the nextfive years, it was restored by Federal legislation in 1879.
　　Still there is nothing conclusive to be inferred from thisfact. We must seek for guidance elsewhere.
　　Reverting to the above assumption, we must ask: First, Isthe death punishment the severest of all evils, and to whatextent does the fear of it act as a preventive? Secondly, Isit true that no other punishment would serve as powerfully inpreventing murder by intimidation?
　　Is punishment by death the most dreaded of all evils? 'Thisassertion,' says Bentham, 'is true with respect to themajority of mankind; it is not true with respect to thegreatest criminals.' It is pretty certain that a malefactorsteeped in crime, living in extreme want, misery andapprehension, must, if he reflects at all, contemplate aviolent end as an imminent possibility. He has no betterfuture before him, and may easily come to look upon deathwith brutal insensibility and defiance. The indifferenceexhibited by the garrotted man getting up to adjust his chairis probably common amongst criminals of his type.
　　Again, take such a crime as that of the Cuban's: the passionwhich leads to it is the fiercest and most ungovernable whichman is subject to. Sexual jealousy also is one of the mostfrequent causes of murder. So violent is this passion thatthe victim of it is often quite prepared to sacrifice liferather than forego indulgence, or allow another to supplanthim; both men and women will gloat over the murder of arival, and gladly accept death as its penalty, rather thansurvive 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: alarge number of unfortunates of whom it may almost be saidthat they were destined to commit crimes. 'It is unhappily afact,' says Mr. Francis Galton ('Inquiries into HumanFaculty'), 'that fairly distinct types of criminals breedingtrue to their kind have become established.' And he givesextraordinary examples, which fully bear out his affirmation.
　　We may safely say that, in a very large number of cases, theworst crimes are perpetrated by beings for whom the deathpenalty has no preventive terrors.
　　But it is otherwise with the majority. Death itself, apartfrom punitive aspects, is a greater evil to those for whomlife has greater attractions. Besides this, the permanentdisgrace of capital punishment, the lasting injury to thecriminal's family and to all who are dear to him, must be farmore cogent incentives to self-control than the mere fear ofceasing to live.
　　With the criminal and most degraded class - with those whoare actuated by violent passions and hereditary taints, theclass by which most murders are committed - the deathpunishment would seem to be useless as an intimidation or anexample.
　　With the majority it is more than probable that it exercisesa strong and beneficial influence. As no mere socialdistinction can eradicate innate instincts, there must be alarge proportion of the majority, the better-to-do, who areboth occasionally and habitually subject to criminalpropensities, and who shall say how many of these arerestrained from the worst of crimes by fear of capitalpunishment and its consequences?
　　On these grounds, if they be not fallacious, the retention ofcapital punishment may be justified.
　　Secondly. Is the assumption tenable that no other penaltymakes so strong an impression or is so pre-eminentlyexemplary? Bentham thus answers the question: 'It appearsto me that the contemplation of perpetual imprisonment,accompanied with hard labour and occasional solitaryconfinement, would produce a deeper impression on the mindsof persons in whom it is more eminently desirable that thatimpression should be produced than even death itself. . . .
　　All that renders death less formidable to them renderslaborious restraint proportionably more irksome.' There isdoubtless a certain measure of truth in these remarks. ButBentham is here speaking of the degraded class; and is itlikely that such would reflect seriously upon what they neversee and only know by hearsay? Think how feeble are theirpowers of imagination and reflection, how little they wouldbe impressed by such additional seventies as 'occasionalsolitary confinement,' the occurrence and the effects ofwhich would be known to no one outside the jail.
　　As to the 'majority,' the higher classes, the fact that menare often imprisoned for offences - political and others -which they are proud to suffer for, would always attenuatethe ignominy attached to 'imprisonment.' And were this theonly penalty for all crimes, for first-class misdemeanantsand for the most atrocious of criminals alike, thedistinction would not be very finely drawn by the interested;at the most, the severest treatment as an alternative tocapital punishment would always savour of extenuatingcircumstances.
　　There remain two other points of view from which the questionhas to be considered: one is what may be called theVindictive, the other, directly opposed to it, theSentimental argument. The first may be dismissed with a wordor two. In civilised countries torture is for everabrogated; and with it, let us hope, the idea of judicialvengeance.
　　The LEX TALIONIS - the Levitic law - 'Eye for eye, tooth fortooth,' is befitting only for savages. Unfortunately theChristian religion still promulgates and passionately clingsto the belief in Hell as a place or state of everlastingtorment - that is to say, of eternal torture inflicted for noultimate end save that of implacable vengeance. Of all themiserable superstitions ever hatched by the brain of manthis, as indicative of its barbarous origin, is the mostdegrading. As an ordinance ascribed to a Being worshipped asjust and beneficent, it is blasphemous.
　　The Sentimental argument, like all arguments based uponfeeling rather than reason, though not without merit, isfraught with mischief which far outweighs it. There arealways a number of people in the world who refer to theirfeelings as the highest human tribunal. When the reasoningfaculty is not very strong, the process of ratiocinationirksome, and the issue perhaps unacceptable, this courseaffords a convenient solution to many a complicated problem.
　　It commends itself, moreover, to those who adopt it, by thesense of chivalry which it involves. There is somethinggenerous and noble, albeit quixotic, in siding with the weak,even if they be in the wrong. There is something charitablein the judgment, 'Oh! poor creature, think of his adversecircumstances, his ignorance, his temptation. Let us bemerciful and forgiving.' In practice, however, this oftenleads astray. Thus in most cases, even where premeditatedmurder is proved to the hilt, the sympathy of thesentimentalist is invariably with the murderer, to thecomplete oblivion of the victim's family.
　　Bentham, speaking of the humanity plea, thus words itsargument: 'Attend not to the sophistries of reason, whichoften deceive, but be governed by your hearts, which willalways lead you right. I reject without hesitation thepunishment you propose: it violates natural feelings, itharrows 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 repugnantto the feelings of a humane heart, and, if consistent, youabolish the whole penal code. There is not one of itsprovisions that does not, in a more or less painful degree,wound the sensibility.'
　　As this writer elsewhere observes: 'It is only a virtue whenjustice has done its work, &c. Before this, to forgiveinjuries is to invite their perpetration - is to be, not thefriend, but the enemy of society. What could wickednessdesire more than an arrangement by which offences should bealways followed by pardon?'
　　Sentiment is the ULTIMA RATIO FEMINARUM, and of men whosenatures are of the epicene gender. It is a luxury we mustforego in the face of the stern duties which evil compels usto encounter.
　　There is only one other argument against capital punishmentthat is worth considering.
　　The objection so strenuously pleaded by Dickens in hisletters to the 'Times' - viz. the brutalising effects uponthe degraded crowds which witnessed public executions - is nolonger apposite. But it may still be urged with no littleforce that the extreme severity of the sentence induces allconcerned in the conviction of the accused to shirk theresponsibility. Informers, prosecutors, witnesses, judges,and jurymen are, as a rule, liable to reluctance as to theperformance of their respective parts in the melancholydrama.' 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, thesame person would have been found guilty.
　　Much might be said on either side, but on the whole it wouldseem 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 19
WE were nearly six weeks in the Havana, being detained byLord Durham's illness. I provided myself with a capitalSpanish master, and made the most of him. This, as it turnedout, proved very useful to me in the course of my futuretravels. About the middle of March we left for Charlestownin the steamer ISABEL, and thence on to New York. On thepassage to Charlestown, we were amused one evening by thetricks of a conjuror. I had seen the man and his wifeperform at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly. She was called the'Mysterious Lady.' The papers were full of speculations asto the nature of the mystery. It was the town talk andexcitement of the season.
　　This was the trick. The lady sat in the corner of a largeroom, facing the wall, with her eyes bandaged. The companywere seated as far as possible from her. Anyone was invitedto write a few words on a slip of paper, and hand it to theman, who walked amongst the spectators. He would simply sayto the woman 'What has the gentleman (or lady) written uponthis 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 figuresbeing, as they always are, very minute. The man repeated thequestion: '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, andasked for a description of the figures in relief. There wasa pause. The woman was evidently perplexed. She confessedat last that she was unable to answer. The spectatorsmurmured. My friend began to laugh. The conjuror's breadwas at stake, but he was equal to the occasion. He at onceexplained to the company that the cameo represented 'Leederand the Swan in a hambigious position, which the lady didn'tprofess to know nothing about.' This apology, needless tosay, completely re-established the lady's character.
　　Well, recognising my friend of the Egyptian Hall, I remindedhim of the incident. He remembered it perfectly; and we fellto chatting about the wonderful success of the 'mystery,' andabout his and the lady's professional career. He had begunlife when a boy as a street acrobat, had become a streetconjuror, had married the 'mysterious lady' out of the 'saw-dust,' as he expressed it - meaning out of a travellingcircus. After that, 'things had gone 'ard' with them. Theyhad exhausted their resources in every sense. One night,lying awake, and straining their brains to devise some meansof subsistence, his wife suddenly exclaimed, 'How would it beif we were to try so and so?' explaining the trick justdescribed. His answer was: 'Oh! that's too silly. They'dsee through it directly.' This was all I could get out ofhim: this, and the fact that the trick, first and last, hadmade them fairly comfortable for the rest of their days.
　　Now mark what follows, for it is the gist and moral of mylittle story about this conjuror, and about two other miracleworkers whom I have to speak of presently.
　　Once upon a time, I was discussing with an acquaintance thenot unfamiliar question of Immortality. I professedAgnosticism - strongly impregnated with incredulity. Myfriend had no misgivings, no doubts on the subject whatever.
　　Absolute certainty is the prerogative of the orthodox. Hehad taken University honours, and was a man of high positionat the Bar. I was curious to learn upon what grounds such anone based his belief. His answer was: 'Upon the phenomenaof electro-biology, and the psychic phenomena of mesmerism.'
　　His 'first convictions were established by the manifestationsof the soul as displayed through a woman called "TheMysterious Lady," who, &c., &c.'
　　When we have done with our thaumaturgist on board the ISABEL,I will give another instance, precisely similar to this, ofthe simple origin of religious beliefs.
　　The steamer was pretty full; and the conjuror begged me toobtain the patronage of my noble friend and the rest of ourparty for an entertainment he proposed to give that evening.
　　This was easily secured, and a goodly sum was raised bydollar tickets. The sleight-of-hand was excellent. But thespecial performance of the evening deserves description infull. It was that of a whist-playing dog. Three passengers- one of us taking a hand - played as in dummy whist, dummy'shand being spread in a long row upon the deck of the salooncabin. The conjuror, as did the other passengers, walkedabout behind the players, and saw all the players' hands, butnot a word was spoken. The dog played dummy's hand. When itcame to his turn he trotted backwards and forwards, smellingeach card that had been dealt to him. He sometimeshesitated, then comically shaking his head, would leave it tosmell another. The conjuror stood behind the dog's partner,and never went near the animal. There was no table - thecards were thrown on the deck. They were dealt by theplayers; the conjuror never touched them. When the dog'smind was made up, he took his card in his mouth and laid iton the others. His play was infallible. He and his partnerwon the rubber with ease.
　　Now, to those ignorant of the solution, this must, I think,seem inexplicable. How was collusion managed between theanimal and its master? One of the conditions insisted uponby the master himself was silence. He certainly never brokeit. I bought the trick - must I confess it? for twentydollars. How transparent most things are when - seenthrough! 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 alonecould hear it, and played the card accordingly.
　　The other story: A few years after my return to England, agreat friend called upon me, and, in an excited state,described a SEANCE he had had with a woman who possessed thepower of 'invoking' spirits. These spirits had correctlyreplied to questions, the answers to which were only known tohimself. The woman was an American. I am sorry to say Ihave forgotten her name, but I think she was the first of hertribe to visit this country. As in the case spoken of, myfriend was much affected by the results of the SEANCE. Hewas a well-educated and intelligent man. Born to wealth, hehad led a somewhat wildish life in his youth. Henceforth hebecame 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 CharlotteStreet, Fitzroy Square; but on the day after the morrow shewas to change her lodgings to Queen Anne Street, where shewould receive me at 11 A.M. I was punctual to a minute, andwas shown into an ordinary furnished room. The maid informedme that Mrs. - had not yet arrived from Charlotte Street, butshe 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 towork to examine the room and the furniture with the greatestcare. I looked under and moved the sofa, tables, andarmchairs. I looked behind the curtains, under the rug, andup the chimney. I could discover nothing. There was not thevestige of a spirit anywhere. At last the medium entered - aplain, middle-aged matron with nothing the least spiritualabout her. She seated herself opposite to me at the roundtable in the centre of the room, and demurely asked what Iwanted. 'To communicate with the spirits,' I replied. Shedid not know whether that was possible. It depended upon theperson who sought them. She would ask the spirits whetherthey would confer with me. Whereupon she put the question:
　　'Will the spirits converse with this gentleman?' At allevents, thought I, the term 'gentleman' applies to the nextworld, 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 printedthe alphabet, and numerals up to 10. The letters wereseparated by transverse lines. She gave me a pencil withthese 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, thespirits would rap, and the words could be written down.
　　My friend had told me this much, so I came prepared. I beganby politely begging the lady to move away from the table atwhich we were seated, and take a chair in the furthest cornerof the room. She indignantly complied, asking if I suspectedher. I replied that 'all ladies were dangerous, when theywere charming,' which put us on the best of terms. I placedmy hat so as to intercept her view of my operations, and thuspursued them.
　　Thinking the matter over beforehand, I concluded that whenthe questioner, of either sex, was young, love would veryprobably be the topic; the flesh, not the spirit, would bethe predominant interest. Being an ingenuous young man ofthe average sort, and desperately in love with Susan, let ussay, I should naturally assist the supernatural being, if ata loss, to understand that the one thing wanted wasinformation about Susan. I therefore mentally asked thequestion: 'Who is the most lovely angel without wings, andwith the means of sitting down?' and proceeded to pass thepencil over the letters, pausing nowhere. I now and then gota doubtful rap on or under the table, - how delivered I knownot - but signifying nothing. It was clear the spiritsneeded a cue. I put the pencil on the letter S, and kept itthere. I got a tentative rap. I passed at once to U. I gota more confident rap. Then to S. Rap, rap, withouthesitation. A and N were assented to almost before I touchedthem. Susan was an angel - the angel. What more logicalproof could I have of the immortality of the soul?
　　Mrs. - asked me whether I was satisfied. I said it wasmiraculous; so much so indeed, that I could hardly believethe miracle, until corroborated by another. Would thespirits be kind enough to suspend this pencil in the air?
　　'Oh! that was nonsense. The spirits never lent themselves tomere frivolity.' 'I beg the spirits' pardon, I am sure,'
　　said I. 'I have heard that they often move heavy tables. Ithought perhaps the pencil would save them trouble. Willthey move this round table up to this little one?' I had, beit observed, when alone, moved and changed the relativepositions of both tables; and had determined to make this mycrucial test. To my astonishment, Mrs. - replied that shecould 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 thecorner. I watched everything. Nothing happened. After awhile, I took out my watch, and said: 'I fear the spirits donot intend to keep their word. I have an appointment twentyminutes hence, and can only give them ten minutes more.' Shecalmly replied she had nothing to do with it. I had heardwhat the spirits said. I had better wait a little longer.
　　Scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when the table gavea distinct crack, as if about to start. The medium instantlycalled my attention to it. I jumped out of my seat, passedbetween the two tables, when of a sudden the large tablemoved in the direction of the smaller one, and did not stoptill it had pushed the little one over. I make no comments.
　　No explanation to me is conceivable. I simply narrate whathappened as accurately as I am able.
　　One other case deserves to be added to the above. I haveconnected both of the foregoing with religious persuasions.
　　The SEANCE I am about to speak of was for the express purposeof bringing a brokenhearted and widowed mother intocommunication with the soul of her only son - a young artistof genius whom I had known, and who had died about a yearbefore. The occasion was, of course, a solemn one. Theinterest of it was enhanced by the presence of the greatapostle of Spiritualism - Sir William Crookes. The mediumwas Miss Kate Fox, again an American. The SEANCE took placein the house of a very old friend of mine, the late Dr.
　　George Bird. He had spiritualistic tendencies, but wassupremely honest and single-minded; utterly incapable ofconnivance with deception of any kind. As far as I know, themedium had never been in the room before. The companypresent were Dr. Bird's intimate friend Sir William Crookes -future President of the Royal Society - Miss Bird, Dr. Bird'sdaughter, and her husband - Mr. Ionides - and Mrs. -, themother of the young artist. The room, a large one, wasdarkened; the last light being extinguished after we hadtaken our places round the dining-table. We were strenuouslyenjoined to hold one another's hands. Unless we did so theSEANCE would fail.
　　Before entering the room, I secretly arranged with Mr.
　　Ionides, who shared my scepticism, that we should sit side byside; and so each have one hand free. It is not necessary torelate what passed between the unhappy mother and the medium,suffice it to say that she put questions to her son; and themedium interpreted the rappings which came in reply. These,I believe, were all the poor lady could wish for. To therest of us, the astounding events of the SEANCE were the dimlights, accompanied by faint sounds of an accordion, whichfloated about the room over our heads. And now comes, to me,the strangest part of the whole performance. All the while Ikept my right arm extended under the table, moving my hand toand fro. Presently it touched something. I make a grab, andcaught, but could not hold for an instant, another hand. Itwas 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 biassedone. But those acquainted with the charlatanry in these daysof what is called 'Christian Science,' and know the extent towhich crass ignorance and predisposed credulity can be dupedby childish delusions, may have some 'idea how acute was thespirit-rapping epidemic some forty or fifty years ago. 'Atthis moment,' writes Froude, in 'Fraser's Magazine,' 1863,'we are beset with reports of conversations with spirits, oftables miraculously lifted, of hands projecting out of theworld of shadows into this mortal life. An unusually able,accomplished person, accustomed to deal with common-sensefacts, a celebrated political economist, and notorious forbusiness-like habits, assured this writer that a certainmesmerist, who was my informer's intimate friend, had raiseda dead girl to life.' Can we wonder that miracles are stillbelieved in? Ah! no. The need, the dire need, of themremains, and will remain with us for ever.
Chapter 20
WE must move on; we have a long and rough journey before us.
　　Durham had old friends in New York, Fred Calthorpe hadletters to Colonel Fremont, who was then a candidate for thePresidency, and who had discovered the South Pass; and Mr.
　　Ellice had given me a letter to John Jacob Astor - THEAmerican millionaire of that day. We were thus well providedwith introductions; and nothing could exceed the kindness andhospitality of our American friends.
　　But time was precious. It was already mid May, and we hadeverything to get - wagons, horses, men, mules, andprovisions. So that we were anxious not to waste a day, buthurry on to St. Louis as fast as we could. Durham was tooill to go with us. Phoca had never intended to do so. Fred,Samson, and I, took leave of our companions, and travellingvia the Hudson to Albany, Buffalo, down Lake Erie, and acrossto Chicago, we reached St. Louis in about eight days. As asingle illustration of what this meant before railroads,Samson and I, having to stop a day at Chicago, hired a buggyand drove into the neighbouring woods, or wilderness, to huntfor wild turkeys.
　　Our outfit, the whole of which we got at St. Louis, consistedof two heavy wagons, nine mules, and eight horses. We hiredeight men, on the nominal understanding that they were to gowith us as far as the Rocky Mountains on a huntingexpedition. 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 thestory, but merely give a summary of the undertaking, with afew of the more striking incidents to show what travellingacross unknown America entailed fifty or sixty years ago.
　　A steamer took us up the Missouri to Omaha. Here wedisembarked on the confines of occupied territory. From nearthis point, where the Platte river empties into the Missouri,to the mouth of the Columbia, on the Pacific - which weultimately reached - is at least 1,500 miles as the crowflies; for us (as we had to follow watercourses and avoidimpassable ridges) it was very much more. Some five-and-forty miles from our starting-place we passed a small villagecalled Savannah. Between it and Vancouver there was not asingle white man's abode, with the exception of three tradingstations - mere mud buildings - Fort Laramie, Fort Hall, andFort Boise.
　　The vast prairies on this side of the Rocky Mountains weregrazed by herds of countless bison, wapiti, antelope, anddeer of various species. These were hunted by moving tribesof 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 ahuge rocky desert of volcanic debris, where hardly anyvegetation was to be met with, save artemisia - a species ofwormwood - scanty blades of gramma grass, and occasionalosiers by river-banks. The rivers themselves often ranthrough canons or gulches, so deep that one might travel fordays within a hundred feet of water yet perish (some of ouranimals did so) for the want of a drop to drink. Game washere very scarce - a few antelope, wolves, and abundance ofrattlesnakes, were nearly the only living things we saw. TheIndians were mainly fishers of the Shoshone - or Great SnakeRiver - tribe, feeding mostly on salmon, which they spearedwith marvellous dexterity; and Root-diggers, who live uponwild roots. When hard put to it, however, in winter, thelatter miserable creatures certainly, if not the former,devoured their own children. There was no map of thecountry. It was entirely unexplored; in fact, Bancroft theAmerican historian, in his description of the Indian tribes,quotes my account of the Root-diggers; which shows how littlewas known of this region up to this date. I carried a smallcompass fastened round my neck. That and the stars (wetravelled by night when in the vicinity of Indians) were myonly 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 youthand ignorance could have cajoled us to face it with heedlessconfidence and eager zest. These conditions given, withhealth - the one essential of all enjoyment - added, thefirst escape from civilised restraint, the first survey ofprimordial nature as seen in the boundless expanse of theopen prairie, the habitat of wild men and wild animals, -exhilarate one with emotions akin to the schoolboy's rapturein the playground, and the thoughtful man's contemplation ofthe stars. Freedom and change, space and the possibilitiesof the unknown, these are constant elements of our day-dreams; now and then actual life dangles visions of thembefore our eyes, alas! only to teach us that the aspirationswhich 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 picnicfor all hands. It was a pleasure to be obliged to help toset up the tents, to cut wood, to fetch water, to harness themules, and work exactly as the paid men worked. The equalityin this respect - that everything each wanted done had to bedone with his own hands - was perfect; and never, from firstto last, even when starvation left me bare strength to liftthe saddle on to my horse, did I regret the necessity, ordesire to be dependent on another man. But the bloom soonwore off the plum; and the pleasure consisted not in doingbut in resting when the work was done.
　　For the reason already stated, a sample only of the dailylabour will be given. It may be as well first to bestow afew words upon the men; for, in the long run, our fellowbeings are the powerful factors, for good or ill, in all ourworldly enterprises.
　　We had two ordinary mule-drivers - Potter and Morris, alittle acrobat out of a travelling circus, a METIF or half-breed Indian named Jim, two French Canadians - Nelson andLouis (the latter spoke French only); Jacob, a Pennsylvanianauctioneer whose language was a mixture of Dutch, Yankee, andGerman; and (after we reached Fort Laramie) another Nelson -'William' as I shall call him - who offered his servicesgratis if we would allow him to go with us to California.
　　Jacob the Dutch Yankee was the most intelligent and the mostuseful of the lot, and was unanimously elected cook for theparty. The Canadian Nelson was a hard-working good youngfellow, with a passionate temper. Louis was a hunter byprofession, Gallic to the tip of his moustache - fond ofslapping his breast and telling of the mighty deeds of NOUSAUTRES EN HAUT. Jim, the half-breed was Indian by nature -idle, silent, treacherous, but a crafty hunter. Williamdeserves special mention, not from any idiosyncrasy of theman, but because he was concerned soon after he joined us inthe most disastrous of my adventures throughout theexpedition.
　　To look at, William Nelson might have sat for the portrait ofLeatherstocking. He was a tall gaunt man who had spent hisyouth bringing rafts of timber down the Wabash river, fromFort Wayne to Maumee, in Ohio. For the last six years (hewas three-and-thirty) he had been trapping musk rats andbeaver, and dealing in pelts generally. At the time of ourmeeting he was engaged to a Miss Mary something - thedaughter of an English immigrant, who would not consent tothe marriage until William was better off. He was now boundfor 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 tolast to California. We also had enough unnecessaries tobring us to grief in a couple of weeks. Our wagons wereloaded to the roof. And seeing there was no road nor so muchas a track, that there were frequent swamps and small riversto be crossed, that our Comanche mules were wilder than theIndians who had owned them, it may easily be believed thatour rate of progress did not average more than six or sevenmiles a day; sometimes it took from dawn to dusk to cross astream by ferrying our packages, and emptied wagons, on suchrafts as could be extemporised. Before the end of afortnight, both wagons were shattered, wheels smashed, andaxles irreparable. The men, who were as refractory as theother animals, helped themselves to provisions, tobacco andwhisky, at their own sweet will, and treated ourremonstrances with resentment and contempt.
　　Heroic measures were exigent. The wagons were broken up andconverted into pack saddles. Both tents, masses ofprovisions, 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 wastetheir sweetness on the desert soil. Not one of us had everpacked a saddle before; and certainly not one of the muleshad 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 hadto unpack and repack our remaining impedimenta in payment forthe indulgence.
　　Let me cite a page from my diary. It is a fair specimen ofscores of similar entries.
　　'JUNE 24TH. - My morning watch. Up at 1 A.M. Roused the menat 3.30. Off at 7.30. Rained hard all day. Packs slippedor 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 hisknife and nearly stabbed Louis. I snatched a pistol out ofmy holster, and threatened to shoot Nelson unless he shut up.
　　Fred, of course, laughed obstreperously at the notion of mycommitting 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 wewere all in Hell, and didn't know it. It took four men topack each one; and the moment their heads were loosed, awaythey went into the river, over the hills, and across countryas hard as they could lay legs to ground. It was a cheerfulsight! - the flour and biscuit stuff swimming about in thestream, the hams in a ditch full of mud, the trailed pots andpans bumping and rattling on the ground until they were asshapeless as old wide-awakes. And, worst of all, the pack-saddles, which had delayed us a week to make - nothing nowbut a bundle of splinters.
　　'25TH. - What a night! A fearful storm broke over us. Allround was like a lake. Fred and I sat, back to back, perchedon a flour bag till daylight, with no covering but ourshooting jackets, our feet in a pool, and bodies streaminglike cascades. Repeated lightning seemed to strike theground within a few yards of us. The animals, wild withterror, stampeded in all directions. In the morning, lo andbehold! 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 thewolves, which are plentiful. This is the third time he hasserved us the same trick. I took the liberty to ram my heelthrough the whisky keg (we have kept a small one foremergencies) and put it empty under his head for a pillow.'
　　There were plenty of days and nights to match these, butthere were worse in store for us.
　　One evening, travelling along the North Platte river, beforereaching Laramie, we overtook a Mormon family on their way toSalt Lake city. They had a light covered wagon with hardlyanything in it but a small supply of flour and bacon. It wasdrawn by four oxen and two cows. Four milch cows weredriven. The man's name was Blazzard - a Yorkshireman fromthe Wolds, whose speech was that of Learoyd. He had only hiswife and a very pretty daughter of sixteen or seventeen withhim. We asked him how he became a Mormon. He answered:
　　'From conviction,' and entreated us to be baptized in thetrue faith at his hands. The offer was tempting, for thepretty little milkmaid might have become one of one's wiveson the spot. In truth the sweet nymph urged conversion morepersuasively than her papa - though with what views who shallsay? The old farmer's acquaintance with the Bible wasremarkable. He quoted it at every sentence, and was eloquentupon the subject of the meaning and the origin of the word'Bible.' He assured us the name was given to the Holy Bookfrom the circumstance of its contents having passed a synodof prophets, just as an Act of Parliament passes the House ofCommons - BY BILL. Hence its title. It was this historicalfact that guaranteed the authenticity of the sacred volume.
　　There are various reasons for believing - this is one ofthem.
　　The next day, being Sunday, was spent in sleep. In theafternoon I helped the Yorkshire lassie to herd her cattle,which had strayed a long distance amongst the rank herbage bythe banks of the Platte. The heat was intense, well over 120in the sun; and the mosquitos rose in clouds at every step inthe wet grass. It was an easy job for me, on my little grey,to gallop after the cows and drive them home, (it would havebeen a wearisome one for her,) and she was very grateful, andplayed Dorothea to my Hermann. None of our party wore anyupper clothing except a flannel shirt; I had cut off thesleeves of mine at the elbow. This was better for roughwork, but the broiling sun had raised big blisters on my armsand throat which were very painful. When we got back tocamp, Dorothea laved the burns for me with cool milk. Ah!
　　she was very pretty; and, what 'blackguard' Heine, asCarlyle dubs him, would have called 'naive schmutzig.' Whenwe parted next morning I thought with a sigh that before theautumn was over, she would be in the seraglio of Mr. BrighamYoung; who, Artemus Ward used to say, was 'the most marriedman he ever knew.'
Chapter 21
SPORT had been the final cause of my trip to America - sportand the love of adventure. As the bison - buffalo, as theyare called - are now extinct, except in preserved districts,a few words about them as they then were may interest gamehunters of the present day.
　　No description could convey an adequate conception of thenumbers in which they congregated. The admirableillustrations in Catlin's great work on the North AmericanIndians, afford the best idea to those who have never seenthe wonderful sight itself. The districts they frequentedwere vast sandy uplands sparsely covered with the tuftybuffalo or gramma grass. These regions were always withinreach of the water-courses; to which morning and evening theherds descended by paths, after the manner of sheep or cattlein a pasture. Never shall I forget the first time Iwitnessed the extraordinary event of the evening drink.
　　Seeing the black masses galloping down towards the river, bythe banks of which our party were travelling, we halted somehundred yards short of the tracks. To have been caughtamongst the animals would have been destruction; for, do whatthey would to get out of one's way, the weight of thethousands pushing on would have crushed anything that impededthem. On the occasion I refer to we approached to withinsafe distance, and fired into them till the ammunition in ourpouches was expended.
　　As examples of our sporting exploits, three days taken almostat random will suffice. The season was so far advanced that,unless we were to winter at Fort Laramie, it was necessary tokeep going. It was therefore agreed that whoever left theline of march - that is, the vicinity of the North Platte -for the purpose of hunting should take his chance of catchingup the rest of the party, who were to push on as speedily aspossible. On two of the days which I am about to record thisrule nearly brought me into trouble. I quote from myjournal:
　　'Left camp to hunt by self. Got a shot at some deer lying inlong grass on banks of a stream. While stalking, I couldhardly see or breathe for mosquitos; they were in my eyes,nose, and mouth. Steady aim was impossible; and, to mydisgust, I missed the easiest of shots. The neck and flanksof my little grey are as red as if painted. He is weak fromloss of blood. Fred's head is now so swollen he cannot wearhis hard hat; his eyes are bunged up, and his face is comicto look at. Several deer and antelopes; but ground toolevel, and game too wild to let one near. Hardly caring whatdirection I took, followed outskirts of large wood, four orfive miles away from the river. Saw a good many summerlodges; but knew, by the quantity of game, that the Indianshad deserted them. In the afternoon came suddenly upon deer;and singling out one of the youngest fawns, tried to run itdown. The country being very rough, I found it hard work tokeep between it and the wood. First, my hat blew off; then apistol jumped out of the holster; but I was too near to giveup, - meaning to return for these things afterwards. Two orthree times I ran right over the fawn, which bleated in themost piteous manner, but always escaped the death-blow fromthe grey's hoofs. By degrees we edged nearer to the thicket,when the fawn darted down the side of a bluff, and was lostin the long grass and brushwood, I followed at full speed;but, unable to arrest the impetus of the horse, we dashedheadlong into the thick scrub, and were both thrown withviolence to the ground. I was none the worse; but the poorbeast had badly hurt his shoulder, and for the time was deadlame.
　　'For an hour at least I hunted, for my pistol. It was muchmore to me than my hat. It was a huge horse pistol, thatthrew an ounce ball of exactly the calibre of my doublerifle. I had shot several buffaloes with it, by riding closeto them in a chase; and when in danger of Indians I loaded itwith slugs. At last I found it. It was getting late; and Ididn't rightly know where I was. I made for the low country.
　　But as we camped last night at least two miles from theriver, on account of the swamps, the difficulty was to findthe tracks. The poor little grey and I hunted for it invain. 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 orthree days before I again fell in with my friends. I had nottouched 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, withdiminished chance of overtaking it. Through the dusk I sawwhat I fancied was something moving on a mound ahead of mewhich arose out of the surrounding swamp. I spurred on, butonly to find the putrid carcase of a buffalo, with a wolfsupping on it. The brute was gorged, and looked as sleek as"die schone Frau Giermund"; but, unlike Isegrim's spouse, shewas free to escape, for she wasn't worth a bullet. I was sofamished, that I examined the carcase with the hope offinding a cut that would last for a day or two; my nosewouldn't have it. I plodded on, the water up to the saddle-girths. The mosquitos swarmed in millions, and the poorlittle grey could hardly get one leg before the other. I,too, was so feverish that, ignorant of bacteria, I filled myround hat with the filthy stagnant water, and drank it at adraught.
　　'At last I made for higher ground. It was too dark to huntfor tracks, so I began to look out for a level bed. Suddenlymy beast, who jogged along with his nose to the ground, gavea loud neigh. We had struck the trail. I threw the reins onhis neck, and left matters to his superior instincts. Inless than half an hour the joyful light of a camp firegladdened my eyes. Fred told me he had halted as soon as hewas able, not on my account only, but because he, too, hadhad a severe fall, and was suffering great pain from abruised knee.'
　　Here is an ordinary example of buffalo shooting:
　　'JULY 2ND. - Fresh meat much wanted. With Jim the half-breedto the hills. No sooner on high ground than we sighted game.
　　As far as eye could reach, right away to the horizon, theplain 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 wepicketed our horses under the sky line; and choosing thehollows, walked on till crawling became expedient. As istheir wont, the outsiders were posted on bluffs or knolls ina commanding position; these were old bulls. To myinexperience, our chance of getting a shot seemed small; forwe had to cross the dipping ground under the brow whereon thesentinels were lying. Three extra difficulties beset us -the prairie dogs (a marmot, so called from its dog-like barkwhen disturbed) were all round us, and bolted into theirholes like rabbits directly they saw us coming; two big greywolves, the regular camp followers of a herd, were prowlingabout in a direct line between us and the bulls; lastly, thecows, though up and feeding, were inconveniently out ofreach. (The meat of the young cow is much preferred to thatof the bull.) Jim, however, was confident. I followed myleader to a wink. The only instruction I didn't like when westarted crawling on the hot sand was "Look out forrattlesnakes."'The wolves stopped, examined us suspiciously, then quietlytrotted off. What with this and the alarm of the prairiedogs, an old bull, a patriarch of the tribe, jumped up andwalked with majestic paces to the top of the knoll. We layflat on our faces, till he, satisfied with the result of hisscrutiny, resumed his recumbent posture; but with his headturned straight towards us. Jim, to my surprise, stealthilycrawled on. In another minute or two we had gained a pointwhence we could see through the grass without being seen.
　　Here we rested to recover breath. Meanwhile, three or fouryoung cows fed to within sixty or seventy yards of us.
　　Unluckily we both selected the same animal, and both fired atthe same moment. Off went the lot helter skelter, all savethe old bull, who roared out his rage and trotted up close toour hiding place.
　　'"Look out for a bolt," whispered Jim, "but don't showyourself nohow till I tell you."'For a minute or two the suspense was exciting. One hardlydared to breathe. But his majesty saw us not, and turnedagain to his wives. We instantly reloaded; and the startledherd, which had only moved a few yards, gave us the chance ofa second shot. The first cow had fallen dead almost whereshe stood. The second we found at the foot of the hill, alsowith two bullet wounds behind the shoulder. The tongues,humps, and tender loins, with some other choice morsels, weresoon cut off and packed, and we returned to camp with a grandsupply of beef for Jacob's larder.
Chapter 22
AT the risk of being tedious, I will tell of one more day'sbuffalo hunting, to show the vicissitudes of this kind ofsport. Before doing so we will glance at another importantfeature of prairie life, a camp of Sioux Indians.
　　One evening, after halting on the banks of the Platte, weheard distant sounds of tomtoms on the other side of theriver. Jim, the half-breed, and Louis differed as to thetribe, and hence the friendliness or hostility, of ourneighbours. Louis advised saddling up and putting the nightbetween us; he regaled us to boot with a few blood-curdlingtales of Indian tortures, and of NOUS AUTRES EN HAUT. Jimtreated these with scorn, and declared he knew by the 'tunes'
　　(!) that the pow-wow was Sioux. Just now, he asserted, theSioux were friendly, and this 'village' was on its way toFort Laramie to barter 'robes' (buffalo skins) for blanketsand ammunition. He was quite willing to go over and talk tothem if we had no objection.
　　Fred, ever ready for adventure, would have joined him in aminute; but the river, which was running strong, was full ofnasty currents, and his injured knee disabled him fromswimming. No one else seemed tempted; so, following Jim'sexample, I stripped to my flannel shirt and moccasins, andcrossed the river, which was easier to get into than out of,and soon reached the 'village.' Jim was right, - they wereSioux, and friendly. They offered us a pipe of kinik (thedried bark of the red willow), and jabbered away with theirkinsman, who seemed almost more at home with them than withus.
　　Seeing one of their 'braves' with three fresh scalps at hisbelt, I asked for the history of them. In Sioux gutturalsthe story was a long one. Jim's translation amounted tothis: 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'sranges. But the Ponkaw, whom he would not otherwise haveinjured, was casually met by him on a horse which the Siouxrecognised for a white man's. Upon being questioned how hecame by it, the Ponkaw simply replied that it was his own.
　　Whereupon the Sioux called him a liar; and proved it bysending an arrow through his body.
　　I didn't quite see it. But then, strictly speaking, I am nocollector of scalps. To preserve my own, I kept the hair onit 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 enoughto hold a dozen people. The ground inside was covered withbuffalo robes; and the sewn skins, spread tight upon theconverging poles, formed a tent stout enough to defy allweathers. In winter the lodge can be entirely closed; andwhen a fire is kindled in the centre, the smoke escaping at asmall hole where the poles join, the snugness is complete.
　　At the entrance of one of these lodges I watched a squaw andher child prepare a meal. When the fuel was collected, a fatpuppy, playing with the child, was seized by the squaw, andknocked on the throat - not head - with a stick. The puppywas then returned, kicking, to the tender mercies of theinfant; who exerted its small might to add to the animal'smiseries, while the mother fed the fire and filled a kettlefor the stew. The puppy, much more alive than dead, was heldby the hind leg over the flames as long as the squaw'sfingers could stand them. She then let it fall on theembers, where it struggled and squealed horribly, and wouldhave wriggled off, but for the little savage, who took goodcare to provide for the satisfactory singeing of itsplaymate.
　　Considering the length of its lineage, how remarkably haleand well preserved is our own barbarity!
　　We may now take our last look at the buffaloes, for we shallsee them no more. Again I quote my journal:
　　'JULY 5TH. - Men sulky because they have nothing to eat butrancid ham, and biscuit dust which has been so often soakedthat it is mouldy and sour. They are a dainty lot! Samsonand I left camp early with the hopes of getting meat. Whilehe was shooting prairie dogs his horse made off, and cost menearly an hour's riding to catch. Then, accidentally lettinggo of my mustang, he too escaped; and I had to run him downwith the other. Towards evening, spied a small band ofbuffaloes, which we approached by leading our horses up ahollow. They got our wind, however, and were gone before wewere aware of it. They were all young, and so fast, it tooka twenty minutes' gallop to come up with them. Samson'shorse put his foot in a hole, and the cropper they both gotgave the band a long start, as it became a stern chase, andno heading off.
　　'At length I managed to separate one from the herd by firingmy pistol into the "brown," and then devoted my efforts tohim alone. Once or twice he turned and glared savagelythrough his mane. When quite isolated he pulled up short, sodid I. We were about sixty yards apart. I flung the reinsupon the neck of the mustang, who was too blown to stir, andhandling my rifle, waited for the bull to move so that Imight see something more than the great shaggy front, whichscreened his body. But he stood his ground, tossing up thesand with his hoofs. Presently, instead of turning tail, heput his head down, and bellowing with rage, came at me ashard as he could tear. I had but a moment for decision, - todig spurs into the mustang, or risk the shot. I chose thelatter; paused till I was sure of his neck, and fired when hewas almost under me. In an instant I was sent flying; andthe mustang was on his back with all four legs in the air.
　　'The bull was probably as much astonished as we were. Hischarge had carried him about thirty yards, at most, beyondus. There he now stood; facing me, pawing the ground andsnorting as before. Badly wounded I knew him to be, - thatwas the worst of it; especially as my rifle, with itsremaining loaded barrel, lay right between us. To hesitatefor a second only, was to lose the game. There was no timeto think of bruises; I crawled, eyes on him, straight for myweapon: got it - it was already cocked, and the stockunbroken - raised my knee for a rest. We were only twentyyards apart (the shot meant death for one of the two), andjust catching a glimpse of his shoulder-blade, I pulled. Icould hear the thud of the heavy bullet, and - what wassweeter music - the ugh! of the fatal groan. The beastdropped on his knees, and a gush of blood spurted from hisnostrils.
　　'But the wild devil of a mustang? that was my first thoughtnow. Whenever one dismounted, it was necessary to loosen hislong lariat, and let it trail on the ground. Without thisthere was no chance of catching him. I saw at once what hadhappened: by the greatest good fortune, at the last moment,he must have made an instinctive start, which probably savedhis life, and mine too. The bull's horns had just missed hisentrails and my leg, - we were broadside on to the charge, -and had caught him in the thigh, below the hip. There was abig hole, and he was bleeding plentifully. For all that, hewouldn't let me catch him. He could go faster on three legsthan 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 thetip of Lazarus' finger - or for choice, a bottle of Bass - tocool my tongue! Then too, whither would the mustang stray inthe night if I rested or fell asleep? Again and again Itried to stalk him by the starlight. Twice I got hold of histail, but he broke away. If I drove him down to the riverbanks the chance of catching him would be no better, and Ishould 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 fromsheer exhaustion. Every time this happened I dreamed ofsparkling drinks; then woke with a start to a lively sense ofthe 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 muchas his master; and when we sighted it he needed no moredriving. Such a hurry was he in that, in his rush for theriver, he got bogged in the muddy swamp at its edge. Iseized my chance, and had him fast in a minute. We bothplunged into the stream; I, clothes and all, and drank, anddrank, and drank.'
　　That evening I caught up the cavalcade.
　　How curious it is to look back upon such experiences from adifferent stage of life's journey! How would it have faredwith me had my rifle exploded with the fall? it was knockedout of my hands at full cock. How if the stock had beenbroken? It had been thrown at least ten yards. How if thehorn had entered my thigh instead of the horse's? How if Ihad fractured a limb, or had been stunned, or the bull hadcharged again while I was creeping up to him? Any one, ormore than one, of these contingencies were more likely tohappen than not. But nothing did happen, save - the best.
　　Not a thought of the kind ever crossed my mind, either at thetime or afterwards. Yet I was not a thoughtless man, only anaverage 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 aftera run with hounds. I had had many a nastier fall hunting inDerbyshire. The worst that could happen did not happen; butthe worst never - well, so rarely does. One might shootoneself instead of the pigeon, or be caught picking forbiddenfruit. Narrow escapes are as good as broad ones. The truthis, when we are young, and active, and healthy, whateverhappens, of the pleasant or lucky kind, we accept as a matterof course.
　　Ah! youth! youth! If we only knew when we were well off,when we were happy, when we possessed all that this world hasto give! If we but knew that love is only a matter of courseso long as youth and its bounteous train is ours, we mightperhaps make the most of it, and give up looking for -something better. But what then? Give up the 'somethingbetter'? 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 nightingalesings; but they think no more of happiness than the rose-budof its beauty. May be happiness comes not of too muchknowing, or too much thinking either.
Chapter 23
FORT LARAMIE was a military station and trading postcombined. It was a stone building in what they called a'compound' or open space, enclosed by a palisade. When wearrived there, it was occupied by a troop of mounted riflemenunder canvas, outside the compound. The officers lived inthe fort; and as we had letters to the Colonel - Somner - andto the Captain - Rhete, they were very kind and very usefulto us.
　　We pitched our camp by the Laramie river, four miles from thefort. Nearer than that there was not a blade of grass. Thecavalry horses and military mules needed all there was athand. Some of the mules we were allowed to buy, or exchangefor our own. We accordingly added six fresh ones to ourcavalcade, and parted with two horses; which gave us a totalof fifteen mules and six horses. Government provisions werenot to be had, so that we could not replenish our nowimpoverished stock. This was a serious matter, as will beseen before long. Nor was the evil lessened by my being laidup with a touch of fever - the effect, no doubt, of thosedrenches of stagnant water. The regimental doctor wasabsent. I could not be taken into the fort. And, as we hadno tent, and had thrown away almost everything but theclothes we wore, I had to rough it and take my chance. Somerelics of our medicine chest, together with a toughconstitution, pulled me through. But I was much weakened,and by no means fit for the work before us. Fred did hisbest to persuade me from going further. He confessed that hewas utterly sick of the expedition; that his injured kneeprevented him from hunting, or from being of any use inpacking and camp work; that the men were a set of ruffianswho did just as they chose - they grumbled at the hardships,yet helped themselves to the stores without restraint; thatwe had the Rocky Mountains yet to cross; after that, thecountry was unknown. Colonel Somner had strongly advised usto turn back. Forty of his men had tried two months ago tocarry despatches to the regiment's headquarters in Oregon.
　　Only five had got through; the rest had been killed andscalped. Finally, that we had something like 1,200 miles togo, and were already in the middle of August. It would befolly, obstinacy, madness, to attempt it. He would stop andhunt where we were, as long as I liked; or he would go backwith me. He would hire fresh good men, and buy new horses;and, now that we knew the country, we could get to St. Louisbefore the end of September, and' - . There was no reasonableanswer to be made. I simply told him I had thought it over,and had decided to go on. Like the plucky fellow and staunchfriend that he was, he merely shrugged his shoulders, andquietly said, 'Very well. So be it.'
　　Before leaving Fort Laramie a singular incident occurred,which must seem so improbable, that its narration may betaken for fiction. It was, however, a fact. There wasplenty of game near our camping ground; and though theweather was very hot, one of the party usually took thetrouble to bring in something to keep the pot supplied. Thesage hens, the buffalo or elk meat were handed over to Jacob,who made a stew with bacon and rice, enough for the eveningmeal and the morrow's breakfast. After supper, when everyonehad filled his stomach, the large kettle, covered with itslid, was taken off the fire, and this allowed to burn itselfout.
　　For four or five mornings running the kettle was found nearlyempty, and all hands had to put up with a cup of coffee andmouldy biscuit dust. There was a good deal ofunparliamentary language. Everyone accused everyone else offilthy greediness. It was disgusting that after eating allhe could, a man hadn't the decency to wait till the morning.
　　The pot had been full for supper, and, as every man couldsee, it was never half emptied - enough was always left forbreakfast. A resolution was accordingly passed that eachshould take his turn of an hour's watch at night, till theglutton was caught in the act.
　　My hour happened to be from 11 to 12 P.M. I stronglysuspected the thief to be an Indian, and loaded my big pistolwith slugs on the chance. It was a clear moonlight night. Ipropped myself comfortably with a bag of hams; and concealedmyself as well as I could in a bush of artemisia, which wasvery thick all round. I had not long been on the look-outwhen a large grey wolf prowled slowly out of the bushes. Thenight was bright as day; but every one of the men was soundasleep in a circle round the remains of the camp fire. Thewolf passed between them, hesitating as it almost touched acovering 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 savourystew.
　　I could not fire, because of the men. I dared not move, lestI should disturb the robber. I was even afraid the click ofcocking the pistol would startle him and prevent my getting aquiet shot. But patience was rewarded. When satiated, thebrute retired as stealthily as he had advanced; and as hepassed within seven or eight yards of me I let him have it.
　　Great was my disappointment to see him scamper off. How wasit possible I could have missed him? I must have fired overhis back. The men jumped to their feet and clutched theirrifles; but, though astonished at my story, were soon at restagain. After this the kettle was never robbed. Four dayslater we were annoyed with such a stench that it was aquestion of shifting our quarters. In hunting for thenuisance amongst the thicket of wormwood, the dead wolf wasdiscovered not twenty yards from our centre.
　　The reader would not thank me for an account of themonotonous drudgery, the hardships, the quarrellings, whichgrew worse from day to day after we left Fort Laramie. Fredand I were about the only two who were on speaking terms; weclung to each other, as a sort of forlorn security againstcoming disasters. Gradually it was dawning on me that, underthe existing circumstances, the fulfilment of my hopes wouldbe (as Fred had predicted) an impossibility; and that topersist in the attempt to realise them was to courtdestruction. As yet, I said nothing of this to him. PerhapsI was ashamed to. Perhaps I secretly acknowledged to myselfthat he had been wiser than I, and that my stubbornness wasresponsible for the life itself of every one of the party.
　　Doubtless thoughts akin to these must often have haunted themind of my companion; but he never murmured; only uttered ahasty objurgation when troubles reached a climax, andinvariably ended with a burst of cheery laughter which onlythe sulkiest could resist. It was after a day of severetrials he proposed that we should go off by ourselves for acouple of nights in search of game, of which we were much inneed. The men were easily persuaded to halt and rest.
　　Samson had become a sort of nonentity. Dysentery hadterribly reduced his strength, and with it such intelligenceas he could boast of. We started at daybreak, right glad tobe alone together and away from the penal servitude to whichwe were condemned. We made for the Sweetwater, not very farfrom 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 snuglittle hollow where we could light a fire without its beingseen by the Indians, when, just as we found what we wanted,an antelope trotted up to a brow to inspect us. I had afairly good shot at him and missed. This disheartened usboth. Meat was the one thing we now sorely needed to savethe rapidly diminishing supply of hams. Fred said nothing,but I saw by his look how this trifling accident helped todepress him. I was ready to cry with vexation. My rifle wasmy pride, the stag of my life - my ALTER EGO. It was neverout of my hands; every day I practised at prairie dogs, atsage hens, at a mark even if there was no game. A few daysbefore we got to Laramie I had killed, right and left, twowild ducks, the second on the wing; and now, when so muchdepended on it, I could not hit a thing as big as a donkey.
　　The fact is, I was the worse for illness. I had constantreturns of fever, with bad shivering fits, which did notimprove the steadiness of one's hand. However, we managed toget a supper. While we were examining the spot where theantelope had stood, a leveret jumped up, and I knocked himover with my remaining barrel. We fried him in the one tinplate we had brought with us, and thought it the mostdelicious dish we had had for weeks.
　　As we lay side by side, smoke curling peacefully from ourpipes, we chatted far into the night, of other days - ofCambridge, of our college friends, of London, of the opera,of balls, of women - the last a fruitful subject - and of thefuture. I was vastly amused at his sudden outburst as somestart of one of the horses picketed close to us reminded usof the actual present. 'If ever I get out of this d-d mess,'
　　he exclaimed, 'I'll never go anywhere without my own Frenchcook.' He kept his word, to the end of his life, I believe.
　　It was a delightful repose, a complete forgetting, for anight at any rate, of all impending care. Each was cheeredand strengthened for the work to come. The spirit ofenterprise, the love of adventure restored for the moment,believed itself a match for come what would. The veryanimals seemed invigorated by the rest and the abundance ofrich grass spreading as far as we could see. The morning wasbright and cool. A delicious bath in the Sweetwater, abreakfast on fried ham and coffee, and once more in oursaddles on the way back to camp, we felt (or fancied that wefelt) prepared for anything.
　　That is just what we were not. Samson and the men, meetingwith no game where we had left them, had moved on thatafternoon in search of better hunting grounds. The resultwas that when we overtook them, we found five mules up totheir necks in a muddy creek. The packs were sunk to thebottom, and the animals nearly drowned or strangled. Fredand I rushed to the rescue. At once we cut the ropes whichtied them together; and, setting the men to pull at tails orheads, succeeded at last in extricating them.
　　Our new-born vigour was nipped in the bud. We were alldrenched to the skin. Two packs containing the miserableremains of our wardrobe, Fred's and mine, were lost. Thecatastrophe produced a good deal of bad language and badblood. Translated into English it came to this: 'They hadtrusted to us, taking it for granted we knew what we wereabout. What business had we to "boss" the party if we wereas ignorant as the mules? We had guaranteed to lead themthrough to California [!] and had brought them into this"almighty fix" to slave like niggers and to starve.' Therewas just truth enough in the Jeremiad to make it sting. Itwould not have been prudent, nay, not very safe, to returncurse for curse. But the breaking point was reached at last.
　　That night I, for one, had not much sleep. I was soaked fromhead to foot, and had not a dry rag for a change. Alternatefits of fever and rigor would alone have kept me awake; butrenewed ponderings upon the situation and confirmedconvictions of the peremptory necessity of breaking up theparty, 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. Twomain difficulties confronted me: the announcement to themen, who might mutiny; and the parting with Fred, which Idreaded far the most of the two. Would he not think ittreacherous to cast him off after the sacrifices he had madefor me? Implicitly we were as good as pledged to stand byeach other to the last gasp. Was it not mean and dastardlyto run away from the battle because it was dangerous to fightit out? Had friendship no claims superior to personalsafety? 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 certaindeath for all. It was not too late to return, for those whowished it. And when I had demonstrated, as I could easilydo, the impossibility of continuance, each one could decidefor himself. The men were as reckless as they were ignorant.
　　However they might execrate us, we were still their naturalleaders: their blame, indeed, implied they felt it. Nosentimental argument could obscure this truth, and thisconviction was decisive.
　　The next night and the day after were, from a moral point ofview, the most trying perhaps, of the whole journey. We hadhalted on a wide, open plain. Due west of us in the fardistance rose the snowy peaks of the mountains. And theprairie on that side terminated in bluffs, rising graduallyto higher spurs of the range. When the packs were thrownoff, and the men had turned, as usual, to help themselves tosupper, 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 hefully weighed the gravity of the purpose. All he said at thetime was, 'Let us talk it over after the men are asleep.'
　　We did so. We placed our saddles side by side - they wereour regular pillows - and, covering ourselves with the sameblanket, well out of ear-shot, discussed the proposition fromevery practical aspect. He now combated my scheme, as Ialways supposed he would, by laying stress upon our bond offriendship. This was met on my part by the arguments alreadyset forth. He then proposed an amendment, which almost upsetmy decision. 'It is true,' he admitted, 'that we cannot getthrough as we are going now; the provisions will not hold outanother month, and it is useless to attempt to control themen. But there are two ways out of the difficulty: we canreach Salt Lake City and winter there; or, if you are bent ongoing to California, why shouldn't we take Jacob and Nelson(the Canadian), pay off the rest of the brutes, and traveltogether, - us four?'
　　Whether 'das ewig Wirkende' that shapes our ends bebeneficent or malignant is not easy to tell, till after theevent. Certain it is that sometimes we seem impelled bylatent forces stronger than ourselves - if by self be meantone's will. We cannot give a reason for all we do; theinfinite chain of cause and effect, which has had nobeginning 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) thatI should remain obdurate. Fred's last resource was anattempt to persuade me (he really believed: I, too, thoughtit likely) that the men would show fight, annex beasts andprovisions, and leave us to shift for ourselves. There weresix of them, armed as we were, to us three, or rather us two,for Samson was a negligible quantity. 'We shall see,' saidI; and by degrees we dropped asleep.
Chapter 24
BEFORE the first streak of dawn I was up and off to hunt forthe horses and mules, which were now allowed to roam insearch of feed. On my return, the men were afoot, taking iteasy as usual. Some artemisia bushes were ablaze for themorning's coffee. No one but Fred had a suspicion of thecoming crisis. I waited till each one had lighted his pipe;then quietly requested the lot to gather the provision packstogether, as it was desirable to take stock, and make someestimate of demand and supply. Nothing loth, the men obeyed.
　　'Now,' said I, 'turn all the hams out of their bags, and letus see how long they will last.' When done: 'What!' Iexclaimed, 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.' Themen's faces fell; but never a murmur, nor a sound. 'Turn outthe biscuit bags. Here, spread these empty ham sacks, andpour the biscuit on to them. Don't lose any of the dust. Weshall want every crumb, mouldy or not.' The gloomy facesgrew gloomier. What's to be done?' Silence. 'The firstthing, as I think all will agree, is to divide what is leftinto nine equal shares - that's our number now - and let eachone take his ninth part, to do what he likes with. Youyourselves shall portion out the shares, and then draw lotsfor choice.'
　　This presentation of the inevitable compelled submission.
　　The whole, amounting to twelve light mule packs (it had beenfifteen fairly heavy ones after our purchases at FortLaramie), was still a goodly bulk to look at. The ninepeddling dividends, when seen singly, were not quite what theshareholders had anticipated.
　　Why were they still silent? Why did they not rebel, andvisit their wrath upon the directors? Because they knew intheir hearts that we had again and again predicted thecatastrophe. They knew we had warned them scores and scoresof times of the consequences of their wilful and recklessimprovidence. They were stupefied, aghast, at the ruin theyhad brought upon themselves. To turn upon us, to murder us,and divide our three portions between them, would have beensuicidal. In the first place, our situation was as desperateas theirs. We should fight for our lives; and it was notcertain, in fact it was improbable, that either Jacob orWilliam would side against us. Without our aid - they hadnot a compass among them - they were helpless. The instinctof self-preservation bade them trust to our good will.
　　So far, then, the game was won. Almost humbly they askedwhat we advised them to do. The answer was prompt anddecisive: 'Get back to Fort Laramie as fast as you can.'
　　'But how? Were they to walk? They couldn't carry theirpacks.' 'Certainly not; we were English gentlemen, and wouldbehave as such. Each man should have his own mule; each,into the bargain, should receive his pay according toagreement.' They were agreeably surprised. I then verystrongly counselled them not to travel together. Pastexperience proved how dangerous this must be. To avoid thetemptation, even the chance, of this happening, the surestand safest plan would be for each party to start separately,and not leave till the last was out of sight. For my part Ihad resolved to go alone.
　　It was a melancholy day for everyone. And to fill the cup ofwretchedness to overflowing, the rain, beginning with adrizzle, ended with a downpour. Consultations took placebetween men who had not spoken to one another for weeks.
　　Fred offered to go on, at all events to Salt Lake City, ifNelson the Canadian and Jacob would go with him. Botheagerly closed with the offer. They would be so much nearerto the 'diggings,' and were, moreover, fond of their leader.
　　Louis would go back to Fort Laramie. Potter and Morris wouldcross the mountains, and strike south for the Mormon city iftheir provisions and mules threatened to give out. Williamwould try his luck alone in the same way. And there remainedno one but Samson, undecided and unprovided for. The strongweak man sat on the ground in the steady rain, smoking pipeafter pipe; watching first the preparations, then thedepartures, one after the other, at intervals of an hour orso. First the singles, then the pair; then, late in theafternoon, Fred and his two henchmen.
　　It is needless to depict our separation. I do not thinkeither expected ever to see the other again. Yet we partedafter the manner of trueborn Britons, as if we should meetagain in a day or two. 'Well, good-bye, old fellow. Goodluck. What a beastly day, isn't it?' But emotions are onlypartially suppressed by subduing their expression. Thehearts of both were full.
　　I watched the gradual disappearance of my dear friend, andthought with a sigh of my loss in Jacob and Nelson, the twobest men of the band. It was a comfort to reflect that theyhad joined Fred. Jacob especially was full of resource;Nelson of energy and determination. And the courage and cooljudgment 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 thesodden wreck of the deserted camp, and began actively to packmy mules. Samson seemed paralysed by imbecility.
　　'What had I better do?' he presently asked, gazing with dulleyes at his two mules and two horses.
　　'I don't care what you do. It is nothing to me. You hadbetter pack your mules before it is dark, or you may losethem.'
　　'I may as well go with you, I think. I don't care much aboutgoing back to Laramie.'
　　He looked miserable. I was so. I had held out under a longand heavy strain. Parting with Fred had, for the moment,staggered my resolution. I was sick at heart. The thoughtof packing two mules twice a day, single-handed, weakened asI was by illness, appalled me. And though ashamed of theperversity which had led me to fling away the better andaccept the worse, I yielded.
　　'Very well then. Make haste. Get your traps together. I'lllook 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 thehorses. I followed with the mule train some minutes later.
　　Our troubles soon began. The two spare horses were nearly aswild as the mules. I had not got far when I discernedthrough the rain a kicking and plunging and generalentanglement of the lot ahead of me. Samson had fastened thehorses together with slip knots; and they were all doingtheir best to strangle one another and themselves. To leavethe mules was dangerous, yet two men were required to releasethe maddened horses. At last the labour was accomplished;and once more the van pushed on with distinct instructions asto the line of march, it being now nearly dark. The muleshad naturally vanished in the gloom; and by the time I wasagain in my saddle, Samson was - I knew not where. On and onI travelled, far into the night. But failing to overtake mycompanion, and taking for granted that he had missed his way,I halted when I reached a stream, threw off the packs, letthe animals loose, rolled myself in my blanket, and shut myeyes upon a trying day.
　　Nothing happens but the unexpected. Daylight woke me.
　　Samson, still in his rugs, was but a couple of hundred yardsfurther up the stream. In the afternoon of the third day wefell in with William. He had cut himself a long willow wandand was fishing for trout, of which he had caught several inthe upper reaches of the Sweetwater. He threw down his rod,hastened to welcome our arrival, and at once begged leave tojoin us. He was already sick of solitude. He had comeacross Potter and Morris, who had left him that morning.
　　They had been visited by wolves in the night, (I too had beenawakened by their howlings,) and poor William did not relishthe thought of the mountains alone, with his one little whitemule - which he called 'Cream.' He promised to do his utmostto help with the packing, and 'not cost us a cent.' I didnot tell him how my heart yearned towards him, and howmiserably my courage had oozed away since we parted, but madea favour of his request, and granted it. The gain, so longas it lasted, was incalculable.
　　The summit of the South Pass is between 8000 and 9000 feetabove the level of the Gulf of Mexico. The Pass itself ismany miles broad, undulating on the surface, but notabruptly. The peaks of the Wind River Chain, immediately tothe north, are covered with snow; and as we gradually gotinto the misty atmosphere we felt the cold severely. Thelariats - made of raw hide - became rods of ice; and the pooranimals, whose backs were masses of festering raws, sufferedterribly from exposure. It was interesting to come uponproofs of the 'divide' within a mile of the most elevatedpoint in the pass. From the Hudson to this spot, all watershad flowed eastward; now suddenly every little rivulet wasmaking for the Pacific.
　　The descent is as gradual as the rise. On the first day ofit we lost two animals, a mule and Samson's spare horse. Thelatter, never equal to the heavy weight of its owner, couldgo no further; and the dreadful state of the mule's backrendered packing a brutality. Morris and Potter, who passedus a few days later, told us they had seen the horse dead,and partially eaten by wolves; the mule they had shot to putit out of its misery.
　　In due course we reached Fort Hall, a trading post of theHudson's Bay Company, some 200 miles to the north-west of theSouth Pass. Sir George Simpson, Chairman of that Company,had given me letters, which ensured the assistance of itsservants. It was indeed a rest and a luxury to spend acouple of idle days here, and revive one's dim recollectionof fresh eggs and milk. But we were already in September.
　　Our animals were in a deplorable condition; and with theexception of a little flour, a small supply of dried meat,and a horse for Samson, Mr. Grant, the trader, had nothing tosell us. He told us, moreover, that before we reached FortBoise, their next station, 300 miles further on, we had totraverse a great rocky desert, where we might travel four-and-twenty hours after leaving water, before we met with itagain. There was nothing for it but to press onwards. Itwas too late now to cross the Sierra Nevada range, which laybetween us and California; and with the miserable equipmentleft to us, it was all we could hope to do to reach Oregonbefore the passage of the Blue Mountains was blocked by thewinter's snow.
　　Mr. Grant's warnings were verified to the foot of the letter.
　　Great were our sufferings, and almost worse were those of thepoor animals, from the want of water. Then, too, unlike thedesert of Sahara, where the pebbly sand affords a solidfooting, the soil here is the calcined powder of volcanicdebris, so fine that every step in it is up to one's ankles;while clouds of it rose, choking the nostrils, and coveringone from head to heel. Here is a passage from my journal:
　　'Road rocky in places, but generally deep in the finestfloury sand. A strong and biting wind blew dead in ourteeth, smothering us in dust, which filled every pore.
　　William presented such a ludicrous appearance that Samson andI went into fits over it. An old felt hat, fastened on by ared cotton handkerchief, tied under his chin, partly hid hislantern-jawed visage; this, naturally of a dolorous cast, wasscrewed into wrinkled contortions by its efforts to resistthe piercing gale. The dust, as white as flour, had settledthick upon him, the extremity of his nasal organ being theonly rosy spot left; its pearly drops lodged upon a chinalmost as prominent. His shoulders were shrugged to a levelwith his head, and his long legs dangled from the back oflittle "Cream" till they nearly touched the ground.'
　　We laughed at him, it is true, but he was so good-natured, sopatient, so simple-minded, and, now and then, when he and Iwere alone, so sentimental and confidential about Mary, andthe fortune he meant to bring her back, that I had a sort ofmaternal liking for him; and even a vicarious affection forMary herself, the colour of whose eyes and hair - nay, whoseweight 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 agully (we were not then in the desert) to look for water forour 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 overthe saddles, but could nowhere lay my hands on a rifle.
　　Still the cry was for 'Guns!' My own, a muzzle-loader, wasdischarged, but a rifle none the less. Snatching up this,and one of my pistols, which, by the way, had fallen into theriver a few hours before, I shouted for Samson, and ranheadlong to the rescue. Before I got to the bottom of thehill I heard groans, which sounded like the last of poorWilliam. I holloaed to know where he was, and was answeredin a voice that discovered nothing worse than terror.
　　It appeared that he had met a grizzly bear drinking at thevery spot where he was about to fill his can; that he hadbolted, 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 hislife. I could not help laughing at his story, though anexamination of the place next morning so far verified it,that his footprints and the bear's were clearly intermingledon 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 slickin for her anyhow. If his rifle didn't shoot plum, he'd abowie as 'ud rise her hide, and no mistake. He'd be darn'dif he didn't make meat of that bar in the morning.'
Chapter 25
WE were now steering by compass. Our course was nearlynorth-west. This we kept, as well as the formation of thecountry and the watercourses would permit. After strikingthe great Shoshone, or Snake River, which eventually becomesthe Columbia, we had to follow its banks in a southerlydirection. These are often supported by basaltic columnsseveral hundred feet in height. Where that was the case,though close to water, we suffered most from want of it. Andcold as were the nights - it was the middle of September -the sun was intensely hot. Every day, every mile, we werehoping for a change - not merely for access to the water, butthat we might again pursue our westerly course. The scenerywas sometimes very striking. The river hereabouts variesfrom one hundred to nearly three hundred yards in width;sometimes rushing through narrow gorges, sometimes descendingin continuous rapids, sometimes spread out in smooth shallowreaches. It was for one of these that we were in search, foronly at such points was the river passable.
　　It was night-time when we came to one of the great falls. Wewere able here to get at water; and having halted through theday, on account of the heat, kept on while our animals wererefreshed. We had to ascend the banks again, and wind alongthe brink of the precipice. From this the view wasmagnificent. The moon shone brightly upon the dancing waveshundreds of feet below us, and upon the rapids which extendedas far as we could see. The deep shade of the high cliffscontrasted in its impenetrable darkness with the brilliancyof the silvery foam. The vast plain which we overlooked,fading in the soft light, rose gradually into a low range ofdistant hills. The incessant roar of the rapids, and thedesert stillness of all else around, though they lulled one'ssenses, yet awed one with a feeling of insignificance andimpotence in the presence of such ruthless force, amid suchserene and cold indifference. Unbidden, the consciousnesswas there, that for some of us the coming struggle with thosemighty waters was fraught with life or death.
　　At last we came upon a broad stretch of the river whichseemed to offer the possibilities we sought for. Rather latein the afternoon we decided to cross here, notwithstandingWilliam's strong reluctance to make the venture. Part of hisunwillingness was, I knew, due to apprehension, part to hislove of fishing. Ever since we came down upon the SnakeRiver we had seen quantities of salmon. He persisted in thebelief that they were to be caught with the rod. The daybefore, all three of us had waded into the river, and floggedit patiently for a couple of hours, while heavy fish weretumbling about above and below us. We caught plenty oftrout, but never pricked a salmon. Here the broad reach wasalive with them, and William begged hard to stop for theafternoon and pursue the gentle sport. It was not to be.
　　The tactics were as usual. Samson led the way, holding thelariat to which the two spare horses were attached. Incrossing streams the mules would always follow the horses.
　　They were accordingly let loose, and left to do so. Williamand I brought up the rear, driving before us any mule thatlagged. My journal records the sequel:
　　'At about equal distances from each other and the main landwere two small islands. The first of these we reachedwithout trouble. The second was also gained; but the packswere wetted, the current being exceedingly rapid. The spaceremaining to be forded was at least two hundred yards; andthe stream so strong that I was obliged to turn my mare'shead up it to prevent her being carried off her legs. Whilethus resting, William with difficulty, - the water being overhis knees, - sidled up to me. He wanted to know if I stillmeant to cross. For all answer, I laughed at him. In truthI 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 noreason to suppose that its shallowness would not continue.
　　'We paused for a few minutes to observe Samson, who was nowwithin forty or fifty yards of the opposite bank; and, as Iconcluded, past all danger. Suddenly, to the astonishment ofboth of us, he and his horse and the led animals disappearedunder water; the next instant they were struggling andswimming for the bank. Tied together as they were, there wasa deal of snorting and plunging; and Samson (with hishabitual ingenuity) had fastened the lariat either to himselfor his saddle; so that he was several times dragged underbefore 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 notswim a yard; it was useless for him to try to cross; he wouldturn back, and find his way to Salt Lake City.
　　'"But," I remonstrated, "if you turn back, you will certainlystarve; everything we possess is over there with the mules;your blanket, even your rifle, are with the packs. It isimpossible to get the mules back again. Give little Creamher head, sit still in your saddle, and she'll carry youthrough that bit of deep water with ease."'"I can live by fishing," he plaintively answered. He stillheld his long rod, and the incongruity of it added to thepathos of his despair. I reminded him of a bad river we hadbefore crossed, and how his mule had swum it safely with himon her back. I promised to keep close to him, and help himif need were, though I was confident if he left everything toCream there would be no danger. "Well, if he must, he must.
　　But, if anything happened to him, would I write and tellMary? I knew her address; leastways, if I didn't, it was inhis bag on the brown mule. And tell her I done my best."'The water was so clear one could see every crack in the rockbeneath. Fortunately, I took the precaution to strip to myshirt; fastened everything, even my socks, to the saddle;then advanced cautiously ahead of William to the brink of thechasm. We were, in fact, upon the edge of a precipice. Onecould see to an inch where the gulf began. As my marestepped into it I slipped off my saddle; when she rose I laidhold of her tail, and in two or three minutes should havebeen safe ashore.
　　'Looking back to see how it had fared with William, I at onceperceived his danger. He had clasped his mule tightly roundthe neck with his arms, and round the body with his longlegs. 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 strugglesof the mule rendered it dangerous to get at him. When I didso he was partially dazed; his hold was relaxed. Dragginghim away from the hoofs of the animal, I begged him to puthis hands on my shoulders or hips. He was past any effort ofthe kind. I do not think he heard me even. He seemed hardlyconscious of anything. His long wet hair plastered over theface concealed his features. Beyond stretching out his arms,like an infant imploring help, he made no effort to savehimself.
　　'I seized him firmly by the collar, - unfortunately, with myright hand, leaving only my left to stem the torrent. Buthow to keep his face out of the water? At every stroke I waslosing strength; we were being swept away, for him, tohopeless death. At length I touched bottom, got both handsunder his head, and held it above the surface. He stillbreathed, still puffed the hair from his lips. There wasstill a hope, if I could but maintain my footing. But, alas!
　　each instant I was losing ground - each instant I was drivenback, foot by foot, towards the gulf. The water, at firstonly up to my chest, was now up to my shoulders, now up to myneck. My strength was gone. My arms ached till they couldbear no more. They sank involuntarily. William glided frommy hands. He fell like lead till his back lay stretched uponthe rock. His arms were spread out, so that his body formeda cross. I paddled above it in the clear, smooth water,gazing at his familiar face, till two or three large bubblesburst upon the surface; then, hardly knowing what I wasdoing, 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 myproper goal, I struck out for it with mere eagerness to landas soon as possible. The attempt proved unsuccessful. Verywell, then, I would take it quietly - not try to crossdirect, but swim on gently, keeping my head that way. Bydegrees I got within twenty yards of the bank, was countingjoyfully on the rest which a few more strokes would bring me,when - wsh - came a current, and swept me right into themiddle of the stream again.
　　'I began to be alarmed. I must get out of this somehow oranother; better on the wrong side than not at all. So I letmyself go, and made for the shore we had started from.
　　'Same fate. When well over to the left bank I was carriedout again. What! was I too to be drowned? It began to looklike it. I was getting cold, numb, exhausted. And - listen!
　　What is that distant sound? Rapids? Yes, rapids. Myflannel shirt stuck to, and impeded me; I would have it off.
　　I got it over my head, but hadn't unbuttoned the studs - itstuck, partly over my head. I tugged to tear it off. Got adrop of water into my windpipe; was choking; tugged till Igot 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 redand gold. I noticed this, noticed the salmon rolling likeporpoises around me, and thought of William with his rod.
　　Strangest of all, for I had not noticed her before, littleCream was still struggling for dear life not a hundred yardsbelow me; sometimes sinking, sometimes reappearing, but onher way to join her master, as surely as I thought that Iwas.
　　'In my distress, the predominant thought was the lonelinessof my fate, the loneliness of my body after death. There wasnot a living thing to see me die.
　　'For the first time I felt, not fear, but loss of hope. Icould only beat the water with feeble and futile splashes. Iwas completely at its mercy. And - as we all then do - Iprayed - prayed for strength, prayed that I might be spared.
　　But my strength was gone. My legs dropped powerless in thewater. I could but just keep my nose or mouth above it. Mylegs sank, and my feet - touched bottom.
　　'In an instant, as if from an electric shock, a flush ofenergy suffused my brain and limbs. I stood upright in analmost tranquil pool. An eddy had lodged me on a sandbank.
　　Between it and the land was scarcely twenty yards. Throughthis gap the stream ran strong as ever. I did not want torest; I did not pause to think. In I dashed; and a singlespurt carried me to the shore. I fell on my knees, and witha 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 ourearly meal. How long I had been swimming I know not, but itwas dark now, starlight at least. The nights were bitterlycold, and my only clothing a wet flannel shirt. And oh! thecraving 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 smallcactuses. In the dark I kept treading on the little pricklyplants, but I hurried on till I came in sight of Samson'sfire. I could see his huge form as it intercepted thecomfortable blaze. I pictured him making his tea, broilingsome of William's trout, and spreading his things before thefire to dry. I could see the animals moving around the glow.
　　It was my home. How I yearned for it! How should I reachit, if ever? In this frame of mind the attempt wasirresistible. I started as near as I could from opposite thetwo islands. As on horseback, I got pretty easily to thefirst island. Beyond this I was taken off my feet by thestream; and only with difficulty did I once more regain theland.
　　My next object was to communicate with Samson. By puttingboth hands to my mouth and shouting with all my force I madehim hear. I could see him get up and come to the water'sedge; though he could not see me, his stentorian voicereached 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 wantedto 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 forthat place and wait till I come. I will cross there."'"All right."'"Keep me in sight as long as you can. Don't forget thefood."'It will be gathered from my words that definite instructionswere deemed necessary; and the inference - at least it wasmine - will follow, that if a mistake were possible Samsonwould avail himself of it. The night was before me. Theriver had yet to be crossed. But, strange as it now seems tome, I had no misgivings! My heart never failed me. Myprayer had been heard. I had been saved. How, I knew not.
　　But this I knew, my trust was complete. I record this as acurious psychological occurrence; for it supported me withunfailing energy through the severe trial which I had yet toundergo.'
Chapter 26
OUR experiences are little worth unless they teach us toreflect. Let us then pause to consider this hourlyexperience of human beings - this remarkable efficacy ofprayer. 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 inits very essence,' says a thoughtful writer, 'implies abelief in the possible intervention of a power which is abovenature.' How was it in my case? What was the essence of mybelief? Nothing less than this: that God would havepermitted the laws of nature, ordained by His infinite wisdomto fulfil His omniscient designs and pursue their naturalcourse in accordance with His will, had not my requestpersuaded Him to suspend those laws in my favour.
　　The very belief in His omniscience and omnipotence subvertsthe spirit of such a prayer. It is on the perfection of Godthat Malebranche bases his argument that 'Dieu n'agit pas pardes volontes particulieres.' Yet every prayer affects tointerfere with the divine purposes.
　　It may here be urged that the divine purposes are beyond ourcomprehension. God's purposes may, in spite of theinconceivability, admit the efficacy of prayer as a link inthe chain of causation; or, as Dr. Mozely holds, it may bethat 'a miracle is not an anomaly or irregularity, but partof the system of the universe.' We will not entangleourselves in the abstruse metaphysical problem which suchhypotheses involve, but turn for our answer to what we doknow - to the history of this world, to the daily life ofman. If the sun rises on the evil as well as on the good, ifthe wicked 'become old, yea, are mighty in power,' still, thelightning, the plague, the falling chimney-pot, smite thegood as well as the evil. Even the dumb animal is notspared. 'If,' says Huxley, 'our ears were sharp enough tohear all the cries of pain that are uttered in the earth byman and beasts we should be deafened by one continuousscream.' 'If there are any marks at all of special design increation,' writes John Stuart Mill, 'one of the things mostevidently designed is that a large proportion of all animalsshould pass their existence in tormenting and devouring otheranimals. They have been lavishly fitted out with theinstruments for that purpose.' Is it credible, then, thatthe Almighty Being who, as we assume, hears this continuousscream - animal-prayer, as we may call it - and not only paysno heed to it, but lavishly fits out animals with instrumentsfor tormenting and devouring one another, that such a Beingshould suspend the laws of gravitation and physiology, shouldperform a miracle equal to that of arresting the sun - forall miracles are equipollent - simply to prolong the briefand useless existence of such a thing as man, of one man outof the myriads who shriek, and - shriek in vain?
　　To pray is to expect a miracle. Then comes the furtherquestion: Is this not to expect what never yet has happened?
　　The only proof of any miracle is the interpretation thewitness 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 commentedupon too often to need attention here. Nor does the weaknessof the evidence for miracles depend solely on the fact thatit rests, in the first instance, on the senses, which may bedeceived; or upon inference, which may be erroneous. It isnot merely that the infallibility of human testimonydiscredits the miracles of the past. The impossibility thathuman knowledge, that science, can ever exhaust thepossibilities of Nature, precludes the immediate reference tothe Supernatural for all time. It is pure sophistry toargue, as do Canon Row and other defenders of miracles, that'the laws of Nature are no more violated by the performanceof a miracle than they are by the activities of a man.' Ifthese 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 supernaturalbeing, which is the sole RAISON D'ETRE of miracle.
　　Yet thousands of men in these days who admit the force ofthese objections continue, in spite of them, to pray.
　　Huxley, the foremost of 'agnostics,' speaks with the utmostrespect of his friend Charles Kingsley's conviction fromexperience of the efficacy of prayer. And Huxley himselfrepeatedly assures us, in some form or other, that 'thepossibilities of "may be" are to me infinite.' The puzzleis, in truth, on a par with that most insolvable of allpuzzles - Free Will or Determinism. Reason and the instinctof conscience are in both cases irreconcilable. We areconscious that we are always free to choose, though not toact; but reason will have it that this is a delusion. Thereis no logical clue to the IMPASSE. Still, reasonnotwithstanding, we take our freedom (within limits) forgranted, and with like inconsequence we pray.
　　It must, I think, be admitted that the belief, delusive orwarranted, is efficacious in itself. Whether generated inthe brain by the nerve centres, or whatever may be itsorigin, a force coincident with it is diffused throughout thenervous system, which converts the subject of it, justparalysed 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 uponourselves. Prayer, as already observed, implies belief insupernatural intervention. Such belief is competent to begethope, and with it courage, energy, and effort. Supposecontrition and remorse induce the sufferer to pray for Divineaid and mercy, suppose suffering is the natural penalty ofhis or her own misdeeds, and suppose the contrition and theprayer lead to resistance of similar temptations, and henceto greater happiness, - can it be said that the power toresist temptation or endure the penalty are due tosupernatural aid? Or must we not infer that the fear of theconsequences of vice or folly, together with an earnestdesire and intention to amend, were adequate in themselves toaccount 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 bymiracle, is a mere perversion of the accepted meaning of'miracle,' an IGNORATIO ELENCHI. But in the case of prayerthat does not ask for the abrogation of Nature's laws, itceases to be a miracle that we pray for or expect: for arenot the laws of the mind also laws of Nature? And can weexplain them any more than we can explain physical laws? Apsychologist can formulate the mental law of association, buthe can no more explain it than Newton could explain the lawsof attraction and repulsion which pervade the world ofmatter. We do not know, we cannot know, what the conditionsof our spiritual being are. The state of mind induced byprayer may, in accordance with some mental law, be essentialto certain modes of spiritual energy, specially conducive tothe highest of all moral or spiritual results: taken in thissense, prayer may ask, not the suspension, but the enactment,of some natural law.
　　Let it, however, be granted, for argument's sake, that thebelief in the efficacy of prayer is delusive, and that thebeneficial 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 allthis is due to sheer hallucination, is this an argumentagainst prayer? Surely not. For, in the first place, theincontestable fact that belief does produce these effects isfor us an ultimate fact as little capable of explanation asany physical law whatever; and may, therefore, for aught weknow, 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 beturned into a hell of disappointment; and that we pay thepenalty of building happiness on false foundations. This istrue in a great measure; but it is absolutely without truthas regards our belief in prayer, for the simple reason thatif death dispel the delusion, it at the same time dispels thedeluded. However great the mistake, it can never be foundout. But they who make it will have been the better and thehappier while they lived.
　　For my part, though immeasurably preferring the pantheism ofGoethe, or of Renan (without his pessimism), to theanthropomorphic God of the Israelites, or of their theosophiclegatees, the Christians, however inconsistent, I stillbelieve in prayer. I should not pray that I may not die 'forwant of breath'; nor for rain, while 'the wind was in thewrong quarter.' My prayers would not be like thoseoverheard, on his visit to Heaven, by Lucian's Menippus: 'OJupiter, let me become a king!' 'O Jupiter, let my onionsand my garlic thrive!' 'O Jupiter, let my father soon departfrom hence!' But when the workings of my moral nature wereconcerned, when I needed strength to bear the ills whichcould not be averted, or do what conscience said was right,then I should pray. And, if I had done my best in the samedirection, 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 hasnever had cause to feel it!
　　It may be deemed unwarrantable thus to draw the lines betweenwhat, for want of better terms, we call Material andSpiritual. Still, reason is but the faculty of a very finitebeing; and, as in the enigma of the will, utterly incapableof solving any problems beyond those whose data are furnishedby the senses. Reason is essentially realistic. Science isits domain. But science demonstratively proves that thingsare not what they seem; their phenomenal existence is nothingelse than their relation to our special intelligence. Wespeak and think as if the discoveries of science wereabsolutely true, true in themselves, not relatively so for usonly. Yet, beings with senses entirely different from ourswould have an entirely different science. For them, our bestestablished axioms would be inconceivable, would have no moremeaning than that 'Abracadabra is a second intention.'
　　Science, supported by reason, assures us that the laws ofnature - the laws of realistic phenomena - are neversuspended at the prayers of man. To this conclusion theeducated world is now rapidly coming. If, nevertheless, menthoroughly convinced of this still choose to believe in theefficacy of prayer, reason and science are incompetent toconfute them. The belief must be tried elsewhere, - it mustbe transferred to the tribunal of conscience, or to ametaphysical court, in which reason has no jurisdiction.
　　This by no means implies that reason, in its own province, isto yield to the 'feeling' which so many cite as theinfallible authority for their 'convictions.'
　　We must not be asked to assent to contradictory propositions.
　　We must not be asked to believe that injustice, cruelty, andimplacable revenge, are not execrable because the Bible tellsus they were habitually manifested by the tribal god of theIsraelites. The fables of man's fall and of the redemptionare fraught with the grossest violation of our moralconscience, and will, in time, be repudiated accordingly. Itis idle to say, as the Church says, 'these are mysteriesabove our human reason.' They are fictions, fabricationswhich modern research has traced to their sources, and whichno unperverted mind would entertain for a moment. Fanaticalbelief in the truth of such dogmas based upon 'feeling' haveconfronted all who have gone through the severe ordeal ofdoubt. A couple of centuries ago, those who held them wouldhave burnt alive those who did not. Now, they have toconsole themselves with the comforting thought of the firethat shall never be quenched. But even Job's patience couldnot stand the self-sufficiency of his pious reprovers. Thesceptic too may retort: 'No doubt but ye are the people, andwisdom shall die with you.'
　　Conviction of this kind is but the convenient substitute forknowledge laboriously won, for the patient pursuit of truthat 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 abelief founded simply on emotion. There is a physical world- the world as known to our senses, and there is a psychicalworld - the world of feeling, consciousness, thought, andmoral life.
　　Granting, if it pleases you, that material phenomena may bethe causes of mental phenomena, that 'la pensee est leproduit du corps entier,' still the two cannot be thought ofas one. Until it can be proved that 'there is nothing in theworld but matter, force, and necessity,' - which will neverbe, till we know how we lift our hands to our mouths, - thereremains for us a world of mystery, which reason never caninvade.
　　It is a pregnant thought of John Mill's, apropos of materialand mental interdependence or identity, 'that the uniformcoexistence of one fact with another does not make the onefact a part of the other, or the same with it.'
　　A few words of Renan's may help to support the argument. 'Cequi revele le vrai Dieu, c'est le sentiment moral. Sil'humanite n'etait qu'intelligente, elle serait athee. Ledevoir, le devouement, le sacrifice, toutes choses dontl'histoire est pleine, sont inexplicables sans Dieu.' Forall these we need help. Is it foolishness to pray for it?
　　Perhaps so. Yet, perhaps not; for 'Tout est possible, memeDieu.'
　　Whether possible, or impossible, this much is absolutelycertain: man must and will have a religion as long as thisworld lasts. Let us not fear truth. Criticism will changemen's dogmas, but it will not change man's nature.
Chapter 27
MY confidence was restored, and with it my powers ofendurance. Sleep was out of the question. The night wasbright and frosty; and there was not heat enough in my bodyto dry my flannel shirt. I made shift to pull up some briarbushes; and, piling them round me as a screen, got somelittle shelter from the light breeze. For hours I laywatching Alpha Centauri - the double star of the Great Bear'spointers - dipping under the Polar star like the hour hand ofa clock. My thoughts, strange to say, ran little on themorrow; they dwelt almost solely upon William Nelson. Howfar was I responsible, to what extent to blame, for leadinghim, against his will, to death? I re-enacted the wholeevent. Again he was in my hands, still breathing when I lethim go, knowing, as I did so, that the deed consigned himliving to his grave. In this way I passed the night.
　　Just as the first streaks of the longed-for dawn broke in theEast, I heard distant cries which sounded like the whoops ofIndians. Then they ceased, but presently began again muchnearer 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 thelight, though still dim, revealed their presence coming on atfull gallop. In vain I sought for stick or stone. Even theriver, though I took to it, would not save me if they meantmischief. When they saw me they slackened their pace. I didnot move. They then halted, and forming a half-moon somethirty yards off, squatted on their haunches, and began atintervals to throw up their heads and howl.
　　My chief hope was in the coming daylight. They were lesslikely to attack a man then than in the dark. I had oftenmet one or two together when hunting; these had alwaysbolted. But I had never seen a pack before; and I knew apack meant that they were after food. All depended on theirhunger.
　　When I kept still they got up, advanced a yard or two, thenrepeated their former game. Every minute the light grewstronger; its warmer tints heralded the rising sun. Seeing,however, that my passivity encouraged them, and convincedthat a single step in retreat would bring the pack upon me, Idetermined in a moment of inspiration to run amuck, and trustto Providence for the consequences. Flinging my arms wildlyinto the air, and frantically yelling with all my lungs, Idashed straight in for the lot of them. They were, as Iexpected, taken by surprise. They jumped to their feet andturned tail, but again stopped - this time farther off, andhowled with vexation at having to wait till their preysuccumbed.
　　The sun rose. Samson was on the move. I shouted to him, andhe to me. Finding me thus reinforced the enemy slunk off,and I was not sorry to see the last of my ugly foes. I nowrepeated my instructions about our trysting place, waitedpatiently till Samson had breakfasted (which he did with themost exasperating deliberation), saw him saddle my horse andleave his camp. I then started upon my travels up the river,to meet him. After a mile or so, the high ground on bothbanks obliged us to make some little detour. We then lostsight of each other; nor was he to be seen when I reached theappointed spot.
　　Long before I did so I began to feel the effects of mylabours. My naked feet were in a terrible state from thecactus thorns, which I had been unable to avoid in the dark;occasional stones, too, had bruised and made them verytender. Unable to shuffle on at more than two miles an hourat fastest, the happy thought occurred to me of tearing up myshirt and binding a half round each foot. This enabled me toget on much better; but when the September sun was high, myunprotected skin and head paid the penalty. I waited for acouple of hours, I dare say, hoping Samson would appear. Butconcluding at length that he had arrived long before me,through the slowness of my early progress, and had gonefurther up the river - thinking perhaps that I had meant someother place - I gave him up; and, full of internal 'd-n' athis incorrigible consistency, plodded on and on for - I knewnot where.
　　Why, it may be asked, did I not try to cross where I hadintended? I must confess my want of courage. True, theriver here was not half, not a third, of the width of thescene of my disasters; but I was weak in body and in mind.
　　Had anything human been on the other side to see me - to seehow brave I was, (alas! poor human nature!) - I could haveplucked up heart to risk it. It would have been such acomfort to have some one to see me drown! But it isdifficult 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 hiswill be.
　　One of the worst features of it was, what we so oftensuffered from before - the inaccessibility of water. The sunwas 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 butnarrow passage; then that inexhaustible fountain of lasthopes - the Unknown - tempted me to go forward. Ipersevered; when behold! as I passed a rock, an Indian stoodbefore me.
　　He was as naked as I was. Over his shoulder he carried aspear as long as a salmon rod. Though neither had foreseenthe other, he was absolutely unmoved, showed no surprise, nocuriosity, no concern. He stood still, and let me come up tohim. My only, or rather my uppermost, feeling was gladness.
　　Of course the thought crossed me of what he might do if heowed the white skins a grudge. If any white man had everharmed one of his tribe, I was at his mercy; and it wascertain that he would show me none. He was a tall powerfulman, and in my then condition he could have done what hepleased with me. Friday was my model; the red man wasRobinson Crusoe. I kneeled at his feet, and touched theground with my forehead. He did not seem the least elated bymy humility: there was not a spark of vanity in him.
　　Indeed, except for its hideousness and brutality, his facewas without expression.
　　I now proceeded to make a drawing, with my finger, in thesand, of a mule in the water; while I imitated by pantomimethe struggles of the drowning. I then pointed to myself;and, using my arms as in swimming, shook my head and myfinger to signify that I could not swim. I worked animaginary paddle, and made him understand that I wanted himto paddle me across the river. Still he remained unmoved;till finally I used one argument which interested him morethan all the rest of my story. I untied a part of the shirtround one foot and showed him three gold studs. These I tookout and gave to him. I also made a drawing of a rifle in thesand, and signified that he would get the like if he wentwith me to my camp. Whereupon he turned in the direction Iwas going; and, though unbidden by a look, I did not hesitateto follow.
　　I thought I must have dropped before we reached his village.
　　This was an osier-bed at the water's side, where the wholeriver rushed through a rocky gorge not more than fifty tosixty yards broad. There were perhaps nearly a hundredIndians here, two-thirds of whom were women and children.
　　Their habitations were formed by interlacing the tops of theosiers. Dogs' skins spread upon the ground and numeroussalmon spears were their only furniture. In a few minutes myarrival created a prodigious commotion. The whole populationturned out to stare at me. The children ran into the bushesto hide. But feminine curiosity conquered feminine timidity.
　　Although I was in the plight of the forlorn Odysseus afterhis desperate swim, I had no 'blooming foliage' to wind[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]. Unlike thePhaeacian maidens, however, the tawny nymphs were all asbrave as Princess Nausicaa herself. They stared, andpointed, and buzzed, and giggled, and even touched my skinwith the tips of their fingers - to see, I suppose, if thewhite would come off.
　　But ravenous hunger turned up its nose at flirtation. Thefillets of drying salmon suspended from every bough were amillion times more seductive than the dark Naiads who haddressed them. Slice after slice I tore down and devoured, asthough my maw were as compendious as Jack the Giant Killer's.
　　This so astonished and delighted the young women that theykept supplying me, - with the expectation, perhaps, thatsooner or later I must share the giant's fate.
　　While this was going on, a conference was being held; and Ihad the satisfaction of seeing some men pull up a lot of deadrushes, dexterously tie them into bundles, and truss thesetogether by means of spears. They had no canoes, for thevery children were amphibious, living, so it seemed, as muchin the water as out of it. When the raft was completed, Iwas invited to embark. My original friend, who had twisted atow-rope, took this between his teeth, and led the way.
　　Others swam behind and beside me to push and to pull. Theforce of the water was terrific; but they seemed to care nomore for that than fish. My weight sunk the rush bundles agood bit below the surface; and to try my nerves, my crewevery now and then with a wild yell dived simultaneously,dragging the raft and me under water. But I sat tight; andwith genuine friendliness they landed me safely on thedesired shore.
　　It was quite dark before we set forth. Robinson Crusoewalked on as if he knew exactly where my camp was. Probablythe whole catastrophe had by this time been bruited for milesabove and below the spot. Five other stalwart young fellowskept us company, each with salmon spear in hand. The walkseemed interminable; but I had shipped a goodly cargo oflatent energy.
　　When I got home, instead of Samson, I found the camp occupiedby half a dozen Indians. They were squatted round a fire,smoking. Each one, so it seemed, had appropriated somearticle of our goods. Our blankets were over theirshoulders. One had William's long rifle in his lap. Anotherwas sitting upon mine. A few words were exchanged with thenewcomers, who seated themselves beside their friends; but nomore notice was taken of me than of the mules which wereeating rushes close to us. How was I, single-handed, toregain possession? That was the burning question. Adiplomatic course commanded itself as the only possible one.
　　There were six men who expected rewards, but the wherewithalwas held in seisin by other six. The fight, if there wereone, should be between the two parties. I would hope toprove, that when thieves fall out honest men come by theirown.
　　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 speedilydonned mine. Next I quietly but quickly snatched upWilliam's rifle, and presented it to Robinson Crusoe, pattinghim on the back as if with honours of knighthood. Thedispossessed 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 roundto the gentleman who sat cross-legged upon my weapon. He wasas heedless of me as I, outwardly, of him. When well withinreach, mindful that 'DE L'AUDACE' is no bad motto, in loveand war, I suddenly placed my foot upon his chest, tightenedthe 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, butthe offended Indian, though furious, doubtless inferred fromthe histrionic attitude which I at once struck, that I feltconfident it would. With my rifle in hand, with my suitelooking to me to transfer the plunder to them, my positionwas 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 hisammunition, his carpet-bag, and his blankets, amongst myoriginal friends. I was beginning to gather my own thingstogether, when Samson, leading my horse, unexpectedly rodeinto the midst of us. The night was far advanced. TheIndians took their leave; and added to the obligation bybequeathing us a large fresh salmon, which served us for manya day to come.
　　As a postscript I may add that I found poor Mary's address onone of her letters, and faithfully kept my promise as soon asI reached pen and ink.
Chapter 28
WHAT remains to be told will not take long. Hardshipsnaturally increased as the means of bearing them diminished.
　　I have said the salmon held out for many days. We cut it instrips, and dried it as well as we could; but the flies andmaggots robbed us of a large portion of it. At length wewere reduced to two small hams; nothing else except a littletea. Guessing the distance we had yet to go, and taking intoaccount our slow rate of travelling, I calculated the numberof days which, with the greatest economy, these could be madeto last. Allowing only one meal a day, and that of thescantiest, I scored the hams as a cook scores a leg of roastpork, determined under no circumstances to exceed the dailyration.
　　No little discipline was requisite to adhere to thisresolution. Samson broke down under the exposure andprivation; superadded dysentery rendered him all buthelpless, and even affected his mind. The whole labour ofthe camp then devolved on me. I never roused him in themorning till the mules were packed - with all but his blanketand the pannikin for his tea - and until I had saddled hishorse for him. Not till we halted at night did we get ourration of ham. This he ate, or rather bolted, raw, like awild beast. My share I never touched till after I lay downto sleep. And so tired have I been, that once or twice Iwoke in the morning with my hand at my mouth, the unswallowedmorsel between my teeth. For three weeks we went on in thisway, never exchanging a word. I cannot say how I might havebehaved had Fred been in Samson's place. I hope I shouldhave 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 betterman. Take an instance. Unable one morning to find my ownhorse, I saddled his and started him off, so as not to wastetime, with his spare animal and the three mules. It sohappened that our line of march was rather tortuous, owing tosome hills we had to round. Still, as there were highmountains in the distance which we were making for, it seemedimpossible that anyone could miss his way. It was twentyminutes, perhaps, before I found my horse; this would givehim about a mile or more start of me. I hurried on, butfailed to overtake him. At the end of an hour I rode to thetop of a hill which commanded a view of the course he shouldhave taken. Not a moving speck was to be seen. I knew thenthat he had gone astray. But in which direction?
　　My heart sank within me. The provisions and blankets werewith him. I do not think that at any point of my journey Ihad ever felt fear - panic that is - till now. Starvationstared me in the face. My wits refused to suggest a line ofaction. I was stunned. I felt then what I have often feltsince, what I still feel, that it is possible to wrestlesuccessfully with every difficulty that man has overcome, butnot with that supreme difficulty - man's stupidity. It didnot then occur to me to give a name to the impatience thatseeks to gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles.
　　I turned back, retraced my steps till I came to the track ofthe mules. Luckily the ground retained the footprints,though sometimes these would be lost for a hundred yards orso. Just as I anticipated - Samson had wound round the baseof the very first hill he came to; then, instead ofcorrecting the deviation, and steering for the mountains, hadsimply followed his nose, and was now travelling due east, -in other words, was going back over our track of the daybefore. It was past noon when I overtook him, so that aprecious 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 explainedit.
　　'As well as I can make out, before we get to the Dalles,where we ought to find the American outposts, we have onlyabout 150 miles to go. This should not take more than eightor 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 ableto do it at all. We have still those mountains' - pointingto the Blue Mountain range in the distance - 'to cross. Theyare covered with snow, as you see. We may find themtroublesome. In any case our food will only last eight ornine days more, even at the present rate. You shall have thelargest 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 thesentence of death. But then he is fulfilling a duty, merelycarrying out a law which is not of his making. Moreover, hehas no option - the responsibility rests with the jury; lastof all, the sufferer is a criminal. Between the judge's caseand mine there was no analogy. My act was a purely selfishone - justifiable I still think, though certainly notmagnanimous. I was quite aware of this at the time, but astarving man is not burdened with generosity.
　　I dismounted, and, without unsaddling the mules, took offtheir packs, now reduced to a few pounds, which was all thewretched, raw-backed, and half-dead, animals could staggerunder; and, putting my blanket, the remains of a ham, and alittle packet of tea - some eight or ten tea-spoonfuls - onone mule, I again prepared to mount my horse and depart.
　　I took, as it were, a sneaking glance at Samson. He wassitting upon the ground, with his face between his knees,sobbing.
　　At three-and-twenty the heart of a man, or of a woman - ifeither has any, which, of course, may be doubtful - is apt toplay the dynamite with his or her resolves. Water-drops haveever been formidable weapons of the latter, as we all know;and, not being so accustomed to them then as I have becomesince, the sight of the poor devil's abject woe anddestitution, the thought that illness and suffering were thecauses, the secret whisper that my act was a cowardly one,forced me to follow the lines of least resistance, and submitto 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 thelast two hours the ascent of the Blue Mountains had been verysteep. We were in a thick pine forest. There was a track -probably made by Indians. Near the summit we found a springof beautiful water. Here we halted for the night. It was asnug spot. But, alas! there was nothing for the animals toeat except pine needles. We lighted our fire against thegreat up-torn roots of a fallen tree; and, though it wasfreezing hard, we piled on such masses of dead boughs thatthe huge blaze seemed to warm the surrounding atmosphere.
　　I must here give the words of my journal, for one exclamationin it has a sort of schoolboy ring that recalls the buoyancyof youthful spirits, the spirits indeed to which in earlylife we owe our enterprise and perseverance:
　　'As I was dozing off, a pack of hungry wolves that hadscented us out set up the most infernal chorus ever heard.
　　In vain I pulled the frozen buffalo-robe over my head, andtried to get to sleep. The demons drew nearer and nearer,howling, snarling, fighting, moaning, and making a row in theperfect stillness which reigned around, as if hell itselfwere loose. For some time I bore it with patience. Atlength, jumping up, I yelled in a voice that made the valleyring: You devils! will you be quiet? The appeal wasimmediately answered by silence; but hearing them tuning upfor a second concert, I threw some wood on the blazing fireand once more retired to my lair. For a few minutes I layawake to admire a brilliant Aurora Borealis shooting out itsstreams of electric light. Then, turning over on my side, Inever moved again till dawn.'
　　The first objects that caught my eye were the animals. Theywere huddled together within a couple of yards of where welay. It was a horrible sight. Two out of the three mules,and Samson's horse, had been attacked by the wolves. Theflanks of the horse were terribly torn, and the entrails ofboth the mules were partially hanging out. Though all threewere still standing with their backs arched, they wererapidly dying from loss of blood. My dear little '
　　Strawberry' - as we called him to match William's 'Cream' andmy mare were both intact.
　　A few days after this, Samson's remaining horse gave out. Ihad to surrender what remained of my poor beast in order toget my companion through. The last fifty miles of thejourney I performed on foot; sometimes carrying my rifle torelieve the staggering little mule of a few pounds extraweight. 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 29
'WHERE is the tent of the commanding officer?' I asked of thefirst 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 anempty packing-case in front of his tent, whittling a piece ofits wood.
　　'Pray sir,' said I in my best Louis Quatorze manner, 'have Ithe pleasure of speaking to Major Dooker?'
　　'Tucker, sir. And who the devil are you?'
　　Let me describe what the Major saw: A man wasted bystarvation to skin and bone, blackened, almost, by months ofexposure to scorching suns; clad in the shreds of what hadonce been a shirt, torn by every kind of convict labour,stained by mud and the sweat and sores of mules; the rags ofa shooting coat to match; no head covering; hands festeringwith sores, and which for weeks had not touched water - ifthey could avoid it. Such an object, in short, as the geniusof a Phil May could alone have depicted as the most repulsiveobject 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 ofyour 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 maysurprise you.'
　　I followed him to a neighbouring tent. He drew aside theflap 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 twodays before me, although he had been at Salt Lake City. Buthe had been able there to refit, had obtained ample suppliesand fresh animals. Curiously enough, his Nelson - theFrench-Canadian - had also been drowned in crossing the SnakeRiver. His place, however, had been filled by another man,and Jacob had turned out a treasure. The good fellow greetedme warmly. And it was no slight compensation for bygonetroubles to be assured by him that our separation had led tothe final triumphal success.
　　Fred and I now shared the same tent. To show what habit willdo, it was many days before I could accustom myself to sleepunder cover of a tent even, and in preference slept, as I haddone for five months, under the stars. The officersliberally furnished us with clothing. But their excessivehospitality more nearly proved fatal to me than any peril Ihad met with. One's stomach had quite lost its discretion.
　　And forgetting thatFamished 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 Iwas seriously ill.
　　An absurd incident occurred to me here which might have hadan unpleasant ending. Every evening, after dinner in themess tent, we played whist. One night, quite by accident,Fred and I happened to be partners. The Major and anotherofficer made up the four. The stakes were rather high. Wetwo had had an extraordinary run of luck. The Major's temperhad been smouldering for some time. Presently the deal fellto me; and as bad luck would have it, I dealt myself ahandful of trumps, and - all four honours. As the last ofthese was played, the now blazing Major dashed his cards onthe table, and there and then called me out. The coolerheads of two or three of the others, with whom Fred had hadtime to make friends, to say nothing of the usual roar oflaughter with which he himself heard the challenge, broughtthe matter to a peaceful issue. The following day one of theofficers brought me a graceful apology.
　　As may readily be supposed, we had no hankering for furthertravels such as we had gone through. San Francisco was ourdestination; 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 tradingship to the Sandwich Islands thence, by the same means, toCalifornia.
　　On October 20 we procured a canoe large enough for seven oreight persons; and embarking with our light baggage, Fred,Samson, and I, took leave of the Dalles. For some miles thegreat river, the Columbia, runs through the CascadeMountains, and is confined, as heretofore, in a channel ofbasaltic rock. Further down it widens, and is ornamented bygroups of small wooded islands. On one of these we landed torest our Indians and feed. Towards evening we again putashore, at an Indian village, where we camped for the night.
　　The scenery here is magnificent. It reminded me a little ofthe Danube below Linz, or of the finest parts of the Elbe inSaxon Switzerland. But this is to compare the full-lengthportrait with the miniature. It is the grandeur of the scaleof the best of the American scenery that so strikes theEuropean. Variety, however, has its charms; and before onehas travelled fifteen hundred miles on the same river - asone may easily do in America - one begins to sigh for theRhine, or even for a trip from London to Greenwich, with awhite-bait dinner at the end of it.
　　The day after, we descended the Cascades. They are thebeginning of an immense fall in the level, and form asuccession of rapids nearly two miles long. The excitementof this passage is rather too great for pleasure. It is likebeing run away with by a 'motor' down a steep hill. The bowof the canoe is often several feet below the stern, as ifabout to take a 'header.' The water, in glassy ridges anddark furrows, rushes headlong, and dashes itself madlyagainst the reefs which crop up everywhere. There is notime, one thinks, to choose a course, even if steerage, whichseems absurd, were possible. One is hurled along at railwayspeed. The upreared rock, that a moment ago seemed a hundredyards off, is now under the very bow of the canoe. Oneclenches one's teeth, holds one's breath, one's hour issurely come. But no - a shout from the Indians, a magicstroke of the paddle in the bow, another in the stern, andthe 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 gofurther), we had to debark. A settler here was putting up azinc house for a store. Two others, with an officer of theMounted Rifles - the regiment we had left at the Dalles -were staying with him. They welcomed our arrival, andinsisted on our drinking half a dozen of poisonous stuff theycalled champagne. There were no chairs or table in the'house,' nor as yet any floor; and only the beginning of aroof. We sat on the ground, so that I was ablesurreptitiously to make libations with my share, to theearth.
　　According to my journal: 'In a short time the party began tobe a noisy one. Healths were drunk, toasts proposed,compliments to our respective nationalities paid in the mostflattering terms. The Anglo-Saxon race were destined toconquer the globe. The English were the greatest nationunder the sun - that is to say, they had been. America, ofcourse, would take the lead in time to come. We disputedthis. The Americans were certain of it, in fact this wasalready an accomplished fact. The big officer - a genuine"heavy" - wanted to know where the man was that would givehim the lie! Wasn't the Mounted Rifles the crack regiment ofthe United States army? And wasn't the United States armythe finest army in the universe? Who that knew anything ofhistory would compare the Peninsular Campaign to the war inMexico? Talk of Waterloo - Britishers were mighty fond ofswaggering about Waterloo! Let 'em look at Chepultapec. Asfor 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 ourcrack cavalry regiments could do. Mounted Rifles forsooth!
　　Mounted costermongers! whose trade it was to sell 'nutmegsmade of wood, and clocks that wouldn't figure.' Then somepretty forcible profanity was vented, fists were shaken, andthe zinc walls were struck, till they resounded like thethreatened thunder of artillery.
　　But Fred's merry laughter diverted the tragic end. It wasagreed that there had been too much tall talk. Britishersand Americans were not such fools as to quarrel. Leteverybody drink everybody else's health. A gentleman in thecorner (he needed the support of both walls) thought itwasn't good to 'liquor up' too much on an empty stomach; heput it to the house that we should have supper. The motionwas carried NEM. CON., and a Dutch cheese was produced withmuch ECLAT. Samson coupled the ideas of Dutch cheeses andYankee hospitality. This revived the flagging spirit ofemulation. On one side, it was thought that British mannerswere susceptible of amendment. Confusion was thenrespectively 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 littlemischief in the choice, sang 'Rule Britannia.' Not beingencored, the singer drank to the flag that had braved thebattle and the breeze for nearly ninety years. 'Here's toUncle Sam, and his stars and stripes.' The mounted officerrose to his legs (with difficulty) and declared 'that hecould not, and would not, hear his country insulted anylonger. He begged to challenge the "crowd." He regrettedthe necessity, but his feelings had been wounded, and hecould not - no, he positively could not stand it.' A slightpush from Samson proved the fact - the speaker fell, to riseno more. The rest of the company soon followed his example,and shortly afterwards there was no sound but that of theadjacent rapids.
　　Early next morning the settler's boat came up, and took us amile down the river, where we found a larger one to convey usto Fort Vancouver. The crew were a Maltese sailor and a manwho had been in the United States army. Each had his privateopinions as to her management. Naturally, the Maltese shouldhave been captain, but the soldier was both supercargo andpart owner, and though it was blowing hard and the sails werefully large, the foreigner, who was but a poor littlecreature, had to obey orders.
　　As the river widened and grew rougher, we were wetted fromstem to stern at every plunge; and when it became evidentthat the soldier could not handle the sails if the Maltesewas kept at the helm, the heavy rifleman who was on board,declaring that he knew the river, took upon himself to steerus. In a few minutes the boat was nearly swamped. TheMaltese prayed and blasphemed in language which no oneunderstood. The oaths of the soldier were intelligibleenough. The 'heavy,' now alarmed, nervously asked what hadbetter be done. My advice was to grease the bowsprit, let gothe mast, and splice the main brace. 'In another minute ortwo,' I added, 'you'll steer us all to the bottom.'
　　Fred, who thought it no time for joking, called the riflemana 'damned fool,' and authoritatively bade him give up thetiller; saying that I had been in Her Majesty's Navy, andperhaps knew a little more about boats than he did. To thisthe other replied that 'he didn't want anyone to learn him;he reckon'd he'd been raised to boating as well as the nextman, and he'd be derned if he was going to trust his life toanybody!' Samson, thinking no doubt of his own, took hispipe out of his mouth, and towering over the steersman, flunghim like a child on one side. In an instant I was in hisplace.
　　It was a minute or two before the boat had way enough toanswer the helm. By that time we were within a dozen yardsof a reef. Having noticed, however, that the little craftwas quick in her stays, I kept her full till the last, putthe helm down, and round she spun in a moment. Before Icould thank my stars, the pintle, or hook on which the rudderhangs, broke off. The tiller was knocked out of my hand, andthe boat's head flew into the wind. 'Out with the sweeps,' Ishouted. But the sweeps were under the gear. All wasconfusion and panic. The two men cursed in the names oftheir respective saints. The 'heavy' whined, 'I told you howit 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 bumpsshe would stand before she went to pieces. Happily the watershallowed, and the men, by jumping overboard, managed to dragthe boat through the breakers under the lee of the point. Weafterwards drew her up on to the beach, kindled a fire, gotout some provisions, and stayed till the storm was over.
Chapter 30
HAT was then called Fort Vancouver was a station of theHudson's Bay Company. We took up our quarters here till oneof the company's vessels - the 'Mary Dare,' a brig of 120tons, was ready to sail for the Sandwich Islands. This wasabout the most uncomfortable trip I ever made. A sailingmerchant brig of 120 tons, deeply laden, is not exactly apleasure yacht; and 2,000 miles is a long voyage. For tendays we lay at anchor at the mouth of the Columbia, detainedby westerly gales. A week after we put to sea, all our freshprovisions were consumed, and we had to live on our cargo -dried salmon. We three and the captain more than filled thelittle hole of a cabin. There wasn't even a hammock, and wehad to sleep on the deck, or on the lockers. The fleas, thecockroaches, and the rats, romped over and under one allnight. Not counting the time it took to go down the river,or the ten days we were kept at its mouth, we were just sixweeks 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 thanever. On the south the land rises gradually from the shoreto a range of lofty mountains. Immediately behind Honolulu -the capital - a valley with a road winding up it leads to thenorth side of the island. This valley is, or was then,richly cultivated, principally with TARO, a large root notunlike the yam. Here and there native huts were dottedabout, with gardens full of flowers, and abundance oftropical fruit. Higher up, where it becomes too steep forcultivation, growth of all kind is rampant. Acacias,oranges, maples, bread-fruit, and sandal-wood trees, reartheir heads above the tangled ever-greens. The high peaks,constantly in the clouds, arrest the moisture of the oceanatmosphere, and countless rills pour down the mountain sides,clothing everything in perpetual verdure. The climate is oneof the least changeable in the world; the sea breeze blowsday and night, and throughout the year the day temperaturedoes not vary more than five or six degrees, the averagebeing about eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. In1850 the town of Honolulu was little else than a nativevillage of grass and mat huts. Two or three merchants hadgood houses. In one of these Fred and Samson were domiciled;there was no such thing as a hotel. I was the guest ofGeneral Miller, the Consul-General. What changes may havetaken place since the above date I have no means of knowing.
　　So far as the natives go, the change will assuredly have beenfor the worse; for the aborigines, in all parts of the world,lose their primitive simplicity and soon acquire the worstvices of civilisation.
　　Even King Tamehameha III. was not innocent of one of them.
　　General Miller offered to present us at court, but he had togive several days' notice in order that his Majesty might besufficiently sober to receive us. A negro tailor from theUnited States fitted us out with suits of black, and on theappointed day we put ourselves under the shade of the oldGeneral's cocked hat, and marched in a body to the palace. Anative band, in which a big drum had the leading part,received us with 'God save the Queen' - whether in honour ofKing Tamy, or of his visitors, was not divulged. We werefirst introduced to a number of chiefs in European uniforms -except as to their feet, which were mostly bootless. Theirnames sounded like those of the state officers in Mr.
　　Gilbert's 'Mikado.' I find in my journal one entered asTovey-tovey, another as Kanakala. We were then conducted tothe presence chamber by the Foreign Minister, Mr. Wiley, avery pronounced Scotch gentleman with a star of the firstmagnitude on his breast. The King was dressed as an Englishadmiral. The Queen, whose ample undulations also remindedone of the high seas, was on his right; while in perfectgradation on her right again were four princesses in shortfrocks and long trousers, with plaited tails tied with blueribbon, like the Miss Kenwigs. A little side dispute arosebetween the stiff old General and the Foreign Minister as towhose right it was to present us. The Consul carried theday; but the Scot, not to be beaten, informed Tamehameha, ina long prefatory oration, of the object of the ceremony.
　　Taking one of us by the hand (I thought the peppery oldGeneral would have thrust him aside), Mr. Wiley told the Kingthat it was seldom the Sandwich Islands were 'veesited' bystrangers of such 'desteenction' - that the Duke of this(referring to Fred's relations), and Lord the other, were thegreatest noblemen in the world; then, with much solemnity,quoted a long speech from Shakespeare, and handed us over tohis rival.
　　His Majesty, who did not understand a word of English, orScotch, looked grave and held tight to the arm of the throne;for the truth is, that although he had relinquished hisbottle for the hour, he had brought its contents with him.
　　My salaam was soon made; but as I retired backwards I had themisfortune to set my heel on the toes of a black-and-tanterrier, a privileged pet of the General's. The shriek ofthe animal and the loss of my equilibrium nearly precipitatedme into the arms of a trousered princess; but the amiableyoung lady only laughed. Thus ended my glimpse of theHawaian Court. Mr. Wiley afterwards remarked to me: 'We dothings in a humble way, ye'll obsairve; but royalty isroyalty all over the world, and His Majesty Tamehameha is asmuch Keng of his ain domeenions as Victoria is Queen ofBreetain.' The relativity of greatness was not to be denied.
　　The men - Kanakas, as they are called - are fine stalwartfellows above our average height. The only clothing theythen wore was the MARO, a cloth made by themselves of theacacia bark. This they pass between the legs, and once ortwice round the loins. The WYHEENES - women - formerly worenothing but a short petticoat or kilt of the same material.
　　By persuasion of the missionaries they have exchanged thissimple garment for a chemise of printed calico, with thewaist immediately under the arms so as to conceal the contourof 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 thesex: 'Pour faire de vous la terrible merveille que vous etesaujourd'hui, pour devenir la cause indifferente et souverainedes sacrifices et des crimes, il vous a fallu deux choses:
　　la civilisation qui vous donna des voiles, et la religion quivous donna des scrupules.' The translation of which is(please take note of it, my dear young ladies with 'lesepaules qui ne finissent pas'):
　　'Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheardAre sweeter.'
　　Be this as it may, these chocolate-skinned beauties, withtheir small and regular features, their rosy lips, theirperfect teeth - of which they take great care - theirluxurious silky tresses, their pretty little hands and nakedfeet, and their exquisite forms, would match the matchlessCleopatra.
　　Through the kindness of Fred's host, the principal merchantin the island, we were offered an opportunity of becomingacquainted with the ELITE of the Honolulu nymphs. Mr. S.
　　invited us to what is called a LOOHOU feast got up by him fortheir entertainment. The head of one of the most picturesquevalleys in Woahoo was selected for the celebration of thisancient festival. Mounted on horses with which Mr. S. hadfurnished us, we repaired in a party to the appointed spot.
　　It was early in the afternoon when we reached it; none of theguests had arrived, excepting a few Kanakas, who were engagedin thatching an old shed as shelter from the sun, andstrewing the ground with a thick carpet of palm-leaves. Erelong, a cavalcade of between thirty and forty amazons - theyall rode astride - came racing up the valley at full speed,their merry shouts proclaiming their approach. Gaudy stripsof MARO were loosely folded around their legs for skirts.
　　Their pretty little straw hats trimmed with ribbons, or theiruncovered heads with their long hair streaming in the wind,confined only by a wreath of fresh orange flowers, added totheir irresistible charm. Certainly, the bravest soldierscould not have withstood their charge. No men, however, wereadmitted, save those who had been expressly invited; but eachlady of importance was given a CARTE BLANCHE to bring as manyof her own sex as she pleased, provided they were both prettyand respectable.
　　As they rode up, we cavaliers, with becoming gallantry,offered our assistance while they dismounted. Smittenthrough and through by the bright eyes of one little houriwho possessed far more than her share of the firstrequirement, and, taking the second for granted, Icourteously prepared to aid her to alight; when, to mydiscomfiture, instead of a gracious acknowledgment of myservices, she gave me a sharp cut with her whip. As,however, she laughed merrily at my wry faces, I accepted theact as a scratch of the kitten's claws; at least, it was nosign of indifference, and giving myself the benefit of thedoubt, lifted her from her saddle without furtherchastisement, except a coquettish smile that wounded, alas!
　　more than it healed.
　　The feast was thus prepared: poultry, sucking-pigs, andpuppies - the last, after being scalded and scraped, werestuffed with vegetables and spices, rolled in plantainleaves, and placed in the ground upon stones already heated.
　　More stones were then laid over them, and fires lighted onthe top of all. While the cooking was in progress, theKanakas ground TARO roots for the paste called 'poe'; thegirls danced and sang. The songs were devoid of melody,being musical recitations of imaginary love adventures,accompanied by swayings of the body and occasional choralinterruptions, all becoming more and more excited as thestory or song approached its natural climax. Sometimes thiswas varied by a solitary dancer starting from the circle, andperforming the wildest bacchanalian antics, to the vocalincitement of the rest. This only ended with physicalexhaustion, or collapse from feminine hysteria.
　　The food was excellent; the stuffed puppy was a dish for anepicure. Though knives and forks were unknown, and eachhelped herself from the plantain leaf, one had not the leastobjection to do likewise, for the most scrupulous cleanlinessis one of the many merits of these fascinating creatures.
　　Before every dip into the leaf, the dainty little fingerswere plunged into bowls of fresh water provided for thepurpose. Delicious fruit followed the substantial fare; asmall glass of KAVA - a juice extracted from a root of thepepper tribe - was then served to all alike. Having watchedthe process of preparing the beverage, I am unable to speakas to its flavour. The making of it is remarkable. A numberof women sit on the ground, chew the root, and spit its juiceinto a bowl. The liquor is kept till it ferments, afterwhich it becomes highly intoxicating. I regret to say thatits potency was soon manifested on this occasion. No soonerdid the poison set their wild blood tingling, than a freefight began for the remaining gourds. Such a scratching,pulling of hair, clawing, kicking, and crying, were neverseen. Only by main force did we succeed in restoring peace.
　　It is but fair to state that, except on the celebration ofone or two solemn and sacred rites such as that of theLOOHOU, these island Thyades never touch fermented liquors.
Chapter 31
IT was an easier task when all was over to set the littleAmazons on their horses than to keep them there, for by thetime we had perched one on her saddle, or pad rather, andadjusted her with the greatest nicety, another whom we hadjust left would lose her balance and fall with a scream tothe ground. It was almost as difficult as packing mules onthe prairie. For my part it must be confessed that I leftthe completion of the job to others. Curious andentertaining as the feast was, my whole attention was centredand absorbed in Arakeeta, which that artful littleenchantress had the gift to know, and lashed me accordinglywith her eyes more cruelly than she had done with her whip.
　　I had got so far, you see, as to learn her name, the firstinstalment of an intimacy which my demolished heart wasstaked on perfecting. I noticed that she refused the KAVAwith real or affected repugnance; and when the passage ofarms, and legs, began, she slipped away, caught her animal,and with a parting laugh at me, started off for home. Therewas not the faintest shadow of encouragement in her saucylooks to follow her. Still, she was a year older thanJuliet, who was nearly fourteen; so, who could say what thoselooks might veil? Besides:
　　Das Naturell der FrauenIst so nah mit Kunst verwandt,that one might easily be mistaken. Anyhow, flight provokedpursuit; I jumped on to my horse, and raced along the plainlike mad. She saw me coming, and flogged the more, but beingthe better mounted of the two, by degrees I overhauled her.
　　As I ranged alongside, neither slackened speed; and reachingout to catch her bridle, my knee hooked under the hollow ofhers, twisted her clean off her pad, and in a moment she laysenseless on the ground. I flung myself from my horse, andlaid her head upon my lap. Good God! had I broken her neck!
　　She did not stir; her eyes were closed, but she breathed, andher heart beat quickly. I was wild with terror and remorse.
　　I looked back for aid, but the others had not started; wewere still a mile or more from Honolulu. I knew not what todo. I kissed her forehead, I called her by her name. Butshe lay like a child asleep. Presently her dazed eyes openedand stared with wonderment, and then she smiled. The tears,I think, were on my cheeks, and seeing them, she put her armsaround my neck and - forgave me.
　　She had fallen on her head and had been stunned. I caughtthe horses while she sat still, and we walked them slowlyhome. When we got within sight of her hut on the outskirtsof the town, she would not let me go further. There wassadness in her look when we parted. I made her understand (Ihad picked up two or three words) that I would return to seeher. She at once shook her head with an expression ofsomething akin to fear. I too felt sorrowful, and worse thansorrowful, jealous.
　　When the night fell I sought her hut. It was one of thebetter kind, built like others mainly with matting; no doorsor windows, but with an extensive verandah which protectedthe inner part from rain and sun. Now and again I caughtglimpses of Arakeeta's fairy form flitting in, or obscuring,the lamplight. I could see two other women and two men. Whoand what were they? Was one of those dark forms an Othello,ready to smother his Desdemona? Or were either of them aValentine between my Marguerite and me? Though there was nomoon, I dared not venture within the lamp's rays, for hersake; for my own, I was reckless now - I would have thankedeither of them to brain me with his hoe. But Arakeeta camenot.
　　In the day-time I roamed about the district, about the TAROfields, in case she might be working there. Every eveningbefore sundown, many of the women and some of the well-to-domen, and a few whites, used to ride on the plain thatstretches along the shore between the fringe of palm grovesand the mountain spurs. I had seen Arakeeta amongst thembefore the LOOHOU feast. She had given this up now, and why?
　　Night after night I hovered about the hut. When she was inthe verandah I whispered her name. She started and peeredinto the dark, hesitated, then fled. Again the same thinghappened. She had heard me, she knew that I was there, butshe came not; no, wiser than I, she came not. And though Isighed:
　　What is worthThe rest of Heaven, the rest of earth?
　　the shrewd little wench doubtless told herself: 'A quietlife, without the fear of the broomstick.'
　　Fred was impatient to be off, I had already trespassed toolong on the kind hospitality of General Miller, neither of ushad heard from England for more than a year, and theopportunities of trading vessels to California seldomoffered. A rare chance came - a fast-sailing brig, the'Corsair,' was to leave in a few days for San Francisco. Thecaptain was an Englishman, and had the repute of being a booncompanion and a good caterer. We - I, passively - settled togo. Samson decided to remain. He wanted to visit Owyhee.
　　He came on board with us, however; and, with a parting bumperof champagne, we said 'Good-bye.' That was the last I eversaw of him. The hardships had broken him down. He died notlong after.
　　The light breeze carried us slowly away - for the first timefor many long months with our faces to the east. But it wasnot 'merry' England that filled my juvenile fancies. Ileaned upon the taffrail and watched this lovely land of the'flowery food' fade slowly from my sight. I had eaten of theLotus, and knew no wish but to linger on, to roam no more, toreturn 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 foradventure.
　　How magnificent is the bay! One cannot see across it. Howimpatient we were to land! Everything new. Bearded dirtyheterogeneous crowds busy in all directions, - some runningup wooden and zinc houses, some paving the streets withplanks, some housing over ships beached for temporarydwellings. The sandy hills behind the infant town are beinglevelled and the foreshore filled up. A 'water surface' offorty feet square is worth 5,000 dollars. So that here andthere the shop-fronts are ships' broadsides. Already thereis a theatre. But the chief feature is the gambling saloons,open night and day. These large rooms are always filled withfrom 300 to 400 people of every description - from 'judges'
　　and 'colonels' (every man is one or the other, who is nothingelse) to Parisian cocottes, and escaped convicts of allnationalities. At one end of the saloon is a bar, at theother a band. Dozens of tables are ranged around. Monte,faro, rouge-et-noir, are the games. A large proportion ofthe 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 withtheir 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 Icaptured, varying in size from a grain of wheat to a mustardseed.
　　The tables win enormously, and so do the ladies of pleasure;but the winnings of these go back again to the tables. Fourtimes, while we were here, differences of opinion aroseconcerning points of 'honour,' and were summarily decided byrevolvers. Two of the four were subsequently referred toJudge 'Lynch.'
　　Wishing to see the 'diggings,' Fred and I went to Sacramento- about 150 miles up the river of that name. This was but apocket edition of San Francisco, or scarcely that. Wetherefore moved to Marysville, which, from its vicinity tothe various branches of the Sacramento river, was the chiefdepot for the miners of the 'wet diggin's' in NorthernCalifornia. Here we were received by a Mr. Massett - acurious specimen of the waifs and strays that turn up allover the world in odd places, and whom one would be sure tofind in the moon if ever one went there. He owned a littleone-roomed cabin, over the door of which was painted 'Officesof the Marysville Herald.' He was his own contributor and'correspondent,' editor and printer, (the press was in acorner of the room). Amongst other avocations he was aconcert-giver, a comic reader, a tragic actor, and anauctioneer. He had the good temper and sanguine dispositionof a Mark Tapley. After the golden days of California hespent his life wandering about the globe; giving'entertainments' in China, Japan, India, Australia. Whereverthe English language is spoken, Stephen Massett had manyfriends and no enemies.
　　Fred slept on the table, I under it, and next morning wehired horses and started for the 'Forks of the Yuba.' A fewhours' ride brought us to the gold-hunters. Two or threehundred men were at work upon what had formerly been the bedof the river. By unwritten law, each miner was entitled to acertain portion of the 'bar,' as it was called, in which thegold is found. And, as the precious metal has to be obtainedby washing, the allotments were measured by thirty feet onthe banks of the river and into the dry bed as far as thisextends; thus giving each man his allowance of water.
　　Generally three or four combined to possess a 'claim.' Eachwould then attend to his own department: one loosened thesoil, another filled the barrow or cart, a third carried itto the river, and the fourth would wash it in the 'rocker.'
　　The average weight of gold got by each miner while we were atthe 'wet diggin's,' I.E. where water had to be used, wasnearly half an ounce or seven dollars' worth a day. We sawthree Englishmen who had bought a claim 30 feet by 100 feet,for 1,400 dollars. It had been bought and sold twice beforefor considerable sums, each party supposing it to be nearly'played out.' In three weeks the Englishmen paid their 1,400dollars and had cleared thirteen dollars a day apiece fortheir labour.
　　Our presence here created both curiosity and suspicion, foreach gang and each individual was very shy of his neighbour.
　　They did not believe our story of crossing the plains; theythemselves, for the most part, had come round the Horn; a fewacross the isthmus. Then, if we didn't want to dig, what didwe want? Another peculiarity about us - a great one - was,that, so far as they could see, we were unarmed. At nightthe majority, all except the few who had huts, slept in azinc house or sort of low-roofed barn, against the walls ofwhich 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 byside, squeezed together in a trough scarcely big enough forone, we heard two fellows by the door of the shed talking usover. They thought no doubt that we were fast asleep, theythemselves were slightly fuddled. We nudged each other andpricked up our ears, for we had already canvassed thequestion of security, surrounded as we were by ruffians wholooked quite ready to dispose of babes in the wood. Theydiscussed our 'portable property' which was nil; one decided,while the other believed, that we must have money in ourpockets. The first remarked that, whether or no, we wereunarmed; the other wasn't so sure about that - it wasn'tlikely we'd come there to be skinned for the asking. Thenarose the question of consequences, and it transpired thatneither of them had the courage of his rascality. After abit, both agreed they had better turn in. Tired as we were,we fell asleep. How long we had slumbered I know not, butall of a sudden I was seized by the beard, and was consciousof a report which in my dreams I took for a pistol-shot. Ifound myself on the ground amid the wrecks of the trestle.
　　Its joints had given way under the extra weight, and Fred'sfirst impulse had been to clutch at my throat.
　　On the way back to San Francisco we stayed for a couple ofnights at Sacramento. It was a miserable place, with nothingbut a few temporary buildings except those of the Spanishsettlers. In the course of a walk round the town I noticed acrowd collected under a large elm-tree in the horse-market.
　　On inquiry I was informed that a man had been lynched on oneof its boughs the night before last. A piece of the rope wasstill hanging from the tree. When I got back to the 'hotel'
　　- a place not much better than the shed at Yuba Forks - Ifound a newspaper with an account of the affair. Drawing achair up to the stove, I was deep in the story, when a hugerowdy-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. Helent 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 apurticler 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 aBritisher, he come from a place they call Botany Bay, whichbelongs to Victoria, but ain't 'xactly in the Old Country. Ijudge, when he first come to Californy, 'baout six monthsback, he warn't acquainted none with any boys hereaway, so hetook to diggin' by hisself. It was up to Cigar Bar whar hedug, and I chanst to be around there too, that's haow we gotto know one another. Jim hadn't been here not a fortnight'fore one of the boys lost 300 dollars as he'd made a cacheof. Somehow suspicions fell on Jim. More'n one of usthought he'd been a diggin' for bags instead of for dust; andthe man as lost the money swore he'd hev a turn with him; soJim took my advice not to go foolin' around, an' sloped.'
　　'Well,' said I, as my friend stopped to adjust his tobaccoplug, 'he wasn't hanged for that?'
　　''Tain't likely! Till last week nobody know'd whar he'd goneto. When he come to Sacramenty this time, he come with apile, an' no mistake. All day and all night he used to playat faro an' a heap o' other games. Nobody couldn't tell howhe made his money hold out, nor whar he got it from; butsartin sure the crowd reckoned as haow Jim was considerableof 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 withhim and show up Jim for cheatin'. Naow, whether it was asJim suspicioned the blacksmith I cain't say, but he didn'tcheat, and lost his money in consequence. This riled himbad, so wantin' to get quit of the blacksmith he began aquarrel. The blacksmith was a quick-tempered man, and aftersome language struck Jim in the mouth. Jim jumps up, andwhippin' out his revolver, shoots the t'other man dead on thespot. 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 knowbloody well as I shot the man. And I knows bloody well asI'll hev to swing for it. Gi' me till daylight, and I'll dielike a man."'But we wasn't going to hang him without a proper trial; andas 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 wantedhim tried by the reg'lar judges of the Crim'nal Court. Oneof the best speakers said lynch-law was no law at all, and noinnocent man's life was safe with it. So there was a lot ofspeakin', you bet. By the time it was over it was justdaylight, and the majority voted as he should die at onc't.
　　So they took him to the horse-market, and stood him on atable under the big elm. I kep' by his side, and when he wasgetting on the table he ast me to lend him my revolver toshoot the foreman of the jury. When I wouldn't, he ast me totie 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; andef they didn't hang yer I'd shoot yer myself."'"Well then," says he, "gi' me hold of the rope, and I'llshow you how little I keer for death." He snatches the cordout o' my hands, pulls hisself out o' reach o' the crowd, andsat cross-legged on the bough. Half a dozen shooters wasraised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose in the rope,put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up onthe bough and made 'em a speech. What he mostly said was ashe hated 'em all. He cussed the man he shot, then he cussedthe world, then he cussed hisself, and with a terr'ble oathhe jumped off the bough, and swung back'ards and for'ardswith 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 somesuch faithful touch of its local colour, would be inadequateand misleading.
Chapter 32
A STEAMER took us down to Acapulco. It is probably athriving port now. When we were there, a few native huts andtwo or three stone buildings at the edge of the jungleconstituted the 'town.' We bought some horses, and hired twomen - a Mexican and a Yankee - for our ride to the city ofMexico. There was at that time nothing but a mule-track, andno public conveyance of any kind. Nothing could exceed thebeauty of the scenery. Within 160 miles, as the crow flies,one rises up to the city of Mexico some 12,000 feet, withPopocatepetl overhanging it 17,500 feet high. In this shortspace one passes from intense tropical heat and vegetation topines and laurels and the proximity of perpetual snows. Thepath in places winds along the brink of precipitousdeclivities, from the top of which one sees the climaticgradations blending one into another. So narrow are some ofthe mountain paths that a mule laden with ore has often onepanier overhanging the valley a thousand feet below it.
　　Constantly in the long trains of animals descending to thecoast, a slip of the foot or a charge from behind, for theyall come down the steep track with a jolting shuffle, sendsmule and its load over the ledge. We found it very difficultin places to get out of the way in time to let the trainspass. Flocks of parrots and great macaws screeching andflying about added to the novelty of the scene.
　　The villages, inhabited by a cross between the originalIndians and the Spaniards, are about twenty miles apart. Atone of these we always stayed for the night, sleeping ingrass hammocks suspended between the posts of the verandah.
　　The only travellers we fell in with were a party of fourAmericans, returning to the Eastern States from Californiawith the gold they had won there. They had come in oursteamer to Acapulco, and had left it a few hours before wedid. As the villages were so far apart we necessarily had tostop at night in the same one. The second time this happenedthey, having arrived first, had quartered themselves on theAlcalde or principal personage of the place. Our guide tookus to the same house; and although His Worship, who had abetter supply of maize for the horses, and a few morechickens to sell than the other natives, was anxious toaccommodate us, the four Americans, a very rough-looking lotand armed to the teeth, wouldn't hear of it, but peremptorilybade us put up elsewhere. Our own American, who was muchafraid of them, obeyed their commands without more ado. Itmade not the slightest difference to us, for one grasshammock is as soft as another, and the Alcalde's chickenswere 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 ourcompany. Fred, with perfect good humour, assured them we hadno thought of robbing them, and that as the villages were sofar apart we had no choice in the matter. However, as theywished to travel separate from us, if there should be twovillages at all within suitable distances, they could stop atone and we at the other. There the matter rested. But ourguide was more frightened than ever. They were four to two,he argued, for neither he nor the Mexican were armed. Andthere was no saying, etc., etc. . . . In short we had betterstay where we were till they got through. Fred laughed atthe 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 werebefore us; and when our men began to unsaddle at a hut aboutfifty yards from where they were feeding their horses, one ofthem, the biggest blackguard to look at of the lot, andthough the fiercest probably the greatest cur, shouted at usto put the saddles on again and 'get out of that.' He hadwarned us in the morning that they'd had enough of us, and,with a volley of oaths, advised us to be off. Fred, who wasin his shirt-sleeves, listened at first with a look ofsurprise at such cantankerous unreasonableness; but when theruffian fell to swear and threaten, he burst into one of hiscontemptuous guffaws, turned his back and began to feed hishorse with a corncob. Thus insulted, the digger ran into thehut (as I could see) to get his rifle. I snatched up my own,which I had been using every day to practise at the largeiguanas and macaws, and, well protected by my horse, calledout as I covered him, 'This is a double-barrelled rifle. Ifyou raise yours I'll drop you where you stand.' He wasforestalled and taken aback. Probably he meant nothing butbravado. Still, the situation was a critical one. ObviouslyI could not wait till he had shot my friend. But had it cometo shooting there would have been three left, unless mysecond barrel had disposed of another. Fortunately the'boss' of the digging party gauged the gravity of the crisisat a glance; and instead of backing him up as expected, sworeat him for a 'derned fool,' and ordered him to have no moreto do with us.
　　After that, as we drew near to the city, the country beingmore thickly populated, we no longer clashed.
　　This is not a guide-book, and I have nothing to tell of thatreaders would not find better described in their 'Murray.'
　　We put up in an excellent hotel kept by M. Arago, the brotherof the great French astronomer. The only other travellers init besides ourselves were the famous dancer Cerito, and herhusband the violin virtuoso, St. Leon. Luckily for me ourEnglish Minister was Mr. Percy Doyle, whom I had known asATTACHE at Paris when I was at Larue, and who was a greatfriend of the De Cubriers. We were thus provided with manyadvantages for 'sight-seeing' in and about the city, and alsofor more distant excursions through credentials from theMexican authorities. Under these auspices we visited thesilver 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 roomunder the verandah opened on to a large and beautiful gardenpartially enclosed on two sides. As I lay in bed of amorning reading Prescott's 'History of Mexico,' or watchingthe brilliant humming birds as they darted from flower toflower, and listened to the gentle plash of the fountain, mycup of enjoyment and romance was brimming over.
　　Just before I left, an old friend of mine arrived fromEngland. This was Mr. Joseph Clissold. He was aschoolfellow of mine at Sheen. He had pulled in theCambridge boat, and played in the Cambridge eleven. Heafterwards became a magistrate either in Australia or NewZealand. He was the best type of the good-natured, level-headed, hard-hitting Englishman. Curiously enough, as itturned out, the greater part of the only conversation we had(I was leaving the day after he came) was about thebrigandage on the road between Mexico and Vera Cruz. He toldme the passengers in the diligence which had brought him uphad been warned at Jalapa that the road was infested byrobbers; and should the coach be stopped they were on noaccount to offer resistance, for the robbers would certainlyshoot them if they did.
　　Fred chose to ride down to the coast, I went by coach. Thisheld six inside and two by the driver. Three of the insidepassengers sat with backs to the horses, the others facingthem. My coach was full, and stifling hot and stuffy it wasbefore we had done with it. Of the five others two were fatpriests, and for twenty hours my place was between them. Butin one way I had my revenge: I carried my loaded riflebetween my knees, and a pistol in my belt. The dismay, theterror, the panic, the protestations, the entreaties andexecrations of all the five, kept us at least from ENNUI formany a weary mile. I doubt whether the two priests everthumbed their breviaries so devoutly in their lives. Perhapsthat brought us salvation. We reached Vera Cruz withoutadventure, and in the autumn of '51 Fred and I landed safelyat Southampton.
　　Two months after I got back, I read an account in the 'Times'
　　of 'Joe' Clissold's return trip from Mexico. The coach inwhich he was travelling was stopped by robbers. FriendJoseph was armed with a double-barrelled smooth-bore loadedwith slugs. He considered this on the whole more suitablethan a rifle. When the captain of the brigands opened thecoach door and, pistol in hand, politely proffered hisrequest, Mr. Joe was quite ready for him, and confided thecontents of one barrel to the captain's bosom. Seeing thefate of their commander, and not knowing what else the dillymight contain, the rest of the band dug spurs into theirhorses and fled. But the sturdy oarsman and smart cricketerwas too quick for one of them - the horse followed hisfriends, but the rider stayed with his chief.
Chapter 33
THE following winter, my friend, George Cayley, was orderedto the south for his health. He went to Seville. I joinedhim there; and we took lodgings and remained till the spring.
　　As Cayley published an amusing account of our travels, 'LasAforjas, or the Bridle Roads of Spain,' as this is more thanfifty years ago - before the days of railways and tourists -and as I kept no journal of my own, I will make free use ofhis.
　　A few words will show the terms we were on.
　　I had landed at Cadiz, and had gone up the Guadalquivir in asteamer, whose advent at Seville my friend was on the look-out for. He describes his impatience for her arrival. Bysome mistake he is misinformed as to the time; he is aquarter of an hour late.
　　'A remnant of passengers yet bustled around the luggage,arguing, struggling and bargaining with a contentious companyof porters. Alas! H. was not to be seen among them. Therewas still a chance; he might be one of the passengers who hadgot ashore before my coming down, and I was preparing to rushback to the city to ransack the hotels. Just then aninternal convulsion shook the swarm around the luggage pile;out burst a little Gallego staggering under a huge Britishportmanteau, and followed by its much desired, and now almostdespaired of, proprietor.
　　'I saw him come bowling up the slope with his familiar gait,evidently unconscious of my presence, and wearing that sturdyand almost hostile demeanour with which a true Briton marchesinto a strange city through the army of officiousimportunates who never fail to welcome the true Briton'sarrival. As he passed the barrier he came close to me in thecrowd, still without recognising me, for though straightbefore his nose I was dressed in the costume of the people.
　　I touched his elbow and he turned upon me with a look ofimpatient defiance, thinking me one persecutor more.
　　'How quickly the expression changed, etc., etc. We rushedinto each other's arms, as much as the many great coats slungover his shoulders, and the deep folds of cloak in which Iwas enveloped, would mutually permit. Then, saying more thana thousand things in a breath, or rather in no breath at all,we set off in great glee for my lodgings, forgetting in theexcitement the poor little porter who was following at fulltrot, panting and puffing under the heavy portmanteau. Wegot home, but were no calmer. We dined, but could not eat.
　　We talked, but the news could not be persuaded to come outquick enough.'
　　Who has not known what is here described? Who does not envythe freshness, the enthusiasm, of such bubbling of warm younghearts? Oh, the pity of it! if these generous emotionsshould prove as transient as youth itself. And then, whenone of those young hearts is turned to dust, and one is leftto think of it - why then, 'tis not much comfort to reflectthat - nothing in the world is commoner.
　　We got a Spanish master and worked industriously, also pickedup all the Andalusian we could, which is as much like pureCastilian as wold-Yorkshire is to English. I also tooklessons on the guitar. Thus prepared, I imitated my friendand 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 theback, and elbows with green and scarlet patterns, a red FAJAor sash, and the sombrero which I believe is worn nowhereexcept in the bull-ring. The whole of this picturesque dressis now, I think, given up. I have spent the last two wintersin the south of Spain, but have not once seen it.
　　It must not be supposed that we chose this 'get-up' togratify any aesthetic taste of our own or other people's; itwas long before the days of the 'Too-toos,' whom Mr. Gilbertbrought to a timely end. We had settled to ride throughSpain from Gibraltar to Bayonne, choosing always the bridle-roads so as to avoid anything approaching a beaten track. Wewere to visit the principal cities and keep more or less anortherly course, staying on the way at such places asMalaga, Cordova, Toledo, Madrid, Valladolid, and Burgos. Therest was to be left to chance. We were to take no map; andwhen in doubt as to diverging roads, the toss of a coin wasto 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 passunnoticed. We never knew in what dirty POSADA or road-sideVENTA we should spend the night. For the most part it was atthe resting-place of the muleteers, which would be nothingbut a roughly paved dark chamber, one end occupied by mulesand the other by their drivers. We made our own omelets andsalad and chocolate; with the exception of the never failingBACALLAO, or salt fish, we rarely had anything else; androlling ourselves into our cloaks, with saddles for pillows,slept amongst the muleteers on the stone flags. We hadbought a couple of ponies in the Seville market for 7L. and8L. Our ALFORJAS or saddlebags contained all we needed. Ourportmanteaus were sent on from town to town, wherever we hadarranged to stop. Rough as the life was, we saw the peopleof Spain as no ordinary travellers could hope to see them.
　　The carriers, the shepherds, the publicans, the travellingmerchants, the priests, the barbers, the MOLINERAS ofAntequera, the Maritornes', the Sancho Panzas - all just asthey were seen by the immortal knight.
　　From the MOZOS DE LA CUADRA (ostlers) and ARRIEROS, upwardsand downwards, nowhere have I met, in the same class, withsuch natural politeness. This is much changed for the worsenow; but before the invasion of tourists one never passed aman on the road who did not salute one with a 'Vaya usted conDios.' Nor would the most indigent vagabond touch the filthyBACALLAO which he drew from his wallet till he hadcourteously addressed the stranger with the formula 'Quiereusted comer?' ('Will your Lordship please to eat?') Thecontrast between the people and the nobles in this respectwas very marked. We saw something of the latter in the clubat Seville, where one met men whose high-sounding names andtitles have come down to us from the greatest epochs ofSpanish history. Their ignorance was surprising. Not one ofthem had been farther than Madrid. Not one of them knew aword of any language but his own, nor was he acquainted withthe rudiments even of his country's history. Theirconversation was restricted to the bull-ring and the cockpit,to cards and women. Their chief aim seemed to be to staggerus with the number of quarterings they bore upon theirescutcheons; 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 thecrown of his hat, and by means of which he explained to themthat he too was by rights a Spanish nobleman. With theutmost gravity he delivered some such medley as this: HisIberian origin dated back to the time of Hannibal, who, afterhis defeat of the Papal forces and capture of Rome, had, asthey well knew, married Princess Peri Banou, youngestdaughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. The issue of themarriage was the famous Cardinal Chicot, from whom he -George Cayley - was of direct male descent. When Chicot wasslain by Oliver Cromwell at the battle of Hastings, hisdescendants, foiled in their attempt to capture England withthe Spanish Armada, settled in the principality of Yorkshire,adopted the noble name of Cayley, and still governed thatprovince 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 Cayleyspeak; for though I kept no journal, we had agreed to write ajoint account of our trip, and our notebooks were commonproperty.
　　After leaving Malaga we met some beggars on the road, to oneof whom, 'an old hag with one eye and a grizzly beard,' Ithrew the immense sum of a couple of 2-cuarto pieces. An oldman riding behind us on an ass with empty panniers, seeingfortunes being scattered about the road with such recklessand unbounded profusion, came up alongside, and entered intoa piteous detail of his poverty. When he wound up with plainbegging, the originality and boldness of the idea of amounted beggar struck us in so humorous a light that we couldnot help laughing. As we rode along talking his case over,Cayley said, 'Suppose we rob him. He has sold his marketproduce in Malaga, and depend upon it, has a pocketful ofmoney.' We waited for him to come up. When he got fairlybetween us, Cayley pulled out his revolver (we both carriedpistols) and thus addressed him:
　　'Impudent old scoundrel! stand still. If thou stirr'st handor foot, or openest thy mouth, I will slay thee like a dog.
　　Thou greedy miscreant, who art evidently a man of propertyand hast an ass to ride upon, art not satisfied withouttrying to rob the truly poor of the alms we give them.
　　Therefore hand over at once the two dollars for which thouhast 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 Ipossess. But I am poor, very poor, and I have a sick wife atthe disposition of your worships.'
　　'Wherefore art thou fumbling at thy foot? Thou carriest notthy wife in thy shoe?'
　　'I cannot untie the string - my hand trembles; will yourworships permit me to take out my knife?'
　　He did so, and cutting the carefully knotted thong of aleather bag which had been concealed in the leg of hisstocking, poured out a handful of small coin and began toweep piteously.
　　Said Cayley, 'Come, come, none of that, or we shall feel itour duty to shoot thy donkey that thou may'st have somethingto whimper for.'
　　The genuine tears of the poor old fellow at last touched theheart of the jester.
　　'We know now that thou art poor,' said he, 'for we have takenall thou hadst. And as it is the religion of the Ingleses,founded on the practice of their celebrated saint, RobinoHoodo, to levy funds from the rich for the benefit of theneedy, hold out thy sombero, and we will bestow a trifle uponthee.'
　　So saying he poured back the plunder; to which was added, tothe astonishment of the receiver, some supplementary piecesthat nearly equalled the original sum.
Chapter 34
BEFORE setting out from Seville we had had our Foreign Officepassports duly VISED. Our profession was given as that oftravelling artists, and the VISE included the permission tocarry arms. More than once the sight of our pistols causedus to be stopped by the CARABINEROS. On one occasion theseroad-guards disputed the wording of the VISE. They protestedthat 'armas' meant 'escopetas,' not pistols, which wereforbidden. Cayley indignantly retorted, 'Nothing isforbidden to Englishmen. Besides, it is specified in ourpassports that we are 'personas de toda confianza,' whichcheckmated 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 gavemuch satisfaction. We charged one peseta (seven-pence), ortwo, a head, according to the means of the sitter. Thefiction that we were earning our bread wholesomely tended tomoderate the charge for it.
　　Passing through the land of Don Quixote's exploits, wereverentially visited any known spot which these had renderedfamous. Amongst such was the VENTA of Quesada, from which,or from Quixada, as some conjecture, the knight derived hissurname. It was here, attracted by its castellated style,and by two 'ladies of pleasure' at its door - whose virginityhe at once offered to defend, that he spent the night of hisfirst sally. It was here that, in his shirt, he kept guardtill morning over the armour he had laid by the well. It washere that, with his spear, he broke the head of the carrierwhom he took for another knight bent on the rape of thevirgin princesses committed to his charge. Here, too, it wasthat the host of the VENTA dubbed him with the covetedknighthood which qualified him for his noble deeds.
　　To Quesada we wended our way. We asked the Senor Huespedwhether he knew anything of the history of his VENTA. Was itnot very ancient?
　　'Oh no, it was quite modern. But on the site of it had stooda 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 thegallant knight had left them. Curiously, too, there wereremains of an outhouse with a crenellated parapet, suggestiveenough of a castle.
　　From Quesada we rode to Argamasilla del Alba, where Cervanteswas imprisoned, and where the First Part of Don Quixote waswritten.
　　In his Life of Cervantes, Don Gregorio Mayano throws somedoubt upon this. Speaking of the attacks of hiscontemporary, the 'Aragonian,' Don Gregorio writes (I giveOzell's translation): 'As for this scandalous fellow'ssaying that Cervantes wrote his First Part of "Don Quixote"in a prison, and that that might make it so dull andincorrect, Cervantes did not think fit to give any answerconcerning his being imprisoned, perhaps to avoid givingoffence to the ministers of justice; for certainly hisimprisonment must not have been ignominious, since Cervanteshimself voluntarily mentions it in his Preface to the FirstPart of "Don Quixote."'
　　This reasoning, however, does not seem conclusive; for theonly reference to the subject in the preface is as follows:
　　'What could my sterile and uncultivated genius produce butthe history of a child, meagre, adust, and whimsical, full ofvarious wild imaginations never thought of before; like oneyou may suppose born in a prison, where every inconveniencekeeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation?'
　　We took up our quarters in the little town at the 'Posada dela Mina.' While our OLLA was being prepared; we asked thehostess whether she had ever heard of the celebrated DonMiguel de Cervantes, who had been imprisoned there? (I willquote Cayley).
　　'No, Senores; I think I have heard of one Cervantes, but hedoes not live here at present.'
　　'Do you know anything of Don Quixote?'
　　'Oh, yes. He was a great CABALLERO, who lived here someyears ago. His house is over the way, on the other side ofthe PLAZA, with the arms over the door. The father of theAlcalde is the oldest man in the PUEBLO; perhaps he mayremember him.'
　　We were amused at his hero's fame outliving that of theauthor. But is it not so with others - the writers of theBook 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 wereannounced and shown in. We begged them to be seated. . . .
　　We sat opposite on the ends of our respective beds to hearwhat they might have to communicate. A venerable old manopened the conference.
　　'"We have understood, gentlemen, that you have come hitherseeking 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 moreaccustomed to converse in Castilian; pray proceed."'"I am the Medico of the place, an old man, as you see; andwhat little I know has reached me by tradition. It isreported that Cervantes was paying his addresses to a younglady, whose name was Quijana or Quijada. The Alcalde,disapproving of the suit, put him into a dungeon under hishouse, and kept him there a year. Once he escaped and fled,but he was taken in Toboso, and brought back. Cervanteswrote 'Don Quixote' as a satire on the Alcalde, who was avery proud man, full of chivalresque ideas. You can see thedungeon to-morrow; but you should see the BATANES (water-mills) of the Guadiana, whose 'golpear' so terrified SanchoPanza. They are at about three leagues distance."'
　　The old gentleman added that he was proud to receivestrangers who came to do honour to the memory of hisillustrious townsman; and hoped we would visit him next day,on our return from the fulling-mills, when he would have thepleasure of conducting us to the house of the Quijanas, inthe cellars of which Cervantes was confined.
　　To the BATANES we went next morning. Their historicalimportance entitles them to an accurate description. Nonecould be more lucid than that of my companion. 'Theseclumsy, ancient machines are composed of a couple of hugewooden mallets, slung in a timber framework, which, beingpushed out of the perpendicular by knobs on a water-wheel,clash back again alternately in two troughs, poundingseverely whatever may be put in between the face of themallet and the end of the trough into which the water runs.'
　　It will be remembered that, after a copious meal, Sanchohaving neglected to replenish the gourd, both he and hismaster suffered greatly from thirst. It was now 'so dark,'
　　says the history, 'that they could see nothing; but they hadnot gone two hundred paces when a great noise of waterreached their ears. . . . The sound rejoiced themexceedingly; and, stopping to listen from whence it came,they heard on a sudden another dreadful noise, which abatedtheir pleasure occasioned by that of the water, especiallySancho's. . . . They heard a dreadful din of irons and chainsrattling across one another, and giving mighty strokes intime and measure which, together with the furious noise ofthe water, would have struck terror into any other heart thanthat of Don Quixote.' For him it was but an opportunity forsome valorous achievement. So, having braced on his bucklerand mounted Rosinante, he brandished his spear, and explainedto his trembling squire that by the will of Heaven he wasreserved for deeds which would obliterate the memory of thePlatirs, Tablantes, the Olivantes, and Belianesas, with thewhole 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 nomore; if I do not return in that time you may go to Toboso,where you shall say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that herenthralled knight died in attempting things that might havemade him worthy to be styled "hers."'
　　Sancho, more terrified than ever at the thoughts of beingleft alone, reminded his master that it was unwise to temptGod by undertaking exploits from which there was no escapingbut by a miracle; and, in order to emphasize this verysensible remark, secretly tied Rosinante's hind legs togetherwith his halter. Seeing the success of his contrivance, hesaid: 'Ah, sir! behold how Heaven, moved by my tears andprayers, has ordained that Rosinante cannot go,' and thenwarned him not to set Providence at defiance. Still Sanchowas much too frightened by the infernal clatter to relax hishold of the knight's saddle. For some time he strove tobeguile his own fears with a very long story about thegoatherd Lope Ruiz, who was in love with the shepherdessTorralva - 'a jolly, strapping wench, a little scornful, andsomewhat masculine.' Now, whether owing to the cold of themorning, which was at hand, or whether to some lenitive dieton which he had supped, it so befell that Sancho . . . whatnobody could do for him. The truth is, the honest fellow wasovercome by panic, and under no circumstances would, or did,he for one instant leave his master's side. Nay, when theknight spurred his steed and found it could not move, Sanchoreminded him that the attempt was useless, since Rosinantewas restrained by enchantment. This the knight readilyadmitted, but stoutly protested that he himself was anythingbut enchanted by the close proximity of his squire.
　　We all remember the grave admonitions of Don Quixote, and theingenious endeavours of Sancho to lay the blame upon theknight. But the final words of the Don contain a moralapposite to so many other important situations, that theymust not be omitted here. 'Apostare, replico Sancho, quepensa vuestra merced que yo he hecho de mi persona algunacosa que no deba.' 'I will lay a wager,' replied Sancho,'that your worship thinks that I have &c.' The brief, butmemorable, answer was: 'Peor es meneallo, amigo Sancho,'
　　which, as no translation could do justice to it, must be leftas it stands. QUIETA NON MOVERE.
　　We were nearly meeting with an adventure here. While I wasbusy making a careful drawing of the BATANES, Cayley's ponywas as much alarmed by the rushing waters as had been SanchoPanza. In his endeavours to picket the animal, my frienddropped a pistol which I had lent him to practise with,although he carried a revolver of his own. Not till he hadtied up the pony at some little distance did he discover theloss. In vain he searched the spot where he knew the pistolmust have escaped from his FAJA. Near it, three rough-looking knaves in shaggy goatskin garments, with guns overtheir shoulders, were watching the progress of my sketch. Onhis return Cayley asked two of these (the third moved away ashe came up) whether they had seen the pistol. They declaredthey had not; upon which he said he must search them. He wasnot a man to be trifled with, and although they refused atfirst, they presently submitted. He then overtook the third,and at once accused him of the theft. The man swore he knewnothing of the lost weapon, and brought his gun to thecharge. As he did so, Cayley caught sight of the pistolunder the fellow's sheepskin jacket, and with characteristicpromptitude seized it, while he presented a revolver at thethief's head. All this he told me with great glee a minuteor two later.
　　When we got back to Argamasilla the Medico was alreadyawaiting us. He conducted us to the house of the Quijanas,where an old woman-servant, lamp in hand, showed the way downa flight of steps into the dungeon. It was a low vaultedchamber, 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 habitof writing at the farthest end, and that he was allowed alamp for the purpose. We accepted the information withimplicit faith; silently picturing on our mental retinas theimage of him whose genius had brightened the dark hours ofmillions for over three hundred years. One could see thespare form of the man of action pacing up and down his cell,unconscious of prison walls, roaming in spirit through theboundless realms of Fancy, his piercing eyes intent upon theconjured visions of his brain. One noted his vast expanse ofbrow, his short, crisp, curly hair, his high cheek-bones andsingularly high-bridged nose, his refined mouth, smallprojecting chin and pointed beard. One noticed, too, as heturned, the stump of the left wrist clasped by the remaininghand. Who could stand in such a presence and fail to bowwith veneration before this insulted greatness! Potentatespass like Ozymandias, but not the men who, through the ages,help to save us from this tread-mill world, and fromourselves.
　　We visited Cuenca, Segovia, and many an out-of-the-way spot.
　　If it be true, as Don Quixote declares, that 'No hay librotan malo que no tenga alguna cosa buena' ('there is no bookso worthless that has not some good in it'), still more trueis this of a country like Spain. And the pleasantest placesare just those which only by-roads lead to. In and near thetowns every other man, if not by profession still bypractice, is a beggar. From the seedy-looking rascal in thestreet, of whom you incautiously ask the way, and whopiteously whines 'para zapatos' - for the wear and tear ofshoe leather, to the highest official, one and all hold outtheir hands for the copper CUARTO or the eleemosynarysinecure. As it was then, so is it now; the Government wantssupport, and it is always to be had, at a price; deputiesalways want 'places.' For every duty the functionaryperforms, or ought to perform, he receives his bribe. TheGovernment 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 villagesamid the woods and the mountains, with their score or so ofhouses and their little chapel with its tinkling old bell andits poverty-stricken curate, the hard-working, simple-mindedmen are too proud and too honest to ask for more than a pinchof tobacco for the CIGARILLO. The maidens are comely, and aschaste as - can reasonably be expected.
　　Madrid is worth visiting - not for its bull-fights, which aredisgusting proofs of man's natural brutality, but for itspicture gallery. No one knows what Velasquez could do, orhas done, till he has seen Madrid; and Charles V. waspractically master of Europe when the collection was in hishands. The Escurial's chief interests are in itsassociations with Charles V. and Philip II. In the dark andgloomy little bedroom of the latter is a small window openinginto the church, so that the King could attend the servicesin bed if necessary.
　　It cannot be said of Philip that he was nothing if notreligious, for Nero even was not a more indefatigablemurderer, nor a more diabolical specimen of cruelty andsuperstition. The very thought of the wretch tempts one torevolt at human piety, at any rate where priestcraft and itsfabrications are at the bottom of it.
　　When at Madrid we met Mr. Arthur Birch. He had been withCayley at Eton, as captain of the school. While we weretogether, he received and accepted the offer of an Etonmastership. We were going by diligence to Toledo, and Birchagreed to go with us. I mention the fact because the placereminds me of a clever play upon its name by the Etonscholar. Cayley bought a Toledo sword-blade, and asked Birchfor a motto to engrave upon it. In a minute or two he hitoff this: TIMETOLETUM, which reads Time Toletum=HonourToledo, or Timeto Letum=Fear death. Cayley's attempts,though not so neat, were not bad. Here are a couple ofthem:-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 yearthat Cayley got the English one.
　　Before we set forth again upon our gipsy tramp, I received aletter from Mr. Ellice bidding me hasten home to contest theBorough of Cricklade in the General Election of 1852. Underthese circumstances we loitered but little on the Northernroads. At the end of May we reached Yrun. Here we sold ourponies - now quite worn out - for twenty-three dollars -about five guineas. So that a thousand miles of locomotionhad cost us a little over five guineas apiece. Not countinghotels at Madrid and such smart places, our daily cost forselves and ponies rarely exceeded six pesetas, or threeshillings each all told. The best of it was, the triprestored the health of my friend.
Chapter 35
　　IN February of this year, 1852, Lord Palmerston, aided by anincongruous force of Peelites and Protectionists, turned LordJohn Russell out of office on his Militia Bill. Lord Derby,with Disraeli as Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader ofthe House of Commons, came into power on a cry forProtection.
　　Not long after my return to England, I was packed off tocanvas the borough of Cricklade. It was then a veryextensive borough, including a large agricultural district,as well as Swindon, the headquarters of the Great WesternRailway. For many years it had returned two Conservativemembers, Messrs. Nield and Goddard. It was looked upon as animpregnable Tory stronghold, and the fight was little betterthan a forlorn hope.
　　My headquarters were at Coleshill, Lord Radnor's. The oldlord had, in his Parliamentary days, been a Radical; hence,my advanced opinions found great favour in his eyes. Myprogramme was - Free Trade, Vote by Ballot, andDisestablishment. Two of these have become common-places(one perhaps effete), and the third is nearer toaccomplishment than it was then.
　　My first acquaintance with a constituency, amongst whom Iworked enthusiastically for six weeks, was comic enough. Myinstructions were to go to Swindon; there an agent, whom Ihad never seen, would join me. A meeting of my supportershad been arranged by him, and I was to make my maiden speechin the market-place.
　　My address, it should be stated - ultra-Radical, of course -was mainly concocted for me by Mr. Cayley, an almost rabidTory, and then member for the North Riding of Yorkshire, butan old Parliamentary hand; and, in consequence of myattachment to his son, at that time and until his death, likea father to me.
　　When the train stopped at Swindon, there was a crowd ofpassengers, but not a face that I knew; and it was not tillall but one or two had left, that a business-looking man cameup and asked if I were the candidate for Cricklade. He toldme that a carriage was in attendance to take us up to thetown; and that a procession, headed by a band, was ready toaccompany us thither. The procession was formed mainly ofthe Great Western boiler-makers and artisans. Theirenthusiasm 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 friendthe Honourable Samuel Slumkey, that by the time I reached themarket-place, I had forgotten every syllable of the speechwhich I had carefully learnt by heart. Nor was it the bandalone that upset me; going up the hill the carriage was allbut capsized by the frightened horses and the breaking of thepole. The gallant boiler-makers, however, at once removedthe horses, and dragged the carriage with cheers of defianceinto the crowd awaiting us.
　　My agent had settled that I was to speak from a window of thehotel. The only available one was an upper window, the lowersash of which could not be persuaded to keep up without beingheld. The consequence was, just as I was getting over theembarrassment of extemporary oration, down came the sash andguillotined me. This put the crowd in the best of humours;they roared with laughter, and after that we got on capitallytogether.
　　A still more inopportune accident happened to me later in theday, when speaking at Shrivenham. A large yard enclosed bybuildings was chosen for the meeting. The difficulty was toelevate the speaker above the heads of the assembly. In onecorner of the yard was a water-butt. An ingenious electorgot a board, placed it on the top of the butt - which wasfull of water - and persuaded me to make this my rostrum.
　　Here, again, in the midst of my harangue - perhaps I stampedto emphasize my horror of small loaves and other Toryabominations - the board gave way; and I narrowly escaped aducking by leaping into the arms of a 'supporter.'
　　The end of it all was that my agent at the last moment threwup the sponge. The farmers formed a serried phalanx againstFree Trade; it was useless to incur the expense of a poll.
　　Then came the bill. It was a heavy one; for in addition tomy London agent - a professional electioneering functionary -were the local agents at towns like Malmesbury, WoottonBassett, Shrivenham, &c., &c. My eldest brother, who was asoberer-minded politician than I, although very liberal to mein other ways, declined to support my political opinions. Imyself was quite unable to pay the costs. Knowing this, LordRadnor 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 ofthe two seats would be safe upon a future contest.
　　'And who,' asked the old gentleman, with a benevolent grin onhis face, 'who is going to pay your expenses?'
　　'Goodness knows, sir,' said I; 'I hope they won't come downupon me. I haven't a thousand pounds in the world, unless Itap my fortune.'
　　'Well,' said his Lordship, with a chuckle, 'I haven't paid mysubscription 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 thepatronage Secretary to the Treasury. At the next election,as Lord Radnor predicted, Lord Ashley, Lord Shaftesbury'seldest son, won one of the two seats for the Liberals withthe greatest ease.
　　As Coleshill was an open house to me from that time as longas Lord Radnor lived, I cannot take leave of the dear old manwithout an affectionate word at parting. Creevey has an ill-natured fling at him, as he has at everybody else, but akinder-hearted and more perfect gentleman would be difficultto meet with. His personality was a marked one. He was alittle man, with very plain features, a punch-like nose, anextensive mouth, and hardly a hair on his head. But in spiteof these peculiarities, his face was pleasant to look at, forit was invariably animated by a sweet smile, a touch ofhumour, and a decided air of dignity. Born in 1779, hedressed after the orthodox Whig fashion of his youth, in buffand blue, his long-tailed coat reaching almost to his heels.
　　His manner was a model of courtesy and simplicity. He usedantiquated expressions: called London 'Lunnun,' Rome 'Room,'
　　a balcony a 'balcony'; he always spoke of the clergyman asthe 'pearson,' and called his daughter Lady Mary, 'Meary.'
　　Instead of saying 'this day week' he would say this daysen'nit' (for sen'night).
　　The independence of his character was very noticeable. As aninstance: A party of twenty people, say, would be invitedfor a given day. Abundance of carriages would be sent tomeet the trains, so that all the guests would arrive in ampletime for dinner. It generally happened that some of them,not knowing the habits of the house, or some duchess or greatlady who might assume that clocks were made for her and notshe for clocks, would not appear in the drawing-room till aquarter of an hour after the dinner gong had sounded. Ifanyone did so, he or she would find that everybody else hadgot through soup and fish. If no one but Lady Mary had beendown when dinner was announced, his Lordship would haveoffered his arm to his daughter, and have taken his seat atthe table alone. After the first night, no one was everlate. In the morning he read prayers to the household beforebreakfast with the same precise punctuality.
　　Lady Mary Bouverie, his unmarried daughter, was the very bestof hostesses. The house under her management was theperfection of comfort. She married an old and dear friend ofmine, Sir James Wilde, afterwards the Judge, Lord Penzance.
　　I was his 'best man.'
　　My 'Ride over the Rocky Mountains' was now published; and, asthe field was a new one, the writer was rewarded, for a fewweeks, with invitations to dinner, and the usual tickets for'drums' and dances. To my astonishment, or rather to myalarm, I received a letter from the Secretary of the RoyalGeographical Society (Charles Fox, or perhaps Sir GeorgeSimpson had, I think, proposed me - I never knew), to saythat I had been elected a member. Nothing was further frommy ambition. The very thought shrivelled me with a sense ofignorance and insignificance. I pictured to myself anassembly of old fogies crammed with all the 'ologies. Ibroke into a cold perspiration when I fancied myself calledupon to deliver a lecture on the comparative sea-bottomy ofthe Oceanic globe, or give my theory of the simultaneoussighting by 'little Billee' of ' Madagascar, and North, andSouth Amerikee.' Honestly, I had not the courage to accept;and, young Jackanapes as I was, left the Secretary's letterunanswered.
　　But a still greater honour - perhaps the greatest complimentI ever had paid me - was to come. I had lodgings at thistime in an old house, long since pulled down, in York Street.
　　One day, when I was practising the fiddle, who should walkinto my den but Rogers the poet! He had never seen me in hislife. He was in his ninetieth year, and he had climbed thestairs to the first floor to ask me to one of his breakfastparties. To say nothing of Rogers' fame, his wealth, hisposition in society, those who know what his cynicism and hisworldliness were, will understand what such an effort,physical and moral, must have cost him. He always lookedlike a death's head, but his ghastly pallor, after thatAlpine ascent, made me feel as if he had come - to stay.
　　These breakfasts were entertainments of no ordinarydistinction. The host himself was of greater interest thanthe most eminent of his guests. All but he, were more orless one's contemporaries: Rogers, if not quite as dead ashe looked, was ancient history. He was old enough to havebeen the father of Byron, of Shelley, of Keats, and of Moore.
　　He was several years older than Scott, or Wordsworth, orColeridge, and only four years younger than Pitt. He hadknown all these men, and could, and did, talk as no othercould talk, of all of them. Amongst those whom I met atthese breakfasts were Cornewall Lewis, Delane, the Grotes,Macaulay, Mrs. Norton, Monckton Milnes, William Harcourt (theonly one younger than myself), but just beginning to beknown, and others of scarcely less note.
　　During the breakfast itself, Rogers, though seated at tablein an armchair, took no part either in the repast or in theconversation; 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. Thefirst time I witnessed this curious resurrection, I whisperedsomething to my neighbour, at which he laughed. The oldman's eye was too sharp for us.
　　'You are laughing at me,' said he; 'I dare say you younggentlemen think me an old fellow; but there are younger thanI who are older. You should see Tommy Moore. I asked him tobreakfast, but he's too weak - weak here, sir,' and he tappedhis forehead. 'I'm not that.' (This was the year that Mooredied.) He certainly was not; but his whole discourse was ofthe past. It was as though he would not condescend todiscuss events or men of the day. What were either to thedays and men that he had known - French revolutions, battlesof Trafalgar and Waterloo, a Nelson and a Buonaparte, a Pitt,a Burke, a Fox, a Johnson, a Gibbon, a Sheridan, and all themen of letters and all the poets of a century gone by? EvenMacaulay had for once to hold his tongue; and could onlysmile impatiently at what perhaps he thought an old man'sastonishing garrulity. But if a young and pretty womantalked to him, it was not his great age that he vaunted, noryet the 'pleasures of memory' - one envied the adroitness ofhis flattery, and the gracefulness of his repartee.
　　My friend George Cayley had a couple of dingy little roomsbetween Parliament Street and the river. Much of my time wasspent there with him. One night after dinner, quite late, wewere building castles amidst tobacco clouds, when, followinga 'May I come in?' Tennyson made his appearance. This wasthe first time I had ever met him. We gave him the onlyarmchair in the room; and pulling out his dudeen and placingafoot on each side of the hob of the old-fashioned littlegrate, he made himself comfortable before he said anotherword. He then began to talk of pipes and tobacco. Andnever, I should say, did this important topic afford so muchingenious conversation before. We discussed the relativemerits of all the tobaccos in the world - of moist tobaccoand dry tobacco, of old tobacco and new tobacco, of claypipes and wooden pipes and meerschaum pipes. What was thebest way to colour them, the advantages of colouring them,the beauty of the 'culotte,' the coolness it gave to thesmoke, &c. We listened to the venerable sage - he was thenforty-three and we only five or six and twenty - as we shouldhave listened to a Homer or an Aristotle, and he thoroughlyenjoyed our appreciation of his jokes.
　　Some of them would have startled such of his admirers whoknew him only by his poems; for his stories were anything butpoetical - rather humorous one might say, on the whole.
　　Here's one of them: he had called last week on the Duchessof Sutherland at Stafford House. Her two daughters were withher, the Duchess of Argyll and the beautiful Lady ConstanceGrosvenor, afterwards Duchess of Westminster. They happenedto be in the garden. After strolling about for a while, theMama Duchess begged him to recite some of his poetry. Hechose 'Come into the garden, Maud' - always a favourite ofthe poet's, and, as may be supposed, many were the fervidexclamations of 'How beautiful!' When they came into thehouse, a princely groom of the chambers caught his eye andhis ear, and, pointing to his own throat, courteouslywhispered: 'Your dress is not quite as you would wish it,sir.'
　　'I had come out without a necktie; and there I was, spoutingmy lines to the three Graces, as DECOLLETE as a struttingturkey cock.'
　　The only other allusion to poetry or literature that nightwas a story I told him of a Mr. Thomas Wrightson, a Yorkshirebanker, and a fanatical Swedenborgian. Tommy Wrightson, whowas one of the most amiable and benevolent of men, spent hislife in making a manuscript transcript of Swedenborg's works.
　　His writing was a marvel of calligraphic art; he himself, acuriosity. Swedenborg was for him an avatar; but if he haddoubted of Tennyson's ultimate apotheosis, I think he wouldhave elected to seek him in 'the other place.' Anyhow, Mr.
　　Wrightson avowed to me that he repeated 'Locksley Hall' everymorning 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 himwith 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 hisadmirer, it may be related that the latter, wishing for thepoet's sign-manual, wrote and asked him for it. He addressedTennyson, whom he had never seen, as 'My dear Alfred.' Thereply, which he showed to me, was addressed 'My dear Tom.'
Chapter 36
MY stepfather, Mr. Ellice, having been in two Ministries -Lord Grey's in 1830, and Lord Melbourne's in 1834 - hadnecessarily a large parliamentary acquaintance; and as Icould always dine at his house in Arlington Street when Ipleased, I had constant opportunities of meeting most of theprominent Whig politicians, and many other eminent men of theday. One of the dinner parties remains fresh in my memory -not because of the distinguished men who happened to bethere, but because of the statesman whose name has sincebecome 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 hisson 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 Ishould have stopped to listen to him. Unless I am very muchmistaken, he'll make his mark, and we shall hear more ofhim.'
　　There were others dining there that night whom it isinteresting 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), LordBrougham, and two curious old men both remarkable, if fornothing else, for their great age. One was George Byng,father of the first Lord Strafford, and 'father' of the Houseof Commons; the other Sir Robert Adair, who was Ambassador atConstantinople when Byron was there. Old Mr. Byng looked asaged as he was, and reminded one of Mr. Smallweed doubled upin his porter's chair. Quite different was his compeer. Wewere standing in the recess of the drawing-room window afterdinner when Sir Robert said to me:
　　'Very shaky, isn't he! Ah! he was my fag at Eton, and I'vegot the best of it still.'
　　Brougham having been twice in the same Government with Mr.
　　Ellice, and being devoted to young Mrs. Edward Ellice, hischarming daughter-in-law, was a constant visitor at 18Arlington Street. Mrs. Ellice often told me of hispeculiarities, which must evidently have been known toothers. Walter Bagehot, speaking of him, says:
　　'Singular stories of eccentricity and excitement, even ofsomething more than either of these, darken these latteryears.'
　　What Mrs. Ellice told me was, that she had to keep a sharpwatch on Lord Brougham if he sat near her writing-table whilehe 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 thanthe dark hint, for certainly we all laughed at it as nothingbut eccentricity.
　　But the man who interested me most (for though when in theNavy I had heard a hundred legends of his exploits, I hadnever seen him before) was Lord Dundonald. Mr. Ellicepresented me to him, and the old hero asked why I had leftthe Navy.
　　'The finest service in the world; and likely, begad, to havesomething to do before long.'
　　This was only a year before the Crimean war. With his strongrough features and tousled mane, he looked like a grey lion.
　　One expected to see him pick his teeth with a pocketboarding-pike.
　　The thought of the old sailor always brings before me theoften mooted question raised by the sentimentalists andhumanitarians concerning the horrors of war. Not long afterthis time, the papers - the sentimentalist papers - werefurious with Lord Dundonald for suggesting the adoption bythe Navy of a torpedo which he himself, I think, hadinvented. The bare idea of such wholesale slaughter wasrevolting to a Christian world. He probably did not see muchdifference between sinking a ship with a torpedo, and firinga shell into her magazine; and likely enough had as muchrespect for the opinions of the woman-man as he had for theman-woman.
　　There is always a large number of people in the world whosuffer from emotional sensitiveness and susceptibility tonervous shocks of all kinds. It is curious to observe thedifferent and apparently unallied forms in which thesecharacteristics manifest themselves. With some, they exhibitextreme repugnance to the infliction of physical pain forwhatever end; with others there seems to be a morbid dread ofviolated pudicity. Strangely enough the two phases arefrequently associated in the same individual. Bothtendencies are eminently feminine; the affinity lies in ahysterical nature. Thus, excessive pietism is a frequentconcomitant of excessive sexual passion; this, though notablythe case with women, is common enough with men of undulyneurotic temperaments.
　　Only the other day some letters appeared in the 'Times' aboutthe flogging of boys in the Navy. And, as a sentimentalargument against it, we were told by the HumanitarianLeaguers that it is 'obscene.' This is just what might beexpected, and bears out the foregoing remarks. But suchsaintly simplicity reminds us of the kind of squeamishness ofwhich 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 inWhat 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 whofainted because the dining-table had 'ceder legs,' but neverbefore that a 'switching' was 'obscene.' We do not envy theunwholesomeness of a mind so watchful for obscenity.
　　Be that as it may, so far as humanity is concerned, thishypersensitive effeminacy has but a noxious influence; andall the more for the twofold reason that it is sometimessincere, though more often mere cant and hypocrisy. At thebest, it is a perversion of the truth; for emotion combinedwith ignorance, as it is in nine hundred and ninety-ninecases out of a thousand, is a serious obstacle in the path ofrational judgment.
　　Is sentimentalism on the increase? It seems to be so, if weare to judge by a certain portion of the Press, and byspeeches in Parliament. But then, this may only mean thatthe propensity finds easier means of expression than it didin the days of dearer paper and fewer newspapers, and alsothat speakers find sentimental humanity an inexhaustible fundfor political capital. The excess of emotional attributes inman over his reasoning powers must, one would think, havebeen at least as great in times past as it is now. Yet it isdoubtful whether it showed itself then so conspicuously as itdoes at present. Compare the Elizabethan age with our own.
　　What would be said now of the piratical deeds of such men asFrobisher, Raleigh, Gilbert, and Richard Greville? SupposeLord Roberts had sent word to President Kruger that if fourEnglish soldiers, imprisoned at Pretoria, were molested, hewould execute 2,000 Boers and send him their heads? Theclap-trap cry of 'Barbaric Methods' would have gone forth tosome purpose; it would have carried every constituency in thecountry. Yet this is what Drake did when four Englishsailors were captured by the Spaniards, and imprisoned by theSpanish Viceroy in Mexico.
　　Take the Elizabethan drama, and compare it with ours. Whatshould we think of our best dramatist if, in one of histragedies, a man's eyes were plucked out on the stage, and ifhe that did it exclaimed as he trampled on them, 'Out, vilejelly! where is thy lustre now?' or of a Titus Andronicuscutting two throats, while his daughter ''tween her stumpsdoth hold a basin to receive their blood'?
　　'Humanity,' says Taine, speaking of these times, 'is as muchlacking as decency. Blood, suffering, does not move them.'
　　Heaven forbid that we should return to such brutality! Icite these passages merely to show how times are changed; andto suggest that with the change there is a decided loss ofmanliness. 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 moregentle? No; there is more puritanism, but not more truepiety. It is only the outside of the cup and the platterthat are made clean, the inward part is just as full ofwickedness, and all the worse for its hystericalfastidiousness.
　　To what do we owe this tendency? Are we degenerating morallyas well as physically? Consider the physical side of thequestion. Fifty years ago the standard height for admissionto the army was five feet six inches. It is now lowered tofive feet. Within the last ten years the increase in theurban population has been nearly three and a half millions.
　　Within the same period the increase in the rural populationis less than a quarter of one million. Three out of fiverecruits for the army are rejected; a large proportion ofthem because their teeth are gone or decayed. Do thesefigures need comment? Can you look for sound minds in suchunsound bodies? Can you look for manliness, for self-respect, and self-control, or anything but animalisticsentimentality?
　　It is not the character of our drama or of our works offiction that promotes and fosters this propensity; but may itnot 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 henceneurotic, elements of our nature? If such considerationsapply mainly to dwellers in overcrowded towns, there is yetanother cause which may operate on those more favoured, - thevast increase in wealth and luxury. Wherever these havegrown to excess, whether in Babylon, or Nineveh, or Thebes,or Alexandria, or Rome, they have been the symptoms ofdecadence, and forerunners of the nation's collapse.
　　Let us be humane, let us abhor the horrors of war, and strainour utmost energies to avert them. But we might as wellforbid the use of surgical instruments as the weapons thatare most destructive in warfare. If a limb is rotting withgangrene, shall it not be cut away? So if the passions whichoccasion wars are inherent in human nature, we must face theevil stout-heartedly; and, for one, I humbly question whetherany abolition of dum-dum bullets or other attempts tomitigate this disgrace to humanity, do, in the end, more goodthan harm.
　　It is elsewhere that we must look for deliverance, - to theoverwhelming power of better educated peoples; to closerintercourse between the nations; to the conviction that, fromthe most selfish point of view even, peace is the only pathto prosperity; to the restraint of the baser Press which, formere pelf, spurs the passions of the multitude instead ofcurbing them; and, finally, to deliverance from the 'all-potent wills of Little Fathers by Divine right,' and from theignoble ambition of bullet-headed uncles and brothers andcousins - a curse from which England, thank the Gods! is, andlet us hope, ever will be, free. But there are morecountries than one that are not so - just now; and the worldmay ere long have to pay the bitter penalty.
Chapter 37
IT is curious if one lives long enough to watch the change oftaste in books. I have no lending-library statistics athand, but judging by the reading of young people, or of thosewho read merely for their amusement, the authors theypatronise are nearly all living or very recent. What we oldstagers esteemed as classical in fiction and BELLES-LETTRESare sealed books to the present generation. It is anexception, for instance, to meet with a young man or youngwoman who has read Walter Scott. Perhaps Balzac's reason isthe true one. Scott, says he, 'est sans passion; ill'ignore, ou peut-etre lui etait-elle interdite par lesmoeurs hypocrites de son pays. Pour lui la femme est ledevoir incarne. A de rares exceptions pres, ses heroinessont absolument les memes ... La femme porte le desordre dansla societe par la passion. La passion a des accidentsinfinis. Peignez donc les passions, vous aurez les sourcesimmenses dont s'est prive ce grand genie pour etre lu danstoutes les familles de la prude Angleterre.' Does notThackeray lament that since Fielding no novelist has dared toface the national affectation of prudery? No English authorwho valued his reputation would venture to write as AnatoleFrance writes, even if he could. Yet I pity the man who doesnot delight in the genius that created M. Bergeret.
　　A well-known author said to me the other day, he did notbelieve that Thackeray himself would be popular were hewriting now for the first time - not because of his freedom,but because the public taste has altered. No present age canpredict immortality for the works of its day; yet to say thatwhat is intrinsically good is good for all time is but atruism. The misfortune is that much of the best inliterature shares the fate of the best of ancient monumentsand noble cities; the cumulative rubbish of ages buries theirsplendours, till we know not where to find them. The day maycome when the most valuable service of the man of letterswill be to unearth the lost treasures and display them,rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasingmiddens.
　　Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did mycontemporaries owe to him in their youth? How readily wefollowed a leader so sure of himself, so certain of his ownevangel. What an aid to strength to be assured that the truehero is the morally strong man. One does not criticise whatone loves; one didn't look too closely into the doctrinethat, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade usthat right makes the might - that the strong man is the manwho, for the most part, does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure, and is apt, asHerbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn ratherrecklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respectfor 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 thestrong live, and the weakest die.' He had no objection toseeing 'the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, orants making slaves.' But he atones for all this by hishatred of cant and hypocrisy. It is for his manliness thatwe love him, for his honesty, for his indifference to anymortal's approval save that of Thomas Carlyle. He convincesus that right thinking is good, but that right doing is muchbetter. And so it is that he does honour to men of actionlike his beloved Oliver, and Fritz, - neither of themparagons of wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.
　　Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance ofmeeting this hero of my PENATES. Lady Ashburton - Carlyle'sLady Ashburton - knowing my admiration, kindly invited me toThe Grange, while he was there. The house was full - mainlyof ministers or ex-ministers, - Cornewall Lewis, Sir CharlesWood, Sir James Graham, Albany Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, andCharles Buller - Carlyle's only pupil; but the great manhimself had left an hour before I got there. I often met himafterwards, but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, Iknew 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 seemedto take in his praise, how my enthusiasm seemed to pleaseher, and how Carlyle and his works were topics she was nevertired of discussing.
　　The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and Ihad to post part of the way from London to The Grange. Mychaise companion was a man very well known in 'Society'; andthough not remarkably popular, was not altogetherundistinguished, 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 heowed to no special merit of his own, but simply to theaccident of his thick curly head of hair. Some, who spokefeelingly of the man, used to declare that he had fulfilledthe promises of his youth. What happened to him then mayperhaps justify the opinion.
　　The young Poodle was addicted to practical jokes - as usual,more amusing to the player than to the playee. One of hisvictims happened to be Beau Brummell, who, except when hebade 'George ring the bell,' was as perfect a model ofdeportment as the great Mr. Turveydrop himself. His studieddecorum 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 hadcarefully dissembled his wrath, invited the unwary youth tobreakfast, telling him that he was leaving town, and had apresent which his young friend might have, if he chose tofetch it. The boy kept the appointment, and the Beau hispromise. After an excellent breakfast, Brummell took a whipfrom his cupboard, and gave it to the Poodle in a way theyoung dog was not likely to forget.
　　The happiest of my days then, and perhaps of my life, werespent at Mr. Ellice's Highland Lodge, at Glenquoich. Forsport of all kinds it was and is difficult to surpass. Thehills of the deer forest are amongst the highest in Scotland;the scenery of its lake and glens, especially the descent toLoch Hourne, is unequalled. Here were to be met many of themost notable men and women of the time. And as the house wastwenty miles from the nearest post-town, and that in turn twodays from London, visitors ceased to be strangers before theyleft. In the eighteen years during which this was my autumnhome, I had the good fortune to meet numbers of distinguishedpeople of whom I could now record nothing interesting buttheir names. Still, it is a privilege to have known such menas John Lawrence, Guizot, Thiers, Landseer, Merimee, Comte deFlahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie,Pelissier, Panizzi, Motley, Delane, Dufferin; and of giftedwomen, the three Sheridans, Lady Seymour - the Queen ofBeauty, afterwards Duchess of Somerset - Mrs. Norton, andLady Dufferin. Amongst those who have a retrospectiveinterest 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 onlythose who repeated their visits, and who fill up my mentalpicture of the place and of the life. Some amongst themimpressed me quite as much for their amiability - theirloveableness, I may say - as for their renown; and regard forthem increased with coming years. Panizzi was one of these.
　　Dufferin, who was just my age, would have fascinated anyonewith the singular courtesy of his manner. Dicky Doyle wasnecessarily a favourite with all who knew him. He was afrequent inmate of my house after I married, and was engagedto dine with me, alas! only eight days before he died.
　　Motley was a singularly pleasant fellow. My friendship withhim began over a volume of Sir W. Hamilton's Lectures. Heasked what I was reading - I handed him the book.
　　'A-h,' said he, 'there's no mental gymnastic likemetaphysics.'
　　Many a battle we afterwards had over them. When I was atCannes in 1877 I got a message from him one day saying he wasill, and asking me to come and see him. He did not say howill, so I put off going. Two days after I heard he was dead.
　　Merimee's cynicism rather alarmed one. He was a capitalcaricaturist, though, to our astonishment, he assured us hehad never drawn, or used a colour-box, till late in life. Hehad now learnt to use it, in a way that did not invariablygive satisfaction. Landseer always struck me as sensitiveand proud, a Diogenes-tempered individual who had been spoiltby the toadyism of great people. He was agreeable if mademuch of, or almost equally so if others were made little of.
　　But of all those named, surely John Lawrence was thegreatest. I wish I had read his life before it ended. Yet,without knowing anything more of him than that he was ChiefCommissioner of the Punjab, which did not convey much to myunderstanding, one felt the greatness of the man beneath hiscalm simplicity. One day the party went out for a deer-drive; I was instructed to place Sir John in the pass belowmine. To my disquietude he wore a black overcoat. I assuredhim that not a stag would come within a mile of us, unless hecovered himself with a grey plaid, or hid behind a large rockthere was, where I assured him he would see nothing.
　　'Have the deer to pass me before they go on to you?' heasked.
　　'Certainly they have,' said I; 'I shall be up there aboveyou.'
　　'Well then,' was his answer, 'I'll get behind the rock - itwill be more snug out of the wind.'
　　One might as well have asked the deer not to see him, as tryto persuade John Lawrence not to sacrifice himself forothers. That he did so here was certain, for the deer camewithin fifty yards of him, but he never fired a shot.
　　Another of the Indian viceroys was the innocent occasion ofgreat discomfort to me, or rather his wife was. Lady Elginhad left behind her a valuable diamond necklace. I was goingback to my private tutor at Ely a few days after, and thenecklace was entrusted to me to deliver to its owner on myway through London. There was no railway then further norththan Darlington, except that between Edinburgh and Glasgow.
　　When I reached Edinburgh by coach from Inverness, myportmanteau was not to be found. The necklace was in adespatch-box in my portmanteau; and by an unlucky oversight,I had put my purse into my despatch-box. What was to bedone? I was a lad of seventeen, in a town where I did notknow a soul, with seven or eight shillings at most in mypocket. I had to break my journey and to stop where I wastill I could get news of the necklace; this alone was clearto me, for the necklace was the one thing I cared for.
　　At the coach office all the comfort I could get was that thelost luggage might have gone on to Glasgow; or, what was moreprobable, might have gone astray at Burntisland. It mightnot have been put on board, or it might not have been takenoff the ferry-steamer. This could not be known for twenty-four hours, as there was no boat to or from Burntisland tillthe morrow. I decided to try Glasgow. A return third-classticket left me without a copper. I went, found nothing, gotback to Edinburgh at 10 P.M., ravenously hungry, dead tired,and so frightened about the necklace that food, bed, means ofcontinuing my journey, were as mere death compared withirreparable dishonour. What would they all think of me? Howcould I prove that I had not stolen the diamonds? Would LordElgin accuse me? How could I have been such an idiot as toleave them in my portmanteau! Some rascal might break itopen, and then, goodbye to my chance for ever! Chance? whatchance was there of seeing that luggage again? There were somany 'mights.' I couldn't even swear that I had seen it onthe coach at Inverness. Oh dear! oh dear! What was to bedone? I walked about the streets; I glanced woefully atdoor-steps, whereon to pass the night; I gazed piteouslythrough the windows of a cheap cook's shop, where solidwedges of baked pudding, that would have stopped digestionfor a month, were advertised for a penny a block. How richshould I have been if I had had a penny in my pocket! But Ihad 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 hestayed in Edinburgh. I had very little hope of success, butI was too miserable to hesitate. It was very late, andeverybody might be gone to bed. I rang the bell. 'I want tosee the landlord.'
　　'Any name?' the porter asked.
　　'No.' The landlord came, fat, amiable looking. 'May I speakto 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 lostmy luggage, and am left without any money. Will you lend mefive 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 fivepounds upon a similar security, he would laugh in my face, orperhaps give me in charge of a policeman.
　　My host of Douglas' did neither; but opened both his heartand his pocket-book, and with the greatest good humour handedme the requested sum. What good people there are in thisworld, which that crusty old Sir Peter Teazle calls 'a d-dwicked one.' I poured out all my trouble to the generousman. He ordered me an excellent supper, and a very niceroom. And on the following day, after taking a great deal oftrouble, he recovered my lost luggage and the pricelesstreasure it contained. It was a proud and happy moment whenI returned his loan, and convinced him, of what he did notseem to doubt, that I was positively not a swindler.
　　But the roofless night and the empty belly, consequent on anempty pocket, was a lesson which I trust was not thrown awayupon me. It did not occur to me to do so, but I certainlymight have picked a pocket, if - well, if I had been broughtup to it. Honesty, as I have often thought since, is dirtcheap if only one can afford it.
　　Before departing from my beloved Glenquoich, I must pay apassing tribute to the remarkable qualities of Mrs. EdwardEllice and of her youngest sister Mrs. Robert Ellice, themother of the present member for St. Andrews. It was, in agreat measure, the bright intelligence, the rare tact, andsocial gifts of these two ladies that made this beautifulHighland resort so attractive to all comers.
Chapter 38
THE winter of 1854-55 I spent in Rome. Here I made theacquaintance of Leighton, then six-and-twenty. I saw a gooddeal of him, as I lived almost entirely amongst the artists,taking lessons myself in water colours of Leitch. Music alsobrought us into contact. He had a beautiful voice, and usedto sing a good deal with Mrs. Sartoris - Adelaide Kemble -whom he greatly admired, and whose portrait is painted undera monk's cowl, in the Cimabue procession.
　　Calling on him one morning, I found him on his kneesbuttering and rolling up this great picture, preparatory tosending it to the Academy. I made some remark about itsunusual size, saying with a sceptical smile, 'It will take upa lot of room.'
　　'If they ever hang it,' he replied; 'but there's not muchchance of that.'
　　Seeing that his reputation was yet to win, it certainlyseemed a bold venture to make so large a demand for space tobegin with. He did not appear the least sanguine. But itwas accepted; and Prince Albert bought it before theExhibition opened.
　　Gibson also I saw much of. He had executed a large alto-rilievo monument of my mother, which is now in my parishchurch, and the model of which is on the landing of one ofthe staircases of the National Gallery. His studio wasalways an interesting lounge, for he was ever ready tolecture upon antique marbles. To listen to him was likereading the 'Laocoon,' which he evidently had at his fingers'
　　ends. My companion through the winter was Mr. ReginaldCholmondeley, a Cambridge ally, who was studying painting.
　　He was the uncle of Miss Cholmondeley the well-knownauthoress, whose mother, by the way, was a first cousin ofGeorge 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 Yorkshiremember, and his two sons, the eldest a barrister, and myfriend George. Here for several years we had exceedinglypleasant gatherings of men more or less distinguished inliterature and art. Tennyson was a frequent visitor - cominglate, after dinner hours, to smoke his pipe. He varied agood deal, sometimes not saying a word, but quietly listeningto our chatter. Thackeray also used to drop in occasionally.
　　George Cayley and I, with the assistance of his father andothers, had started a weekly paper called 'The Realm.' Itwas professedly a currency paper, and also supported a fiscalpolicy advocated by Mr. Cayley and some of his parliamentaryclique. Coming in one day, and finding us hard at work,Thackeray asked for information. We handed him a copy of thepaper. 'Ah,' he exclaimed, with mock solemnity, '"TheRellum," should be printed on vellum.' He too, likeTennyson, was variable. But this depended on whom he found.
　　In the presence of a stranger he was grave and silent. Hewould never venture on puerile jokes like this of his'Rellum' - a frequent playfulness, when at his ease, whichcontrasted so unexpectedly with his impenetrable exterior.
　　He was either gauging the unknown person, or feeling that hewas being gauged. Monckton Milnes was another. Seeing mecorrecting some proof sheets, he said, 'Let me give you apiece of advice, my young friend. Write as much as youplease, but the less you print the better.'
　　'For me, or for others?'
　　'For both.'
　　George Cayley had a natural gift for, and had acquiredconsiderable skill, in the embossing and working of silverware. Millais so admired his art that he commissioned him tomake a large tea-tray; Millais provided the silver. Roundthe 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 afterwardspainted, and presented to Cayley, a fine portrait in his beststyle 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 withhis religious opinions, nor did I comprehend Oliphant'sexalted inspirations; I failed to see their practicalbearing, and, at that time I am sorry to say, looked upon himas an amiable faddist. A special favourite with both of uswas William Stirling of Keir. His great work on the Spanishpainters, and his 'Cloister Life of Charles the Fifth,'
　　excited our unbounded admiration, while his BONHOMIE andradiant humour were a delight we were always eager towelcome.
　　George Cayley and I now entered at Lincoln's Inn. At the endof three years he was duly called to the Bar. I was not; foralas, as usual, something 'turned up,' which drew me inanother direction. For a couple of years, however, I 'ate'
　　my terms - not unfrequently with William Harcourt, with whomCayley had a Yorkshire intimacy even before our Cambridgedays.
　　Old Mr. Cayley, though not the least strait-laced, was areligious man. A Unitarian by birth and conviction, he beganand ended the day with family prayers. On Sundays he wouldalways read to us, or make us read to him, a sermon ofChanning's, or of Theodore Parker's, or what we all likedbetter, one of Frederick Robertson's. He was essentially agood man. He had been in Parliament all his life, and was abroad-minded, tolerant, philosophical man-of-the-world. Hehad 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 acharacter exercised no small influence upon our conduct andour opinions, especially as his approval or disapproval ofthese visibly affected his own happiness.
　　He was never easy unless he was actively engaged in somebenevolent scheme, the promotion of some charity, or in whathe considered his parliamentary duties, which he contrived tomake very burdensome to his conscience. As his health wasbad, these self-imposed obligations were all the moreonerous; but he never spared himself, or his somewhat scantymeans. Amongst other minor tasks, he used to teach at theSunday-school of St. John's, Westminster; in this hepersuaded me to join him. The only other volunteer, not aclergyman, 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 allfor letting people 'go to Heaven in their own way,' and wasmoreover quite ready to help them in their own way. So thathe had no difficulty in hearing the boys repeat the day'scollect, or the Creed, even if Athanasian, in accordance withthe prescribed routine of the clerical teachers.
　　This was right, at all events for him, if he thought itright. My spirit of nonconformity did not permit me tofollow his example. Instead thereof, my teaching was purelysecular. I used to take a volume of Mrs. Marcet's'Conversations' in my pocket; and with the aid of thediagrams, explain the application of the mechanical forces, -the inclined plane, the screw, the pulley, the wedge, and thelever. After two or three Sundays my class was largelyincreased, for the children keenly enjoyed their competitiveexaminations. I would also give them bits of poetry to getby heart for the following Sunday - lines from Gray's'Elegy,' from Wordsworth, from Pope's 'Essay on Man' - suchin short as had a moral rather than a religious tendency.
　　After some weeks of this, the boys becoming clamorous intheir zeal to correct one another, one of the curates lefthis class to hear what was going on in mine. We happened atthe 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 andexcellent man. I went on as if unconscious of thecensorship, the boys exerting themselves all the more eagerlyfor the sake of the 'gallery.' When the hour was up, CanonJennings took me aside, and in the most polite manner thankedme for my 'valuable assistance,' but did not think that the'Essay on Man,' or especially geography, was suited for theteaching in a Sunday-school. I told him I knew it wasuseless 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. Heclearly did not see the joke, but intimated that my serviceswould henceforth be dispensed with.
　　Of course I was wrong, though I did not know it then, for itmust be borne in mind that there were no Board Schools inthose days, and general education, amongst the poor, wasdeplorably deficient. At first, my idea was to give thechildren (they were all boys) a taste for the 'humanities,'
　　which might afterwards lead to their further pursuit. Iassumed that on the Sunday they would be thinking of thebaked meats awaiting them when church was over, or of theirweek-day tops and tipcats; but I was equally sure that a timewould come when these would be forgotten, and the otherthings remembered. The success was greater from thebeginning than could be looked for; and some years afterwardsI had reason to hope that the forecast was not altogether toosanguine.
　　While the Victoria Tower was being built, I stopped one dayto 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 youngfellow with a big black beard and moustache, both powderedwith 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 ofthe boys you used to teach at the Sunday-school. It gave mea turn for mechanics, which I followed up; and that's how Itook to this trade. I'm a master mason now, sir; and thewhole of this lot is under me.'
　　'I wonder what you would have been,' said I, 'if we'd stuckto 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, asthough he had a creative share in its construction.
　　All this while I was working hard at my own education, andtrying to make up for the years I had wasted (so I thought ofthem), by knocking about the world. I spent laborious daysand nights in reading, dabbling in geology, chemistry,physiology, metaphysics, and what not. On the score ofdogmatic religion I was as restless as ever. I had aninsatiable thirst for knowledge; but was without guidance. Iwanted to learn everything; and, not knowing in whatdirection to concentrate my efforts, learnt next to nothing.
　　All knowledge seemed to me equally important, for all borealike upon the great problems of belief and of existence.
　　But what to pursue, what to relinquish, appeared to me anunanswerable riddle. Difficult as this puzzle was, I did notknow then that a long life's experience would hardly make itsimpler. The man who has to earn his bread must fain resolveto adapt his studies to that end. His choice not often restswith him. But the unfortunate being cursed in youth with themeans of idleness, yet without genius, without talents even,is terribly handicapped and perplexed.
　　And now, with life behind me, how should I advise another insuch a plight? When a young lady, thus embarrassed, wrote toCarlyle for counsel, he sympathetically bade her 'put herdrawers in order.'
　　Here is the truth to be faced at the outset: 'Man has butthe choice to go a little way in many paths, or a great wayin only one.' 'Tis thus John Mill puts it. Which will he,which should he, choose? Both courses lead alike toincompleteness. The universal man is no specialist, and hasto generalise without his details. The specialist sees onlythrough his microscope, and knows about as much of cosmologyas does his microbe. Goethe, the most comprehensive ofSeers, must needs expose his incompleteness by futileattempts to disprove Newton's theory of colour. Newton mustneeds expose his, by a still more lamentable attempt to provethe Apocalypse as true as his own discovery of the laws ofgravitation. All science nowadays is necessarily confined toexperts. Without illustrating the fact by invidious hints, Iinvite anyone to consider the intellectual cost to the worldwhich such limitation entails; nor is the loss merelynegative; the specialist is unfortunately too often a bigot,when beyond his contracted sphere.
　　This, you will say, is arguing in a circle. The universalmust be given up for the detail, the detail for theuniversal; we leave off where we began. Yes, that is thedilemma. Still, the gain to science through a devotion of awhole life to a mere group of facts, in a single branch of asingle science, may be an incalculable acquisition to humanknowledge, to the intellectual capital of the race - a gainthat sometimes far outweighs the loss. Even if we narrow thequestion to the destiny of the individual, the sacrifice ofeach one for the good of the whole is doubtless the highestaim the one can have.
　　But this conclusion scarcely helps us; for remember, theoption is not given to all. Genius, or talent, or specialaptitude, is a necessary equipment for such an undertaking.
　　Great discoverers must be great observers, dexterousmanipulators, ingenious contrivers, and patient thinkers.
　　The difficulty we started with was, what you and I, myfriend, who perhaps have to row in the same boat, and perhaps'with the same sculls,' without any of these provisions, whatwe 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' isthe puzzle; and like the search for truth it must, I fear, beleft to each one's power to do it. And then - and then thecountless 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, dearfriend, will that question be answered. For this, I fear wemust wait till by the 'universal law of adaptation' we reach'the ultimate development of the ideal man.' 'Colossaloptimism,' exclaims the critic.
Chapter 39
IN February, 1855, Roebuck moved for a select committee toinquire into the condition of the Army before Sebastopol.
　　Lord John Russell, who was leader of the House, treated thisas a vote of censure, and resigned. Lord Palmerston resistedRoebuck's motion, and generously defended the Government hewas otherwise opposed to. But the motion was carried by amajority of 157, and Lord Aberdeen was turned out of office.
　　The Queen sent for Lord Derby, but without Lord Palmerston hewas unable to form a Ministry. Lord John was then appealedto, with like results; and the premiership was practicallyforced upon Palmerston, in spite of his unpopularity atCourt. Mr. Horsman was made Chief Secretary for Ireland; andthrough Mr. Ellice I became his private secretary.
　　Before I went to the Irish Office I was all but a stranger tomy chief. I had met him occasionally in the tennis court;but the net was always between us. He was a man with a greatdeal of manner, but with very little of what the French call'conviction.' Nothing keeps people at a distance moreeffectually than simulated sincerity; Horsman was a master ofthe art. I was profoundly ignorant of my duties. But thoughthis was a great inconvenience to me at first, it led to afriendship which I greatly prized until its tragic end. Forall information as to the writers of letters, as to IrishMembers who applied for places for themselves, or for others,I had to consult the principal clerk. He was himself anIrishman of great ability; and though young, was eitherpersonally or officially acquainted, so it seemed to me, withevery Irishman in the House of Commons, or out of it. Hisname is too well known - it was Thomas Bourke, afterwardsUnder Secretary, and one of the victims of the Fenianassassins in the Phoenix Park. His patience and amiabilitywere boundless; and under his guidance I soon learnt thetricks of my trade.
　　During the session we remained in London; and for some timeit was of great interest to listen to the debates. WhenIrish business was before the House, I had often to be inattendance on my chief in the reporters' gallery. SometimesI had to wait there for an hour or two before our questionscame on, and thus had many opportunities of hearing Bright,Gladstone, Disraeli, and all the leading speakers. After atime the pleasure, when compulsory, began to pall; and I usedto wonder what on earth could induce the ruck to waste theirtime in following, sheeplike, their bell-wethers, or wastetheir money in paying for that honour. When Parliament wasup we moved to Dublin. I lived with Horsman in the ChiefSecretary's lodge. And as I had often stayed at CastleHoward before Lord Carlisle became Viceroy, between the twolodges I saw a great deal of pleasant society.
　　Amongst those who came to stay with Horsman was SidneyHerbert, then Colonial Secretary, a man of singular nobilityof nature. Another celebrity for the day, but of a verydifferent character, was Lord Cardigan. He had just returnedfrom the Crimea, and was now in command of the forces inIreland. This was about six months after the Balaklavacharge. Horsman asked him one evening to give a descriptionof it, with a plan of the battle. His Lordship did so; nowords could be more suited to the deed. If this was 'pell-mell, havock, and confusion,' the account of it wasproportionately confounded. The noble leader scrawled andinked and blotted all the phases of the battle upon the samescrap of paper, till the batteries were at the starting-pointof the charge, the Light Brigade on the far side of the guns,and all the points of the compass, attack and defence, hadchanged their original places; in fact, the gallant Earlbrandished his pen as valiantly as he had his sword. Whenquite bewildered, like everybody else, I ventured mildly toask, 'But where were you, Lord Cardigan, and where were ourmen when it came to this?'
　　'Where? Where? God bless my soul! How should I know whereanybody was?' And this, no doubt, described the situation toa nicety.
　　My office was in the Castle, and the next room to mine wasthat of the Solicitor-General Keogh, afterwards Judge. Webecame the greatest of friends. It was one of Horsman'speculiarities to do business circuitously. He was fond ofmysteries and of secrets, secrets that were to be kept fromeveryone, but which were generally known to the officemessengers. When Keogh and I met in the morning he wouldsay, with admirable imitation of Horsman's manner, 'Well, itis all settled; the Viceroy has considered the question, andhas decided to act upon my advice. Mind you don't tellanyone - it is a profound secret,' then, lowering his voiceand looking round the room, 'His Excellency has consented toscore at the next cricket match between the garrison and theCivil Service.' If it were a constabulary appointment, oreven a village post-office, the Attorney or the Solicitor-General would be strictly enjoined not to inform me, and Ireceived similar injunctions respecting them. In spite ofhis apparent attention to details, Mr. Horsman hunted threedays a week, and stated in the House of Commons that theoffice of Chief Secretary was a farce, meaning when excludedfrom the Cabinet. All I know is, that his private secretarywas constantly at work an hour before breakfast by candle-light, and never got a single day's holiday throughout thewinter.
　　Horsman had hired a shooting - Balnaboth in Scotland; here,too, I had to attend upon him in the autumn, mainly for thepurpose of copying voluminous private correspondence about asugar estate he owned at Singapore, then producing a largeincome, but the subsequent failure of which was his ruin.
　　One year Sir Alexander Cockburn, the Lord Chief Justice, cameto stay with him; and excellent company he was. Horsman hadsometimes rather an affected way of talking; and referring tosome piece of political news, asked Cockburn whether he hadseen it in the 'Courier.' This he pronounced with an accenton 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 thelatter word.
　　Sir Alexander told us an amusing story about Disraeli. Heand Bernal Osborne were talking together about Mrs. Disraeli,when presently Osborne, with characteristic effrontery,exclaimed: 'My dear Dizzy, how could you marry such awoman?' The answer was; 'My dear Bernal, you never knew whatgratitude 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 sayprettier things than Disraeli. Here is a little story thatwas told me at the time by my sister-in-law, who was a womanof the bedchamber, and was present on the occasion. When herMajesty Queen Alexandra was suffering from an accident to herknee, and had to use crutches, Disraeli said to her: 'I haveheard of a devil on two sticks, but never before knew anangel to use them.'
　　Keogh, Bourke, and I, made several pleasant little excursionsto such places as Bray, the Seven Churches, Powerscourt, &c.,and, with a chosen car-driver, the wit and fun of the threeclever Irishmen was no small treat. The last time I saweither of my two friends was at a dinner-party which Bourkegave at the 'Windham.' We were only four, to make up a whistparty; the fourth was Fred Clay, the composer. It is sad toreflect that two of the lot came to violent ends - Keogh, thecheeriest of men in society, by his own hands. Bourke I hadoften spoken to of the danger he ran in crossing the PhoenixPark nightly on his way home, on foot and unarmed. Helaughed at me, and rather indignantly - for he was a veryvain man, though one of the most good-natured fellows in theworld. In the first place, he prided himself on his physique- he was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and a good boxerand fencer to boot. In the next place, he prided himselfabove all things on being a thorough-bred Irishman, with asneaking sympathy with even Fenian grievances. 'They allknow ME,' he would say. 'The rascals know I'm the bestfriend 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 bishopricbecame vacant, and almost as much intrigue was set agoing aswe read of in the wonderful story of 'L'Anneau d'Amethyste.'
　　Horsman, at all times a profuse letter-writer, wrote foliosto Lord Palmerston on the subject, each letter moreexuberant, more urgent than the last. But no answer came.
　　Finally, the whole Irish vote, according to the ChiefSecretary, being at stake - not to mention the far moreimportant matter of personal and official dignity - Horsmanflew off to London, boiling over with impatience andindignation. He rushed to 10 Downing Street. His Lordshipwas at the Foreign office, but was expected every minute;would Mr. Horsman wait? Mr. Horsman was shown into hisLordship's room. Piles of letters, opened and unopened, werelying upon the table. The Chief Secretary recognised his ownsignatures on the envelopes of a large bundle, all amongstthe 'un's.' The Premier came in, an explanation EXTREMEMENTVIVE followed; on his return to Dublin Mr. Horsman resignedhis post, and from that moment became one of LordPalmerston's bitterest opponents.
Chapter 40
THE lectures at the Royal Institution were of some help tome. I attended courses by Owen, Tyndall, Huxley, and Bain.
　　Of these, Huxley was FACILE PRINCEPS, though both Owen andTyndall were second to no other. Bain was disappointing. Iwas a careful student of his books, and always admired thelogical lucidity of his writing. But to the mixed audiencehe had to lecture to - fashionable young ladies in theirteens, and drowsy matrons in charge of them, he discreetlykept clear of transcendentals. In illustration perhaps ofsome theory of the relation of the senses to the intellect,he would tell an amusing anecdote of a dog that had had aninjured leg dressed at a certain house, after which therecovered dog brought a canine friend to the same house tohave his leg - or tail - repaired. Out would come all thetablets and pretty pencil cases, and every young lady wouldbe busy for the rest of the lecture in recording themarvellous history. If the dog's name had been 'Spot' or'Bob,' the important psychological fact would have beenfaithfully registered. As to the theme of the discourse,that had nothing to do with - millinery. And Mr. Baindoubtless did not overlook the fact.
　　Owen was an accomplished lecturer; but one's attention to himdepended 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 andganoid fishes, the difference in their scales was scarcely ofvital importance to one's general culture. But if he werelecturing on fish, he would stick to fish; it would beessentially a JOUR MAIGRE.
　　With Huxley, the suggestion was worth more than the thingsaid. One thought of it afterwards, and wondered whether hiswords implied all they seemed to imply. One knew that thescientist was also a philosopher; and one longed to get athim, at the man himself, and listen to the lessons which hiswork had taught him. At one of these lectures I had thehonour of being introduced to him by a great friend of mine,John Marshall, then President of the College of Surgeons. Inlater years I used to meet him constantly at the Athenaeum.
　　Looking back to the days of one's plasticity, two men arepre-eminent among my Dii Majores. To John Stuart Mill and toThomas Huxley I owe more, educationally, than to any otherteachers. Mill's logic was simply a revelation to me. Forwhat Kant calls 'discipline,' I still know no book, unless itbe the 'Critique' itself, equal to it. But perhaps it is themen themselves, their earnestness, their splendid courage,their noble simplicity, that most inspired one withreverence. It was Huxley's aim to enlighten the many, and heenlightened them. It was Mill's lot to help thinkers, and hehelped them. SAPERE AUDE was the motto of both. How fewthere are who dare to adopt it! To love truth is valiantlyprofessed by all; but to pursue it at all costs, to 'dare tobe wise' needs daring of the highest order.
　　Mill had the enormous advantage, to start with, of aneducation unbiassed by any theological creed; and he broughtexceptional powers of abstract reasoning to bear upon mattersof permanent and supreme importance to all men. Yet, inspite of his ruthless impartiality, I should not hesitate tocall him a religious man. This very tendency which noimaginative mind, no man or woman with any strain of poeticalfeeling, can be without, invests Mill's character with aclash of humanity which entitles him to a place in ouraffections. It is in this respect that he so widely differsfrom Mr. Herbert Spencer. Courageous Mr. Spencer was, buthis courage seems to have been due almost as much to absenceof sympathy or kinship with his fellow-creatures, and to hiscontempt of their opinions, as from his dispassionate love oftruth, or his sometimes passionate defence of his own tenets.
　　My friend Napier told me an amusing little story about JohnMill when he was in the East India Company's administration.
　　Mr. Macvey Napier, my friend's elder brother, was the seniorclerk. On John Mill's retirement, his co-officialssubscribed to present him with a silver standish. Such wasthe general sense of Mill's modest estimate of his owndeserts, and of his aversion to all acknowledgment of them,that Mr. Napier, though it fell to his lot, begged others tojoin in the ceremony of presentation. All declined; theinkstand was left upon Mill's table when he himself was outof the room.
　　Years after the time of which I am writing, when Mill stoodfor Westminster, I had the good fortune to be on the platformat St. James's Hall, next but one to him, when he made hisfirst speech to the electors. He was completely unknown tothe public, and, though I worshipped the man, I had neverseen him, nor had an idea what he looked like. To satisfy mycuriosity I tried to get a portrait of him at thephotographic shop in Regent Street.
　　'I want a photograph of Mr. Mill.'
　　'Mill? Mill?' repeated the shopman, 'Oh yes, sir, I know - agreat sporting gent,' and he produced the portrait of asportsman in top boots and a hunting cap.
　　Very different from this was the figure I then saw. The halland the platform were crowded. Where was the principalpersonage? Presently, quite alone, up the side steps, andunobserved, came a thin but tallish man in black, with a tailcoat, and, almost unrecognised, took the vacant front seat.
　　He might have been, so far as dress went, a clerk in acounting-house, or an undertaker. But the face was noordinary one. The wide brow, the sharp nose of the Burketype, the compressed lips and strong chin, were suggestive ofintellect 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 forWestminster. He spoke with perfect ease to himself, neverfaltering for the right word, which seemed to be always athis command. If interrupted by questions, as he constantlywas, his answers could not have been amended had he writtenthem. His voice was not strong, and there were frequentcalls from the far end to 'speak up, speak up; we can't hearyou.' He did not raise his pitch a note. They might as wellhave tried to bully an automaton. He was doing his best, andhe could do no more. Then, when, instead of the usualadulations, instead of declamatory appeals to the passions ofa large and a mixed assembly, he gave them to understand, invery plain language, that even socialists are not infallible,- that extreme and violent opinions, begotten of ignorance,do not constitute the highest political wisdom; then therewere murmurs of dissent and disapproval. But if the ignorantand the violent could have stoned him, his calm manner wouldstill have said, 'Strike, but hear me.'
　　Mr. Robert Grosvenor - the present Lord Ebury - then theother Liberal member for Westminster, wrote to ask me to takethe chair at Mill's first introduction to the Pimlicoelectors. Such, however, was my admiration of Mill, I didnot feel sure that I might not say too much in his favour;and mindful of the standish incident, I knew, that if I didso, it would embarrass and annoy him.
　　Under these circumstances I declined the honour.
　　When Owen was delivering a course of lectures at Norwich, mybrother invited him to Holkham. I was there, and we tookseveral long walks together. Nothing seemed to escape hisobservation. My brother had just completed the recovery ofmany hundred acres of tidal marsh by embankments. Owen, whowas greatly interested, explained what would be the effectupon the sandiest portion of this, in years to come; what thechemical action of the rain would be, how the sand wouldeventually become soil, how vegetation would cover it, andhow manure render it cultivable. The splendid crops nowgrown there bear testimony to his foresight. He had alwayssomething instructive to impart, stopping to contemplatetrifles which only a Zadig would have noticed.
　　'I observe,' said he one day, 'that your prevailing wind hereis north-west.'
　　'How do you know?' I asked.
　　'Look at the roots of all these trees; the large roots areinvariably on the north-west side. This means that thestrain comes on this side. The roots which have to bear itloosen the soil, and the loosened soil favours the extensionand the growth of the roots. Nature is beautifullyscientific.'
　　Some years after this, I published a book called 'Creeds ofthe Day.' My purpose was to show, in a popular form, thebearings of science and speculative thought upon thereligious creeds of the time. I sent Owen a copy of thework. He wrote me one of the most interesting letters I everreceived. He had bought the book, and had read it. But theimportant content of the letter was the confession of his ownfaith. I have purposely excluded all correspondence fromthese Memoirs, but had it not been that a forgotten collectorof autographs had captured it, I should have been tempted tomake an exception in its favour. The tone was agnostic; buttimidly agnostic. He had never freed himself from theshackles of early prepossessions. He had not the necessarydaring to clear up his doubts. Sometimes I fancy that it wasthis difference in the two men that lay at the bottom of theunfortunate antagonism between Owen and Huxley. There is inOwen's writing, where he is not purely scientific, a touch ofthe apologist. He cannot quite make up his mind to followevolution to its logical conclusions. Where he is forced todo so, it is to him like signing the death warrant of hisdearest friend. It must not be forgotten that Owen was bornmore than twenty years before Huxley; and great as was theoffence of free-thinking in Huxley's youth, it was nothingshort of anathema in Owen's. When I met him at Holkham, the'Origin of Species' had not been published; and Napier and Idid all we could to get Owen to express some opinion onLamarck's theory, for he and I used to talk confidentially onthis fearful heresy even then. But Owen was ever on hisguard. He evaded our questions and changed the subject.
　　Whenever I pass near the South Kensington Museum I step asideto look at the noble statues of the two illustrious men. Amere glance at them, and we appreciate at once theirrespective characters. In the one we see passive wisdom, inthe other militant force.
Chapter 41
BEFORE I went to America, I made the acquaintance of Dr.
　　George Bird; he continued to be one of my most intimatefriends till his death, fifty years afterwards. When I firstknew him, Bird was the medical adviser and friend of LeighHunt, whose family I used often to meet at his house. He hadbeen dependent entirely upon his own exertions; had marriedyoung; and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to providefor 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 devotedfriends. He began looking for the season for sprats - thecheapest of fish - to come in; by middle life he washabitually and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities ofart and literature. With his accomplished sister, Miss AliceBird, to keep house for him, there were no pleasanter dinnerparties or receptions in London. His CLIENTELE was mainlyamongst the artistic world. He was a great friend of MissEllen Terry's, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters werefrequenters of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolnerthe sculptor - of whom I was not particularly fond - HoraceWigan the actor, and his father, the Burtons, who were muchattached to him - Burton dedicated one volume of his 'ArabianNights' to him - Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy andhis talented son, and many others.
　　The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attendedprofessionally the members of one or two labouring men'sclubs for fees which, as far as I could learn, wererigorously nominal. His great delight was to get an orderfor the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr.
　　Gladstone spoke; and, being to the last day of his life assimple-minded as a child, had a profound belief in thestatemanship and integrity of that renowned orator.
　　As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, themost notable of the above-named. There was a mystery aboutBurton which was in itself a fascination. No one knew whathe had done; or consequently what he might not do. He neverboasted, never hinted that he had done, or could do, anythingdifferent from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, onefelt that he was transparently honest and sincere. He wasalways the same, always true to himself; but then, that'self' was a something PER SE, which could not becategorically 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 inhis skin.
　　One summer's day I found him reading the paper in theAthenaeum. He was dressed in a complete suit of white -white trousers, a white linen coat, and a very shabby oldwhite hat. People would have stared at him anywhere.
　　'Hullo, Burton!' I exclaimed, touching his linen coat, 'Doyou 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,' Ireplied.
　　Such an impromptu answer as his would, from any other, haveimplied vanity. Yet no man could have been less vain, ormore free from affectation. It probably concealed regret atfinding himself conspicuous.
　　After dinner at the Birds' one evening we fell to talking ofgarrotters. About this time the police reports were full ofcases of garrotting. The victim was seized from behind, oneman gagged or burked him, while another picked his pocket.
　　'What should you do, Burton?' the Doctor asked, 'if theytried to garrotte you?'
　　'I'm quite ready for 'em,' was the answer; and turning up hissleeve he partially pulled out a dagger, and shoved it backagain.
　　We tried to make him tell us what became of the Arab boy whoaccompanied him to Mecca, and whose suspicions threatenedBurton's betrayal, and, of consequence, his life. I don'tthink anyone was present except us two, both of whom he wellknew to be quite shock-proof, but he held his tongue.
　　'You would have been perfectly justified in saving your ownlife at any cost. You would hardly have broken the sixthcommandment by doing so in this case,' I suggested.
　　'No,' said he gravely, 'and as I had broken all the tenbefore, it wouldn't have so much mattered.'
　　The Doctor roared. It should, however, be stated that Burtontook no less delight in his host's boyish simplicity, thanthe 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 linguistof his day. Lady Burton mentions, I think, in his Life, thenumber of languages and dialects her husband knew. ThatMahometans should seek instruction from him in the Koran,speaks of itself for his astonishing mastery of the greatestlinguistic difficulties. With Indian languages and theirvariations, he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal'sSais; and, one may suppose, could have played the ROLE of afakir as perfectly as he did that of a Mecca pilgrim. Iasked him what his method was in learning a fresh language.
　　He said he wrote down as many new words as he could learn andremember each day; and learnt the construction of thelanguage colloquially, before he looked at a grammar.
　　Lady Burton was hardly less abnormal in her way than SirRichard. She had shared his wanderings, and was intimate, asno one else was, with the eccentricities of his thoughts anddeeds. Whatever these might happen to be, she worshipped herhusband notwithstanding. For her he was the standard ofexcellence; all other men were departures from it. And thesingularity is, her religious faith was never for an instantshaken - she remained as strict a Roman Catholic as when hemarried her from a convent. Her enthusiasm andcosmopolitanism, her NAIVETE and the sweetness of herdisposition made her the best of company. She had lived somuch the life of a Bedouin, that her dress and her habits hadan Eastern glow. When staying with the Birds, she wasattended by an Arab girl, one of whose duties it was toprepare her mistress' chibouk, which was regularly brought inwith the coffee. On one occasion, when several other ladieswere dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton'spersuasion to satisfy their curiosity. The Arab girl soonprovided the means; and it was not long before there werefour or five faces as white as Mrs. Alfred Wigan's, undersimilar circumstances, in the 'Nabob.'
　　Alfred Wigan's father was an unforgettable man. To describehim in a word, he was Falstag REDIVIVUS. In bulk andstature, in age, in wit and humour, and morality, he wasFalstaff. He knew it and gloried in it. He would complainwith zest of 'larding the lean earth' as he walked along. Hewas as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack. He wouldexhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments;and would appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at hislast gasp, for 'just a tea-spoonful' of the gratefulstimulant. She served him with a liberal hand, till he cried'Stop!' But if she then stayed, he would softly insinuate 'Ididn't mean it, my dear.' Yet he was no Costigan. His brainwas stronger than casks of whisky. And his powers ofdigestion were in keeping. Indeed, to borrow the well-knownwords applied to a great man whom we all love, 'He tore hisdinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling in hisforehead, and the perspiration running down his cheeks.' Thetrend of his thoughts, though he was eminently a man ofintellect, followed the dictates of his senses. Walk withhim in the fields and, from the full stores of a prodigiousmemory, he would pour forth pages of the choicest poetry.
　　But if you paused to watch the lambs play, or disturbed ayoung calf in your path, he would almost involuntarilyexclaim: 'How deliciously you smell of mint, my pet!' or'Bless your innocent face! What sweetbreads you willprovide!'
　　James Wigan had kept a school once. The late SerjeantBallantine, who was one of his pupils, mentions him in hisautobiography. He was a good scholar, and when I first knewhim, used to teach elocution. Many actors went to him, andnot a few members of both Houses of Parliament. He couldrecite nearly the whole of several of Shakespeare's plays;and, with a dramatic art I have never known equalled by anypublic reader.
　　His later years were passed at Sevenoaks, where he kept anestablishment for imbeciles, or weak-minded youths. I oftenstayed with him (not as a patient), and a very comfortableand pretty place it was. Now and then he would call on me inLondon; and, with a face full of theatrical woe, tell me,with elaborate circumlocution, how the Earl of This, or theMarquis of That, had implored him to take charge of youngLord So-and-So, his son; who, as all the world knew, had -well, had 'no guts in his brains.' Was there ever such achance? Just consider what it must lead to! Everybody knew- no, nobody knew - the enormous number of idiots there werein noble families. And, such a case as that of young LordDash - though of course his residence at Sevenoaks would be aprofound secret, would be patent to the whole peerage; and,my dear sir, a fortune to your humble servant, if - ah! if hecould 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 tome with tears in his eyes. "My dear Wigan," were thatnobleman's words, "do me this one favour and trust me, youwill never regret it!" But - ' he paused to remove thedramatic tear, 'but, I hardly dare go on. Yes - yes, I knowyour kindness' (seizing my hand) 'I know how ready you are tohelp 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 triflewill suffice. I have the room - a beautiful room, the bestaspect in the house. It is now occupied by young RumageeBumagee the great Bombay millionaire's son. Of course he canbe moved. But a bed - there positively is not a spare bed inthe house. This is all I want - a bed, and perhaps atuppenny 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 ina minute what it will come to.'
　　'Never mind that. Will a ten-pound note serve yourpurposes?'
　　'Dear boy! Dear boy! But on one condition, on one conditiononly, can I accept it - this is a loan, a loan mind! and nota gift. No, no - it is useless to protest; my pride, mysense of honour, forbids my acceptance upon any other terms.'
　　A day or two afterwards I would learn from George Bird thathe and Miss Alice had accepted an invitation to meet me atSevenoaks. Mr. Donovan, the famous phrenologist, was to beof the party; the Rector of Sevenoaks, and one or two localmagnates, had also been invited to dine. We Londoners wereto occupy the spare rooms, for this was in the coaching days.
　　We all knew what we had to expect - a most enjoyable banquetof conviviality. Young Mrs. Wigan, his second wife, was anadmirable housekeeper, and nothing could have been betterdone. The turbot and the haunch of venison were the pick ofGrove's shop, the champagne was iced to perfection, and therewas enough of it, as Mr. Donovan whispered to me, casting hiseyes 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 extravaganthabits. While Mr. Wigan, probably giving him full credit forhis gratitude, always spoke of him as 'Poor old PaddyDonovan.'
　　With Alfred Wigan, the eldest son, I was on very friendlyterms. Nothing could be more unlike his father. His mannerin his own house was exactly what it was on the stage.
　　Albany Fonblanque, whose experiences began nearly forty yearsbefore mine, and who was not given to waste his praise, toldme he considered Alfred Wigan the best 'gentleman' he hadever seen on the stage. I think this impression was due in agreat measure to Wigan's entire absence of affectation, andto his persistent appeal to the 'judicious' but never to the'groundlings.' Mrs. Alfred Wigan was also a consummateartiste.
Chapter 42
THROUGH George Bird I made the acquaintance of the leadingsurgeons and physicians of the North London Hospital, where Ifrequently attended the operations of Erichsen, JohnMarshall, and Sir Henry Thompson, following them afterwardsin their clinical rounds. Amongst the physicians, ProfessorSydney Ringer remains one of my oldest friends. Both surgeryand therapeutics interested me deeply. With regard to thefirst, curiosity was supplemented by the incidental desire toovercome the natural repugnance we all feel to the mere sightof blood.
　　Chemistry I studied in the laboratory of a professionalfriend of Dr. Bird's. After a while my teacher would leaveme to carry out small commissions of a simple character whichhad been put into his hands, such as the analysis of water,bread, or other food-stuffs. He himself often hadengagements elsewhere, and would leave me in possession ofthe laboratory, with a small urchin whom he had taught to beuseful. 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. Hehandled everything as if it was about to annihilate him, orhe it, and looked as if he wouldn't bite - even a tartlet.
　　One day when I had finished my task, and we were alone, Ibethought me of making some laughing gas, and trying theeffect of it on the gentle youth. I offered him a shillingfor the experiment, which, however, proved more expensivethan I had bargained for. I filled a bladder with the gas,and putting a bit of broken pipe-stem in its neck for amouthpiece, gave it to the boy to suck - and suck he did. Ina few seconds his eyes dilated, his face became lividlywhite, and I had some trouble to tear the intoxicatingbladder from his clutches. The moment I had done so, thetrue nature of the gutter-snipe exhibited itself. He beganby cutting flip-flaps and turning windmills all round theroom; then, before I could stop him, swept an armful ofvaluable apparatus from the tables, till the whole floor wasstrewn with wreck and poisonous solutions. The dismay of thechemist when he returned may be more easily imagined thandescribed.
　　Some years ago, there was a well-known band of amateurmusicians called the 'Wandering Minstrels.' This bandoriginated in my rooms in Dean's Yard. Its nucleus wascomposed 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 theday), and Lord Gerald Fitzgerald. Our concerts were given inthe Hanover Square Rooms, and we played for charities allover the country.
　　To turn from the musical art to the art - or science is itcalled? - of self-defence, once so patronised by the highestfashion, there was at this time a famous pugilistic battle -the last of the old kind - fought between the Englishchampion, 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 HanoverSquare Rooms. The fight was to take place on the followingmorning. When the concert was over, Mitford and I went tosome public-house where the 'Ring' had assembled, and wheretickets were to be bought, and instructions received. Fightswhen gloves were not used, and which, especially in thiscase, might end fatally, were of course illegal; and everyprecaution had been taken by the police to prevent it. Aspecial 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 inthe train before the men with their backers arrived. As soonas it was daylight, we saw mounted police galloping on theroads adjacent to the line. No one knew where the trainwould pull up. Ten minutes after it did so, a ring wasformed in a meadow close at hand. The men stripped, andtossed for places. Heenan won the toss, and with it aconsiderable advantage. He was nearly a head taller thanSayers, and the ground not being quite level, he chose thehigher side of the ring. But this was by no means his only'pull.' Just as the men took their places the sun began torise. It was in Heenan's back, and right in the other'sface.
　　Heenan began the attack at once with scornful confidence; andin a few minutes Sayers received a blow on the forehead abovehis guard which sent him slithering under the ropes; his headand neck, in fact, were outside the ring. He lay perfectlystill, and in my ignorance, I thought he was done for. Not abit of it. He was merely reposing quietly till his secondsput him on his legs. He came up smiling, but not a jot theworse. But in the course of another round or two, down hewent again. The fight was going all one way. The Englishmanseemed to be completely at the mercy of the giant. I was sodisgusted 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 splendidcondition of Sayers were proof against these violent shocks.
　　The sun was out of his eyes, and there was not a mark of ablow either on his face or his body. His temper, hispresence of mind, his defence, and the rapidity of hismovements, were perfect. The opening he had watched for cameat last. He sprang off his legs, and with his whole weightat close quarters, struck Heenan's cheek just under the eye.
　　It was like the kick of a cart-horse. The shouts might havebeen heard half-a-mile off. Up till now, the betting calledafter each round had come to 'ten to one on Heenan'; it fellat once to evens.
　　Heenan was completely staggered. He stood for a minute as ifhe did not know where he was or what had happened. And then,an unprecedented thing occurred. While he thus stood, Sayersput both hands behind his back, and coolly walked up to hisfoe to inspect the damage he had inflicted. I had hold ofthe ropes in Heenan's corner, consequently could not see hisface without leaning over them. When I did so, and beforetime was called, one eye was completely closed. What kind ofgenerosity prevented Sayers from closing the other during thepause, is difficult to conjecture. But his forbearance didnot make much difference. Heenan became more fierce, Sayersmore daring. The same tactics were repeated; and now, nolonger to the astonishment of the crowd, the same successrewarded them. Another sledge-hammer blow from theEnglishman closed the remaining eye. The difference in thecondition of the two men must have been enormous, for in fiveminutes Heenan was completely sightless.
　　Sayers, however, had not escaped scot-free. In counteringthe last attack, Heenan had broken one of the bones ofSayers' right arm. Still the fight went on. It was now abrutal scene. The blind man could not defend himself fromthe other's terrible punishment. His whole face was soswollen and distorted, that not a feature was recognisable.
　　But he evidently had his design. Each time Sayers struck himand ducked, Heenan made a swoop with his long arms, and atlast he caught his enemy. With gigantic force he got Sayers'
　　head down, and heedless of his captive's pounding, backedstep by step to the ring. When there, he forced Sayers' neckon to the rope, and, with all his weight, leant upon theEnglishman's shoulders. In a few moments the face of thestrangled man was black, his tongue was forced out of hismouth, and his eyes from their sockets. His arms fellpowerless, and in a second or two more he would have been acorpse. With a wild yell the crowd rushed to the rescue.
　　Warning cries of 'The police! The police!' mingled with theshouts. The ropes were cut, and a general scamper for thewaiting train ended this last of the greatest prize-fights.
　　We two took it easily, and as the mob were scuttling awayfrom the police, we saw Sayers with his backers, who werehelping him to dress. His arm seemed to hurt him a little,but otherwise, for all the damage he had received, he mighthave been playing at football or lawn tennis.
　　We were quietly getting into a first-class carriage, when Iwas seized by the shoulder and roughly spun out of the way.
　　Turning to resent the rudeness, I found myself face to facewith Heenan. One of his seconds had pushed me on one side tolet the gladiator get in. So completely blind was he, thatthe friend had to place his foot upon the step. And yetneither 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 sungthis great battle, how glorious we should have thought it!
　　Beyond a doubt, man 'yet partially retains thecharacteristics that adapted him to an antecedent state.'
Chapter 43
THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with theirnear relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York.
　　Hovingham has now become known to the musical world throughits festivals, annually held at the Hall under the patronageof its late owner, Sir William Worsley. It was in hisfather's time that this fine place, with its delightfulfamily, was for many years a home to me. Here I met theAlisons, and at the kind invitation of Sir Archibald, paidthe great historian a visit at Possil, his seat in Scotland.
　　As men who had achieved scientific or literary distinctioninspired me with far greater awe than those of the highestrank - of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance -Alison's celebrity, his courteous manner, his oracularspeech, his voluminous works, and his voluminous dimensions,filled me with too much diffidence and respect to admit ofany freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he heldforth of an evening when surrounded by his family, withreverential silence. He had a strong Scotch accent; and, ifa wee bit prosy at times, it was sententious and polishedprose that he talked; he talked invariably like a book. Hisfamily were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knewhim could help liking him.
　　When Thackeray was giving readings from 'The Four Georges,' Idined with Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hearhim. I had heard Dickens read 'The Trial of Bardell againstPickwick,' and it was curious to compare the style of the twogreat novelists. With Thackeray, there was an entire absenceof either tone or colour. Of course the historical nature ofhis subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be lookedfor in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparisoninapposite. Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them.
　　Thackeray's features were impassive, and his voice knew noinflection. But his elocution in other respects was perfect,admirably distinct and impressive from its completeobliteration of the reader.
　　The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and nopart of it was more attentively listened to than his passingallusion to himself. 'I came,' he says, 'from India as achild, and our ship touched at an island on the way home,where my black servant took me a long walk over rocks andhills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking.
　　"That is he," said the black man, "that is Bonaparte! Heeats three sheep every day, and all the little children hecan lay hands on!"' One went to hear Thackeray, to seeThackeray; and the child and the black man and the ogre werethere on the stage before one. But so well did the lecturerperform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgottenhim, and saw only George Selwyn and his friend HoraceWalpole, and Horace's friend, Miss Berry - whom by the way Itoo knew and remember. One saw the 'poor society ghastly inits pleasures, its loves, its revelries,' and the redeemingvision of 'her father's darling, the Princess Amelia,pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, andfor the extreme passionate tenderness with which her fatherloved her.' The story told, as Thackeray told it, was asdelightful to listen to as to read.
　　Not so with Dickens. He disappointed me. He made no attemptto represent the different characters by varied utterance;but whenever something unusually comic was said, or about tobe said, he had a habit of turning his eyes up to theceiling; so that, knowing what was coming, one nervouslyanticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost theillusion. In both entertainments, the reader was naturallythe 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 notbear to see Shakespeare upon the stage? I agree with him. Ihave never seen a Falstaff that did not make me miserable.
　　He is even more impossible to impersonate than Hamlet. Aplayer will spoil you the character of Hamlet, but he cannotspoil his thoughts. Depend upon it, we are fortunate not tohave seen Shakespeare in his ghost of Royal Denmark.
　　In 1861 I married Lady Katharine Egerton, second daughter ofLord Wilton, and we took up our abode in Warwick Square,which, by the way, I had seen a few years before as a turnipfield. My wife was an accomplished pianiste, so we had agreat deal of music, and saw much of the artist world. I maymention one artistic dinner amongst our early efforts athousekeeping, which nearly ended with a catastrophe.
　　Millais and Dicky Doyle were of the party; music wasrepresented by Joachim, Piatti, and Halle. The late Lord andLady de Ros were also of the number. Lady de Ros, who was adaughter of the Duke of Richmond, had danced at the ballgiven by her father at Brussels the night before Waterloo.
　　As Lord de Ros was then Governor of the Tower, it will beunderstood that he was a veteran of some standing. The greatmusical trio were enchanting all ears with their faultlessperformance, when the sweet and soul-stirring notes of theAdagio were suddenly interrupted by a loud crash and ashriek. Old Lord de Ros was listening to the music on a sofaat the further end of the room. Over his head was a largepicture in a heavy frame. What vibrations, what carelesshanging, what mischievous Ate or Discord was at the bottom ofit, who knows? Down came the picture on the top of the poorold General's head, and knocked him senseless on the floor.
　　He had to be carried upstairs and laid upon a bed. Happilyhe recovered without serious injury. There were manyexclamations of regret, but the only one I remember wasMillais'. All he said was: 'And it is a good picture too.'
　　Sir Arthur Sullivan was one of our musical favourites. Mywife had known him as a chorister boy in the Chapel Royal;and to the end of his days we were on terms of the closestintimacy and friendship. Through him we made theacquaintance of the Scott Russells. Mr. Scott Russell wasthe builder of the Crystal Palace. He had a delightfulresidence at Sydenham, the grounds of which adjoined those ofthe Crystal Palace, and were beautifully laid out by hisfriend Sir Joseph Paxton. One of the daughters, Miss RachelRussell, was a pupil of Arthur Sullivan's. She had greatmusical talent, she was remarkably handsome, exceedinglyclever and well-informed, and altogether exceptionallyfascinating. Quite apart from Sullivan's genius, he was inevery way a charming fellow. The teacher fell in love withthe 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 notbe expected to know what magic baton the young maestrocarried in his knapsack, thought her brilliant daughter mightdo better. The music lessons were put a stop to, andcorrespondence between the lovers was prohibited.
　　Once a week or so, either the young lady or the younggentleman would, quite unexpectedly, pay us a visit about teaor luncheon time. And, by the strangest coincidence, theother would be sure to drop in while the one was there. Thiswent 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 theCrystal Palace - ill-advised or unsuccessful ventures robbedhim of his well-earned wealth. His beautiful place atSydenham had to be sold; and the marriage of Miss Rachel withyoung Arthur Sullivan was abandoned. She ultimately marriedan Indian official.
　　Her story may here be told to the end. Some years later shereturned to England to bring her two children home for theireducation, going back to India without them, as Indianmothers have to do. The day before she sailed, she called totake leave of us in London. She was terribly depressed, butfought bravely with her trial. She never broke down, butshunted the subject, talking and laughing with flashes of herold vivacity, about music, books, friends, and 'dear olddirty London,' as she called it. When she left, I opened thestreet-door for her, and with both her hands in mine, badeher 'Farewell.' Then the tears fell, and her parting wordswere: 'I am leaving England never to see it again.' She wasseized with cholera the night she reached Bombay, and diedthe following day.
　　To return to her father, the eminent engineer. He wasdistinctly a man of genius, and what is called 'a character.'
　　He was always in the clouds - not in the vapour of hisengine-rooms, nor busy inventing machines for extractingsunbeams from cucumbers, but musing on metaphysical problemsand abstract speculations about the universe generally. Inother respects a perfectly simple-minded man.
　　It was in his palmy days that he invited me to run down toSheerness with him, and go over the 'Great Eastern' beforeshe left with the Atlantic cable. This was in 1865. Thelargest ship in the world, and the first Atlantic cable, wereboth objects of the greatest interest. The builder did notknow the captain - Anderson - nor did the captain know thebuilder. But clearly, each would be glad to meet the other.
　　As the leviathan was to leave in a couple of days, everythingon board her was in the wildest confusion. Russell could notfind anyone who could find the Captain; so he began pokingabout with me, till we accidentally stumbled on theCommander. He merely said that he was come to take a partingglance at his 'child,' which did not seem of much concern tothe over-busy captain. He never mentioned his own name, butintroduced me as 'my friend Captain Cole.' Now, in thosedays, Captain Cole was well known as a distinguished navalofficer. To Russell's absent and engineering mind, 'Coke'
　　had suggested 'Cole,' and 'Captain' was inseparable from thelatter. It was a name to conjure with. Captain Andersontook off his cap, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed hispleasure at making my acquaintance, and hoped I, and myfriend Mr. - ahem - would come into his cabin and haveluncheon, and then allow him to show me over his ship. ScottRussell was far too deeply absorbed in his surroundings tonote any peculiarity in this neglect of himself and markedrespect for 'Captain Cole.' We made the round of the decks,then explored the engine room. Here the designer foundhimself in an earthly paradise. He button-holed the engineerand inquired into every crank, and piston, and valve, andevery bolt, as it seemed to me, till the officer in chargeunconsciously began to ask opinions instead of offeringexplanations. By degrees the captain was equally astonishedat the visitor's knowledge, and when at last my friend askedwhat had become of some fixture or other which he missed,Captain Anderson turned to him and exclaimed, 'Why, you seemto know more about the ship than I do.'
　　'Well, so I ought,' says my friend, never for a momentsupposing 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 thecaptain's feelings by preserving my incognito, and so ended apleasant day.
Chapter 44
IN November, 1862, my wife and I received an invitation tospend a week at Compiegne with their Majesties the Emperorand Empress of the French. This was due to the circumstancethat my wife's father, Lord Wilton, as Commodore of the RoyalYacht Squadron, had entertained the Emperor during his visitto Cowes.
　　We found an express train with the imperial carriagesawaiting the arrival of the English guests at the station duNord. The only other English besides ourselves were Lord andLady Winchilsea with Lady Florence Paget, and Lord and LadyCastlerosse, now Lord and Lady Kenmare. These, however, hadpreceded us, so that with the exception of M. Drouyn deLhuys, we had the saloon carriage to ourselves.
　　The party was a very large one, including the Walewskis, thePersignys, the Metternichs - he, the Austrian Ambassador -Prince Henri VII. of Reuss, Prussian Ambassador, the Princede la Moskowa, son of Marshal Ney, and the Labedoyeres,amongst the historical names. Amongst those of art andliterature, of whom there were many, the only one whom I madethe acquaintance of was Octave Feuillet. I happened to havebrought his 'Comedies et Proverbes' and another of his bookswith me, never expecting to meet him; this so pleased himthat we became allies. I was surprised to find that he couldnot even read English, which I begged him to learn for thesake of Shakespeare alone.
　　We did not see their Majesties till dinner-time. When theguests were assembled, the women and the men were arrangedseparately on opposite sides of the room. The Emperor andEmpress then entered, each respectively welcoming those oftheir own sex, shaking hands and saying some conventionalword in passing. Me, he asked whether I had brought my guns,and hoped we should have a good week's sport. To each one aword. Every night during the week we sat down over a hundredto dinner. The Army was largely represented. For the firsttime I tasted here the national frog, which is neither fishnor flesh. The wine was, of course, supreme; but after everydish a different wine was handed round. The eveningentertainments were varied. There was the theatre in thePalace, and some of the best of the Paris artistes wererequisitioned for the occasion. With them came Dejazet, thennearly seventy, who had played before Buonaparte.
　　Almost every night there was dancing. Sometimes the Emperorwould walk through a quadrille, but as a rule he would retirewith one of his ministers, though only to a smaller boudoirat the end of the suite, where a couple of whist-tables wereready for the more sedate of the party. Here one evening Ifound Prince Metternich showing his Majesty a chess problem,of which he was the proud inventor. The Emperor askedwhether I was fond of chess. I was very fond of chess, wasone of the regular HABITUES of St. George's Chess Club, andhad made a study of the game for years. The Princechallenged me to solve his problem in four moves. It was nota very profound one. I had the hardihood to discover thatthree, rather obvious moves, were sufficient. But as I wasnot Gil Blas, and the Prince was not the Archbishop ofGrenada, it did not much matter. Like the famous prelate,his Excellency proffered his felicitations, and doubtlessalso wished me 'un peu plus de gout' with the addition of 'unpeu moins de perspicacite.'
　　One of the evening performances was an exhibition of POSES-PLASTIQUES, the subjects being chosen from celebratedpictures in the Louvre. Theatrical costumiers, under thecommand of a noted painter, were brought from Paris. Theladies of the court were carefully rehearsed, and the wholething was very perfectly and very beautifully done. All theEnglish ladies were assigned parts. But, as nearly all thesedepended less upon the beauties of drapery than upon those ofnature, the English ladies were more than a little staggeredby the demands of the painter and of the - UNdressers. Tothe young and handsome Lady Castlerosse, then just married,was allotted the figure of Diana. But when informed that, inaccordance with the original, the drapery of one leg wouldhave to be looped up above the knee, her ladyship used veryfirm language; and, though of course perfectly ladylike,would, rendered into masculine terms, have signified that shewould 'see the painter d-d first.' The celebrated 'Cruchecassee' 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 norLord Castlerosse, both of us newly married, at allappreciated. This was the privileges of the Green-room, orrather of the dressing-rooms. The exhibition was given inthe ball-room. On one side of this, until the night of theperformances, an enclosure was boarded off. Within it, werecompartments in which the ladies dressed and - undressed. Atthis operation, as we young husbands discovered, certainyoung gentlemen of the court were permitted to assist - Ithink I am not mistaken in saying that his Majesty was of thenumber. 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 tosee, 'No admittance except on business,' or perhaps, 'onpleasure.' At this door I rapped, and rapped againimpatiently. It was opened, only as wide as her face, by theempress.
　　'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 placethere, at all events.'
　　Another little incident at the performance itself alsorecalled the days and manners of the court of Louis XV.
　　Between each tableau, which was lighted solely from theraised stage, the lights were put out, and the whole roomleft in complete darkness. Whenever this happened, thesounds 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 thathumour of this kind was confined to the servants' hall. Onecould not help thinking of another court, where things weremanaged differently.
　　But the truth is, these trivial episodes were symptomatic ofa pervading tone. A no inconsiderable portion of the ladiesseemed to an outsider to have been invited for the sake oftheir personal charms. After what has just been related, onecould not help fancying that there were some amongst them whohad availed themselves of the privilege which, according toTacitus, was claimed by Vistilia before the AEdiles. So far,however, from any of these noble ladies being banished to theIsle of Seriphos, they seemed as much attached to the courtas the court to them; and whatever the Roman Emperor mighthave done, the Emperor of the French was all that was mostindulgent.
　　There were two days' shooting, one day's stag hunting, anexpedition to Pierrefonds, and a couple of days spent inriding and skating. The shooting was very much after thefashion of that already described at Prince Esterhazy's,though of a much more Imperial character. As in Hungary, thegame had been driven into coverts cut down to the height ofthe waist, with paths thirty to forty yards apart, for theguns.
　　The weather was cold, with snow on the ground, but it was abeautifully sunny day. This was the party: the twoambassadors, the Prince de la Moskowa, Persigny, Walewski -Bonaparte's natural son, and the image of his father - theMarquis de Toulongeon, Master of the Horse, and we threeEnglishmen. 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 thechar-a-bancs. Four splendid Normandy greys, with postilionsin the picturesque old costume, glazed hats and huge jack-boots, took us through the forest at full gallop, and in halfan hour we were at the covert side. The Emperor was verycheery all the way. He cautioned me not to shoot back forthe 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 asquadron of dismounted cavalry drawn up in line, ready tocommence operations. They were in stable dress, with canvastrousers and spurs to their boots. Several officers weregalloping about giving orders, the whole being under thecommand of a mounted chief in green uniform and cocked hat!
　　The place of each shooter had been settled by M. deToulongeon. I, being the only Nobody of the lot, was put onthe extreme outside. The Emperor was in the middle; andalthough, as I noticed, he made some beautiful shots atrocketers, he was engaged much of the time in talking toministers who walked behind, or beside, him.
　　Our servants were already in the places allotted to theirmasters, and each of us had two keepers to carry spare guns(the Emperor had not forgotten to send me two of his, which Icould not shoot with, and never used), and a sergeant with alarge card to prick off each head of game, not as it fell tothe gun, but only after it was picked up. This conscientiousscoring amused me greatly; for, as it chanced, my bag was aheavy one, and the Emperor's marker sent constant messages tomine to compare notes, and so arrange, as it transpired, tokeep His Majesty at the top of the score.
　　About half-past one we reached a clearing where DEJEUNER wasawaiting us. The scene presented was striking. Around atent in which every delicacy was spread out were numbers oflittle charcoal fires, where a still greater number of cooksin white caps and jackets were preparing dainty dishes; whilethe Imperial footmen bustling about brightened the picturewith colour. After coffee all the cards were brought to hisMajesty. When he had scanned them, he said to me across thetable:
　　'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, butwith 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 desgourmands!'
　　Till the finish, she and the rest walked with the shooters.
　　By four it was over. The total score was 1,387 head. Minewas 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 inuse), was an unusually good bag.
　　Fashion is capricious. When lunch was over I went to one ofthe charcoal fires, quite in the background, to light acigarette. An aide-de-camp immediately pounced upon me, withthe information that this was not permitted in company withthe Empress. It reminded one at once of the ejaculation atOliver 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 feminineforce of the palace, nearly every one of whom, from thehighest to the lowest, was provided with her own CAVALIERESERVENTE.
　　The following night, when we assembled for dinner, I receivedorders to sit next to the Empress. This was still moreembarrassing. It is true, one does not speak to a sovereignunless one is spoken to; but still one is permitted to makethe initiative easy. I found that I was expected to take myshare of the task; and by a happy inspiration, introduced thesubject of the Prince Imperial, then a child of eight yearsold. The MONDAINE Empress was at once merged in the adoringmother; her whole soul was wrapped up in the boy. It waseasy enough then to speculate on his career, at least so faras the building of castles in the air for fantasies to roamin. What a future he had before him! - to consolidate theEmpire! to perfect the great achievement of his father, andrender permanent the foundation of the Napoleonic dynasty! tobuild a superstructure as transcendent for the glories ofPeace, as those of his immortal ancestor had been for War!
　　It was not difficult to play the game with such court cardsin one's hand. Nor was it easy to coin these PHRASES DESUCRECANDI without sober and earnest reflections on theimport of their contents. What, indeed, might or might notbe the consequences to millions, of the wise or unwise orevil development of the life of that bright and handsomelittle fellow, now trotting around the dessert table, withthe long curls tumbling over his velvet jacket, and theflowers in his hand for some pretty lady who was privilegedto kiss him? Who could foretell the cruel doom - heedless ofsuch favours and such splendid promises - that awaited thepretty child? Who could hear the brave young soldier's lastshrieks of solitary agony? Who could see the forsaken bodyslashed with knives and assegais? Ah! who could dream ofthat fond mother's heart, when the end came, which eclipsedeven the disasters of a nation!
　　One by-day, when my wife and I were riding with the Emperorthrough the forest of Compiegne, a rough-looking man in ablouse, with a red comforter round his neck, sprang out frombehind a tree; and before he could be stopped, seized theEmperor's bridle. In an instant the Emperor struck his handwith a heavy hunting stock; and being free, touched his horsewith the spur and cantered on. I took particular notice ofhis features and his demeanour, from the very first moment ofthe surprise. Nothing happened but what I have described.
　　The man seemed fierce and reckless. The Emperor showed notthe faintest signs of discomposure. All he said was, turningto my wife, 'Comme il avait l'air sournois, cet homme!' andresumed the conversation at the point where it wasinterrupted.
　　Before we had gone a hundred yards I looked back to see whathad become of the offender. He was in the hands of two GENSD'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'spersonal cowardice running in my head, I felt that thisexhibition of SANG FROID, when taken completely unawares,went far to refute the imputation. What happened later inthe day strongly confirmed this opinion.
　　After dark, about six o'clock, I took a stroll by myselfthrough the town of Compiegne. Coming home, when crossingthe bridge below the Palace, I met the Emperor arm-in-armwith Walewski. Not ten minutes afterwards, whom should Istumble upon but the ruffian who had seized the Emperor'sbridle? The same red comforter was round his neck, the samewild look was in his face. I turned after he had passed, andat the same moment he turned to look at me.
　　Would this man have been at large but for the Emperor'sorders? Assuredly not. For, supposing he were crazy, whocould have answered for his deeds? Most likely he wasshadowed; and to a certainty the Emperor would be so. Still,what could save the latter from a pistol-shot? Yet, here hewas, sauntering about the badly lighted streets of a townwhere his kenspeckle figure was familiar to every inhabitant.
　　Call this fatalism if you will; but these were not the actsof 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 theEmperor?' said he. 'CHERCHEZ LA FEMME. Both of them were inlove with Mrs. - '
　　This is the way we write our histories.
　　Wishing to explore the grounds about the palace before anyonewas 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 amuseum of Roman antiquities, and the Emperor was inside,arranging them. I immediately withdrew, but he called to meto come in.
　　He was at this time busy with his Life of Caesar; and, in hisenthusiasm, seemed pleased to have a listener to hisinstructive explanations; he even encouraged the curiositywhich the valuable collection and his own remarks could notfail to awaken.
　　Not long ago, I saw some correspondence in the Times' andother papers about what Heine calls 'Das kleinewelthistorische Hutchen,' which the whole of Europe knew sowell, to its cost. Some six or seven of the Buonaparte hats,so it appears, are still in existence. But I noticed, thatthough all were located, no mention was made of the one inthe Luxembourg.
　　When we left Compiegne for Paris we were magnificentlyfurnished with orders for royal boxes at theatres, and foradmission to places of interest not open to the public. Thusprovided, we had access to many objects of historicalinterest and of art - amongst the former, the relics of thegreat conqueror. In one glass case, under lock and key, wasthe 'world-historical little hat.' The official whoaccompanied us, having stated that we were the Emperor'sguests, requested the keeper to take it out and show it tous. I hope no Frenchman will know it, but, I put the hatupon my head. In one sense it was a 'little' hat - that isto say, it fitted a man with a moderate sized skull - but theflaps were much larger than pictures would lead one to think,and such was the weight that I am sure it would give anyordinary man accustomed to our head-gear a still neck to wearit for an hour. What has become of this hat if it is notstill in the Luxembourg?
Chapter 45
SOME few years later, while travelling with my family inSwitzerland, we happened to be staying at Baveno on LagoMaggiore at the same time, and in the same hotel, as theCrown Prince and Princess of Germany. Their ImperialHighnesses occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor.
　　Our rooms were immediately above them. As my wife was knownto the Princess, occasional greetings passed from balcony tobalcony.
　　One evening while watching two lads rowing from the shore inthe direction of Isola Bella, I was aroused from mycontemplation of a gathering storm by angry vociferationsbeneath me. These were addressed to the youths in the boat.
　　The anxious father had noted the coming tempest; and, withhands to his mouth, was shouting orders to the younggentlemen to return. Loud and angry as cracked the thunder,the imperial voice o'ertopped it. Commands succeededadmonitions, and as the only effect on the rowers was obviousrecalcitrancy, oaths succeeded both: all in those throat-clearing tones to which the German language so consonantlylends itself. In a few minutes the boat was immersed in thedown-pour which concealed it.
　　The elder of the two oarsmen was no other than the futurefirebrand peacemaker, Miching Mallecho, our fierce littleTartarin de Berlin. One wondered how he, who would not beruled, would come in turn to rule? That question is aburning 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 - aschoolboy and his sister - used in the early morning. Beingrather late one day, they found it engaged; and growingimpatient the boy banged at the door of the machine, with ashout in schoolboy's vernacular: 'Come, hurry up; we want todip.' 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 ofmischief and alarm.
　　About this time I joined a society for the relief ofdistress, of which Bromley Davenport was the nominal leader.
　　The 'managing director,' so to speak, was Dr. Gilbert, fatherof Mr. W. S. Gilbert. To him I went for instructions. Itold him I wanted to see the worst. He accordingly sent meto Bethnal Green. For two winters and part of a third Ivisited this district twice a week regularly. What I saw inthe course of those two years was matter for a thoughtful -ay, or a thoughtless - man to think of for the rest of hisdays.
　　My system was to call first upon the clergyman of the parish,and obtain from him a guide to the severest cases ofdestitution. The guide would be a Scripture reader, and, asfar as I remember, always a woman. I do not know whether thelabours of these good creatures were gratuitous - theythemselves were certainly poor, yet singularly earnest andsympathetic. The society supplied tickets for coal,blankets, and food. Needless to say, had these supplies beena thousand-fold as great, they would have done as littlepermanent 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 ancientand dilapidated. A weaver and his family would occupy partof a flat, consisting of two rooms perhaps, one of whichwould contain his loom. The room might be about seven feethigh, nearly dark, lighted only by a lattice window, half ofthe panes of which would be replaced by dirty rags or oldnewspaper. As the loom was placed against the window thelight was practically excluded. The foulness of the air andfilth which this entailed may be too easily imagined. Acouple of cases, taken almost at random, will sample scoresas bad.
　　It is one of the darkest days of December. The Thames isnearly frozen at Waterloo Bridge. On the second floor of anold house in - Lane, in an unusually spacious room (or doesit only look spacious because there is nothing in it savefour human beings?) are a father, a mother, and a grown-upson and daughter. They scowl at the visitor as the Scripturereader opens the door. What is the meaning of the intrusion?
　　Is he too come with a Bible instead of bread? The four areseated side by side on the floor, leaning against the wall,waiting for - death. Bedsteads, chairs, table, and loomshave been burnt this week or more for fuel. The grate isempty now, and lets the freezing draught blow down thechimney. The temporary relief is accepted, but not withthanks. These four stubbornly prefer death to the work-house.
　　One other case. It is the same hard winter. The scene: asmall garret in the roof, a low slanting little skylight, nowcovered six inches deep in snow. No fireplace here, noventilation, so put your scented cambric to your nose, mynoble Dives. The only furniture a scanty armful of - whatshall we call it? It was straw once. A starving woman and ababy are lying on it, notwithstanding. The baby surely willnot be there to-morrow. It has a very bad cold - and themucus, and the - pah! The woman in a few rags - just a few -is gnawing a raw carrot. The picture is complete. There'snothing more to paint. The rest - the whole indeed, that isthe consciousness of it - was, and remains, with the Unseen.
　　You will say, 'Such things cannot be'; you will say, 'Thereare relieving officers, whose duty, etc., etc.' May be. Iam only telling you what I myself have seen. There is moregoes on in big cities than even relieving officers can copewith. And who shall grapple with the causes? That's thepoint.
　　Here is something else that I have seen. I have seen afamily of six in one room. Of these, four were brothers andsisters, all within, none over, their teens. There werethree beds between the six. When I came upon them they wereout of work, - the young ones in bed to keep warm. I tookthem for very young married couples. It was the Scripturereader who undeceived me. This is not the exception to therule, look you, but the rule itself. How will you deal withit? It is with Nature, immoral Nature and her heedlessinstincts that you have to deal. With what kind of fork willyou expel her? It is with Nature's wretched children, theBETES HUMAINES,Quos venerem incertam rapientes more ferarum,that your account lies. Will they cease to listen to hermaddening whispers: 'Unissez-vous, multipliez, il n'estd'autre loi, d'autre but, que l'amour?' What care they forher aside - 'Et durez apres, si vous le pouvez; cela ne meregarde plus'? It doesn't regard them either.
　　The infallible panacea, so the 'Progressive' tell us, iseducation - lessons on the piano, perhaps? Doctor Malthuswould be more to the purpose; but how shall we administer hisprescriptions? One thing we might try to teach to advantage,and that is the elementary principles of hygiene. I am heartand soul with the Progressive as to the ultimate remedialpowers of education. Moral advancement depends absolutely onthe humanising influences of intellectual advancement. Theforeseeing of consequences is a question of intelligence.
　　And the appreciation of consequences which follow is thebasis of morality. But we must not begin at the wrong end.
　　The true foundation and condition of intellectual and moralprogress postulates material and physical improvement. Thegrowth of artificial wants is as much the cause as the effectof civilisation: they proceed PARI PASSU. A taste ofcomfort begets a love of comfort. And this kind of lovemilitates, not impotently, against the other; for self-interest is a persuasive counsellor, and gets a hearing whenthe blood is cool. Life must be more than possible, it mustbe endurable; man must have some leisure, some repose, beforehis brain-needs have a chance with those of his belly. Hemust have a coat to his back before he can stick a rose inits button-hole. The worst of it is, he begins - in BethnalGreen at least - with the rose-bud; and indulges, poor devil!
　　in a luxury which is just the most expensive, and - in ourBethnal Greens - the most suicidal he could resort to.
　　There was one method I adopted with a show of temporarysuccess now and then. It frequently happens that a mansuccumbs to difficulties for which he is not responsible, andwhich timely aid may enable him to overcome. An artisan mayhave 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 acobbler one day surrounded by a starving family. His storywas common enough, severe illness being the burden of it. Hewas an intelligent little fellow, and, as far as one couldjudge, full of good intentions. His wife seemed devoted tohim, and this was the best of vouchers. 'If he had but ashilling or two to redeem his tools, and buy two or three oldcast-off shoes in the rag-market which he could patch up andsell, 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 bootsand shoes, some without soles, some without uppers; all, as Ishould have thought, picked out of dust-bins and rubbishheaps, his sunken eyes sparkling with eagerness and renovatedhope. I looked in upon him about three weeks later. Thefamily were sitting round a well provided tea-table, close toa glowing fire, the cheeks of the children smeared with jam,and the little cobbler hammering away at his last, too busyto partake of the bowl of hot tea which his wife had placedbeside him.
　　The same sort of treatment was sometimes very successful witha skilful workman - like a carpenter, for instance. Here adouble purpose might be served. Nothing more common inBethnal Green than broken looms, and consequent disaster.
　　There you had the ready-made job for the reinstatedcarpenter; and good could be done in a small way, at verylittle cost. Of coarse much discretion is needed; still, theScripture readers or the relieving officers would know thecharacters of the destitute, and the visitor himself wouldsoon learn to discriminate.
　　A system similar to this was the basis of the aid rendered bythe Royal Society for the Assistance of Discharged Prisoners,which was started by my friend, Mr. Whitbread, the presentowner of Southill, and which I joined in its early days athis instigation. The earnings of the prisoner were handedover by the gaols to the Society, and the Society employedthem 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, ofwhich he is but a mere consumer, is of no avail.
　　One cannot but think that if instead of the selfishprinciples which govern our trades-unions, and which aredriving their industries out of the country, trade-schoolscould be provided - such, for instance, as the cheap carvingschools to be met with in many parts of Germany and the Tyrol- much might be done to help the bread-earners. Why couldnot schools be organised for the instruction of shoemakers,tailors, carpenters, smiths of all kinds, and the scores ofother trades which in former days were learnt by compulsoryapprenticeship? Under our present system of education thegreater part of what the poor man's children learn is cleanforgotten in a few years; and if not, serves mainly to createand foster discontent, which vents itself in a passion formass-meetings and the fuliginous oratory of our Hyde Parks.
　　The emigration scheme for poor-law children as advocated byMrs. Close is the most promising, in its way, yet broughtbefore the public, and is deserving of every support.
　　In the absence of any such projects as these, thehopelessness of the task, and the depressing effect of thecontact with much wretchedness, wore me out. I had a nurseryof my own, and was not justified in risking infectiousdiseases. A saint would have been more heroic, and couldbesides have promised that sweetest of consolations tosuffering 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 thereckless intercourse of the sexes; and what had Providence todo with a law of Nature, obedience to which entailedunspeakable misery?
Chapter 46
IN the autumn following the end of the Franco-German war, Dr.
　　Bird and I visited all the principal battlefields. InEngland the impression was that the bloodiest battle wasfought at Gravelotte. The error was due, I believe, to ourhaving no war correspondent on the spot. Compared with thaton the plains between St. Marie and St. Privat, Gravelottewas but a cavalry skirmish. We were fortunate enough to meeta German artillery officer at St. Marie who had been in theaction, and who kindly explained the distribution of theforces. Large square mounds were scattered about the plainwhere the German dead were buried, little wooden crossesbeing stuck into them to denote the regiment they hadbelonged to. At Gravelotte we saw the dogs unearthing thebodies from the shallow graves. The officer told us he didnot think there was a family in Germany unrepresented in theplains of St. Privat.
　　It was interesting so soon after the event, to sit quietly inthe little summer-house of the Chateau de Bellevue,commanding a view of Sedan, where Bismarck and Moltke andGeneral de Wimpfen held their memorable Council. 'Unterrible homme,' says the story of the 'Debacle,' 'ce generalde Moltke, qui gagnait des batailles du fond de son cabinet acoups d'algebre.'
　　We afterwards made a walking tour through the Tyrol, and downto Venice. On our way home, while staying at Lucerne, wewent up the Rigi. Soon after leaving the Kulm, on ourdescent to the railway, which was then uncompleted, we losteach other in the mist. I did not get to Vitznau till lateat night, but luckily found a steamer just starting forLucerne. The cabin was crammed with German students, eachone smoking his pipe and roaring choruses to alternatesingers. All of a sudden, those who were on their legs wereknocked off them. The panic was instantaneous, for every oneof us knew it was a collision. But the immediate peril wasin the rush for the deck. Violent with terror, rough bynature, and full of beer, these wild young savages wereformidable to themselves and others. Having arrived late, Ihad not got further than the cabin door, and was up thecompanion ladder at a bound. It was pitch dark, and piteousscreams came up from the surrounding waters. At first it wasimpossible to guess what had happened. Were we rammed, orwere we rammers? I pulled off my coats ready for a swim.
　　But it soon became apparent that we had run into and sunkanother boat.
　　The next morning the doctor and I went on to England. A weekafter I took up the 'Illustrated News.' There was an accountof the accident, with an illustration of the cabin of thesunken boat. The bodies of passengers were depicted as thedivers had found them.
　　On the very day the peace was signed I chanced to call on SirAnthony Rothschild in New Court. He took me across the courtto see his brother Lionel, the head of the firm. Sir Anthonybowed before him as though the great man were Plutus himself.
　　He sat at a table alone, not in his own room, but in theimmense counting-room, surrounded by a brigade of clerks.
　　This was my first introduction to him. He took no notice ofhis brother, but received me as Napoleon received theemperors and kings at Erfurt - in other words, as he wouldhave received his slippers from his valet, or as he didreceive the telegrams which were handed to him at the rate ofabout one a minute.
　　The King of Kings was in difficulties with a little slip ofblack sticking-plaster. The thought of Gumpelino'sHyacinthos, ALIAS Hirsch, flashed upon me. Behold! themighty Baron Nathan come to life again; but instead ofHyacinthos 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 thesticking-plaster.
　　'Oh no,' said I, 'I've no money to gamble with.'
　　'Hasn't Lord Leicester bought Spanish?' - never looking offthe sticking-plaster, nor taking the smallest notice of thetelegrams.
　　'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 inhis ear.
　　'Very well, put it down.'
　　'From Paris,' said Sir Anthony, guessing perhaps at itscontents.
　　But not until the plaster was comfortably adjusted did Plutusread the message. He smiled and pushed it over to me. Itwas the terms of peace, and the German bill of costs.
　　'200,000,000 pounds!' I exclaimed. 'That's a heavyreckoning. Will France ever be able to pay it?'
　　'Pay it? Yes. If it had been twice as much!' And Plutusreturned to his sticking-plaster. That was of realimportance.
　　Last autumn - 1904, the literary world was not a littlegratified by an announcement in the 'Times' that the BritishMuseum had obtained possession of the original manuscript ofKeats'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 accountof it.
　　When Leigh Hunt's memoirs were being edited by his sonThornton in 1861, he engaged the services of three intimatefriends of the family to read and collate the enormous massof his father's correspondence. Miss Alice Bird was one ofthe chosen three. The arduous task completed, Thornton Huntpresented each of his three friends with a number ofautographic letters, which, according to Miss Bird'sdescription, he took almost at random from the eliminatedpile. Amongst the lot that fell to Miss Bird's share was aroll of stained paper tied up with tape. This she was led tosuppose - she never carefully examined it - might be either acopy 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. Havingnow occasion to remove these papers, she opened the forgottenscroll, and was at once struck both with the words of the'Hyperion,' and with the resemblance of the writing toKeats's.
　　She forthwith consulted the Keepers of the Manuscripts in theBritish Museum, with the result that her TROUVAILLE wasimmediately identified as the poet's own draft of the'Hyperion.' The responsible authorities soon after, offeredthe fortunate possessor five hundred guineas for themanuscript, but courteously and honestly informed her that,were it put up to auction, some American collector would bealmost sure to give a much larger sum for it.
　　Miss Bird's patriotism prevailed over every otherconsideration. She expressed her wish that the poem shouldbe retained in England; and generously accepted what wasindubitably less than its market value.
Chapter 47
A MAN whom I had known from my school-days, FrederickThistlethwayte, coming into a huge fortune when a subalternin a marching regiment, had impulsively married a certainMiss Laura Bell. In her early days, when she made her firstappearance in London and in Paris, Laura Bell's extraordinarybeauty was as much admired by painters as by men of theworld. Amongst her reputed lovers were Dhuleep Singh, thefamous Marquis of Hertford, and Prince Louis Napoleon. Shewas the daughter of an Irish constable, and began life on thestage at Dublin. Her Irish wit and sparkling merriment, hercajolery, her good nature and her feminine artifice, wereattractions which, in the eyes of the male sex, fully atonedfor her youthful indiscretions.
　　My intimacy with both Mr. and Mrs. Thistlethwayte extendedover many years; and it is but justice to her memory to averthat, to the best of my belief, no wife was ever morefaithful to her husband. I speak of the Thistlethwaytes herefor two reasons - absolutely unconnected in themselves, yetboth interesting in their own way. The first is, that at myfriend's house in Grosvenor Square I used frequently to meetMr. Gladstone, sometimes alone, sometimes at dinner. As maybe supposed, the dinner parties were of men, but mostly ofmen eminent in public life. The last time I met Mr.
　　Gladstone there the Duke of Devonshire and Sir W. Harcourtwere both present. I once dined with Mrs. Thistlethwayte inthe absence of her husband, when the only others were Munroof Novar - the friend of Turner, and the envied possessor ofa splendid gallery of his pictures - and the Duke ofNewcastle - then a Cabinet Minister. Such were thenotabilities whom the famous beauty gathered about her.
　　But it is of Mr. Gladstone that I would say a word. Thefascination which he exercised over most of those who cameinto contact with him is incontestable; and everyone isentitled to his own opinion, even though unable to accountfor it. This, at least, must be my plea, for to me, Mr.
　　Gladstone was more or less a Dr. Fell. Neither in his publicnor in his private capacity had I any liking for him. Nobodycares a button for what a 'man in the street' like me says orthinks on subject matters upon which they have made up theirminds. I should not venture, even as one of the crowd, todeprecate a popularity which I believe to be fast passingaway, were it not that better judges and wiser men think as Ido, and have represented opinions which I sincerely share.
　　'He was born,' says Huxley, 'to be a leader of men, and hehas debased himself to be a follower of the masses. Ifworking men were to-day to vote by a majority that two andtwo made five, to-morrow Gladstone would believe it, and findthem reasons for it which they had never dreamt of.' Couldany words be truer? Yes; he was not born to be a leader ofmen. He was born to be, what he was - a misleader of men.
　　Huxley says he could be made to believe that two and two madefive. He would try to make others believe it; but would hehimself believe it? His friends will plead, 'he mightdeceive himself by the excessive subtlety of his mind.' Thisis the charitable view to take. But some who knew him longand well put another construction upon this facile self-deception. There were, and are, honourable men of thehighest standing who failed to ascribe disinterested motivesto the man who suddenly and secretly betrayed his colleagues,his party, and his closest friends, and tried to break up theEmpire to satisfy an inordinate ambition, and an insatiablecraving for power. 'He might have been mistaken, but heacted for the best'? Was he acting conscientiously for thebest 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 partof a statesman, of a patriot?
　　And for what else shall we admire Mr. Gladstone? WalterBagehot, alluding to his egotism, wrote of him in hislifetime, 'He longs to pour forth his own belief; he cannotrest till he has contradicted everyone else.' And what wasthat 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 athis indifference to the teaching of evolution; in otherwords, his ignorance of, and disbelief in, a scientifictheory of nature which has modified the theological and moralcreeds of the civilised world more profoundly than did theCopernican system of the Universe.
　　The truth is, Mr. Gladstone was half a century behind the agein everything that most deeply concerned the destiny of man.
　　He was a politician, and nothing but a politician; and had itnot been for his extraordinary gift of speech, we shouldnever have heard of him save as a writer of scholia, or as acollege 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 manwhom posterity will ennoble with the title of either 'great'
　　or 'good.'
　　My second reason for mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte wasone which at first sight may seem trivial, and yet, when welook into it, is of more importance than the renown of an ex-Prime Minister. If these pages are ever read, what followswill be as distasteful to some of my own friends as the aboveremarks to Mr. Gladstone's.
　　Pardon a word about the writer himself - it is needed toemphasise and justify these OBITER DICTA. I was brought upas a sportsman: I cannot remember the days when I began toshoot. I had a passion for all kinds of sport, and have hadopportunities of gratifying it such as fall to the lot offew. After the shootings of Glenquoich and Invergarry werelost to me through the death of Mr. Ellice, I became almostthe sole guest of Mr. Thistlethwayte for twelve years at hisHighland shooting of Kinlochmohr, not very far from FortWilliam. He rented the splendid deer forest of Mamore,extensive grouse moors, and a salmon river within tenminutes' walk of the lodge. His marriage and hiseccentricities of mind and temper led him to shun allsociety. We often lived in bothies at opposite ends of theforest, returning to the lodge on Saturday till Mondaymorning. For a sportsman, no life could be more enjoyable.
　　I was my own stalker, taking a couple of gillies for theponies, but finding the deer for myself - always the mostdifficult 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 ofkilling, AND WOUNDING, animals for amusement's sake. Themore I thought of it, the less it bore thinking about.
　　Finally I gave it up altogether. But I went on several yearsafter this with the deer-stalking; the true explanation ofthis inconsistency would, I fear, be that I had had enough ofthe one, but would never have enough of the other - one'sconscience adapts itself without much difficulty to one'sinclinations.
　　Between my host and myself, there was a certain amount ofrivalry; and as the head forester was his stalker, therivalry between our men aroused rancorous jealousy. I thinkthe gillies on either side would have spoilt the others'
　　sport, could they have done so with impunity. For twoseasons, a very big stag used occasionally to find its wayinto our forest from the Black Mount, where it was alsoknown. Thistlethwayte had had a chance, and missed it; thenmy turn came. I got a long snap-shot end on at the gallopingstag. It was an unsportsmanlike thing to do, but consideringthe rivalry and other temptations I fired, and hit the beastin the haunch. It was late in the day, and the woundedanimal escaped.
　　Nine days later I spied the 'big stag' again. He was nearlyin the middle of a herd of about twenty, mostly hinds, on thelook-out. They were on a large open moss at the bottom of acorrie, whence they could see a moving object on every sideof them. A stalk where they were was out of the question. Imade up my mind to wait and watch.
　　Now comes the moral of my story. For hours I watched thatstag. Though three hundred yards or so away from me, I couldthrough my glass see almost the expression of his face. Notonce did he rise or attempt to feed, but lay restlesslybeating his head upon the ground for hour after hour. I knewwell enough what that meant. I could not hear his groans.
　　His plaints could not reach my ears, but they reached myheart. The refrain varied little: 'How long shall I cry andThou wilt not hear?' - that was the monotonous burden of themoans, though sometimes I fancied it changed to: 'Lord howlong shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?'
　　The evening came, and then, as is their habit, the deer beganto feed up wind. The wounded stag seemed loth to stir. Bydegrees the last watchful hind fed quietly out of sight.
　　With throbbing pulse and with the instincts of a fox - orprehistoric man, 'tis all the same - I crawled and draggedmyself through the peat bog and the pools of water. Butnearer than two hundred yards it was impossible to get; evento raise my head or find a tussock whereon to rest the riflewould have started any deer but this one. From the hollow Iwas in, the most I could see of him was the outline of hisback and his head and neck. I put up the 200 yards sight andkilled him.
　　A vivid description of the body is not desirable. It wasalmost fleshless, wasted away, except his wounded haunch.
　　That was nearly twice its normal size; about one half of itwas 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 onefor his pursuit of sport. But I submit that he must followit, if at all, with Reason's eyes shut. Happily, your truesportsman does not violate his conscience. As a friend ofmine said to me the other day, 'Unless you give a man of thatkind something to kill, his own life is not worth having.'
　　This, to be sure, is all he has to think about.
Chapter 48
FOR eight or nine years, while my sons were at school, Ilived at Rickmansworth. Unfortunately the Leweses had justleft it. Moor Park belonged to Lord Ebury, my wife's uncle,and the beauties of its magnificent park and the amenities ofits charming house were at all times open to us, and freelytaken advantage of. During those nine years I lived the lifeof a student, and wrote and published the book I haveelsewhere spoken of, the 'Creeds of the Day.'
　　Of the visitors of note whose acquaintance I made while I wasstaying at Moor Park, by far the most illustrious was Froude.
　　He was too reserved a man to lavish his intimacy when takenunawares; and if he suspected, as he might have done by myprobing, that one wanted to draw him out, he was much tooshrewd to commit himself to definite expressions of any kinduntil he knew something of his interviewer. Reticence ofthis kind, on the part of such a man, is both prudent andcommendable. But is not this habit of cautiousness sometimescarried to the extent of ambiguity in his 'Short Studies onGreat Subjects'? The careful reader is left in no sort ofdoubt as to Froude's own views upon Biblical criticism, as tohis theological dogmas, or his speculative opinions. But theconviction is only reached by comparing him with himself indifferent moods, by collating essay with essay, and one partof an essay with another part of the same essay. Sometimeswe have an astute defence of doctrines worthy at least of atemperate apologist, and a few pages further on we wonderwhether the writer was not masking his disdain for thecredulity which he now exposes and laughs at. Neitherexcessive caution nor timidity are implied by his editing ofthe Carlyle papers; and he may have failed - who that hasdone so much has not? - in keeping his balance on the swayingslack-rope between the judicious and the injudicious. In hisown line, however, he is, to my taste, the most scholarly,the most refined, and the most suggestive, of our recentessayists. The man himself in manner and in appearance wasin perfect keeping with these attractive qualities.
　　While speaking of Moor Park and its kind owner I may availmyself of this opportunity to mention an early reminiscenceof Lord Ebury's concerning the Grosvenor estate in London.
　　Mr. Gladstone was wont to amuse himself with speculations asto the future dimensions of London; what had been its growthwithin his memory; what causes might arise to cheek itsincrease. After listening to his remarks on the subject oneday at dinner, I observed that I had heard Lord Ebury talk ofshooting over ground which is now Eaton Square. Mr.
　　Gladstone of course did not doubt it; but some of the youngmen smiled incredulously. I afterwards wrote to Lord Eburyto 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 havementioned 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 thehousehold troops drilled. That part of Grosvenor Place wherethe Grosvenor Place houses now stand was occupied by the LockHospital and Chapel, and it ended where the small houses arenow to be found. A little farther, a somewhat tortuous lanecalled the King's Road led to Chelsea, and, I think, wherenow St. Peter's, Pimlico, was afterwards built. I remembergoing to a breakfast at a villa belonging to LadyBuckinghamshire. The Chelsea Waterworks Company had a sortof marshy place with canals and osier beds, now, I suppose,Ebury Street, and here it was that I was permitted to go andtry my hand at snipe-shooting, a special privilege given tothe son of the freeholder.
　　'The successful fox-hunt terminating in either Bedford orRussell 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 LordEbury as even more remarkable than his snipe-shooting inBelgravia. As it is still more indicative of the growth ofLondon in recent times it may be here recorded.
　　In connection with Mr. Gladstone's forecasts, I had writtento the last Lord Digby, who was a grandson of my father's,stating that I had heard - whether from my father or not Icould not say - that he had killed a fox where now is BedfordSquare, with his own hounds.
　　Lord Digby replied:
　　'Minterne, Dorset: January 7, 1883.
　　'My dear Henry, - My grandfather killed a fox with his houndseither in Bedford or Russell Square. Old Jones, thehuntsman, who died at Holkham when you were a child, was myinformant. I asked my grandfather if it was correct. Hesaid "Yes" - he had kennels at Epping Place, and hunted theroodings 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 oursbefore we lived at Rickmansworth. We had been his guests forthe 'first night' of almost every one of his plays - playsthat may have a thousand imitators, but the speciality ofwhose excellence will remain unrivalled and inimitable. Hisvisits to us introduced him, I think, to the picturesquecountry which he has now made his home. When Mr. Gilbertbuilt his house in Harrington Gardens he easily persuaded usto build next door to him. This led to my acquaintance withhis neighbour on the other side, Mr. Walter Cassels, now wellknown as the author of 'Supernatural Religion.'
　　When first published in 1874, this learned work, summarisingand elaborately examining the higher criticism of the fourGospels up to date, created a sensation throughout thetheological world, which was not a little intensified by theanonymity of its author. The virulence with which it wasattacked by Dr. Lightfoot, the most erudite bishop on thebench, at once demonstrated its weighty significance and itsdestructive force; while Mr. Morley's high commendation ofits 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 tothe anonymous book; and soon after my introduction to Mr.
　　Cassels spoke to him of its importance, and asked him whetherhe had read it. He hesitated for a moment, then said:
　　'We are very much of the same way of thinking on thesesubjects. I will tell you a secret which I kept for sometime even from my publishers - I am the author of"Supernatural Religion."'
　　From that time forth, we became the closest of allies. Iknow no man whose tastes and opinions and interests are morecompletely in accord with my own than those of Mr. WalterCassels. It is one of my greatest pleasures to meet himevery summer at the beautiful place of our mutual andsympathetic friend, Mrs. Robertson, on the skirts of theAshtead forest, in Surrey.
　　The winter of 1888 I spent at Cairo under the roof of GeneralSir Frederick Stephenson, then commanding the English forcesin Egypt. I had known Sir Frederick as an ensign in theGuards. He was adjutant of his regiment at the Alma, and atInkerman. He is now Colonel of the Coldstreams and Governorof 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 beenup the Nile. There is only one name I have to mention here,and that is one of the best-known in the world. Mr. ThomasCook was the son of the original inventor of the 'Globe-trotter.' But it was the extraordinary energy and powers oforganisation of the son that enabled him to develop to itspresent 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 ReliefExpedition had been handed over to Cook. The boats, theprovisioning of them, and the river transport service up toWady Halfa, were contracted for and undertaken by Cook.
　　A most entertaining account he gave of the whole affair. Hetold us how the Mudir of Dongola, who was by way of renderingevery possible assistance, had offered him an enormous bribeto wreck the most valuable cargoes on their passage throughthe Cataracts.
　　Before Mr. Cook took leave of the General, he expressed theregret felt by the British residents in Cairo at thetermination of Sir Frederick's command; and wound up a prettylittle speech by a sincere request that he might be allowedto furnish Sir Frederick GRATIS with all the means at hisdisposal for a tour through the Holy Land. The liberal andhighly complimentary offer was gratefully acknowledged, butat once emphatically declined. The old soldier, (at least,this was my guess,) brave in all else, had not the courage toface 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 GordonExpedition, which was then in the air, Dr. Bird was smokinghis cigarette on the terrace in front of Shepherd's Hotel, incompany with four or five other men, strangers to him and toone another. A discussion arose as to the best means ofrelieving Gordon. Each had his own favourite general.
　　Presently the doctor exclaimed: 'Why don't they put thething into the hands of Cook? I'll be bound to say he wouldundertake it, and do the job better than anyone else.'
　　'Do you know Cook, sir?' asked one of the smokers who hadhitherto been silent.
　　'No, I never saw him, but everybody knows he has a genius fororganisation; and I don't believe there is a general in theBritish Army to match him.'
　　When the company broke up, the silent stranger asked thedoctor his name and address, and introduced himself as ThomasCook. The following winter Dr. Bird received a letterenclosing tickets for himself and Miss Bird for a trip toEgypt and back, free of expense, 'in return for his goodopinion and good wishes.'
　　After my General's departure, and a month up the Nile, I -already disillusioned, alas! - rode through Syria, followingthe beaten track from Jerusalem to Damascus. On my way fromAlexandria to Jaffa I had the good fortune to make theacquaintance of an agreeable fellow-traveller, Mr. HenryLopes, afterwards member for Northampton, also bound forPalestine. We went to Constantinople and to the Crimeatogether, then through Greece, and only parted at CharingCross.
　　It was easy to understand Sir Frederick Stephenson's(supposed) unwillingness to visit Jerusalem. It was probablyfar from being what it is now, or even what it was whenPierre Loti saw it, for there was no railway from Jaffa inour time. Still, what Loti pathetically describes as 'unebanalite de banlieue parisienne,' was even then too painfullycasting its vulgar shadows before it. And it was rather withthe forlorn eyes of the sentimental Frenchman than with theveneration 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 ofJerusalem. One cannot think heartlessly of a disappointedlove. One cannot tear out creeds interwoven with thetenderest fibres of one's heart. It is better to be silent.
　　Yet is it a place for unwept tears, for the deep sadness andhard resignation borne in upon us by the eternal loss ofsomething dearer once than life. All we who are weary andheavy laden, in whom now shall we seek the rest which is notnothingness?
　　My story is told, but I fain would take my leave with wordsless sorrowful. If a man has no better legacy to bequeaththan bid his fellow-beings despair, he had better take itwith him to his grave.
　　We know all this, we know!
　　But it is in what we do not know that our hope and ourreligion lies. Thrice blessed are we in the certainty thathere our range is infinite. This infinite that makes ourbrains reel, that begets the feeling that makes us 'shrink,'
　　is perhaps the most portentous argument in the logic of thesceptic. Since the days of Laplace, we have been haunted insome form or other with the ghost of the MECANIQUE CELESTE.
　　Take one or two commonplaces from the text-books ofastronomy:
　　Every half-hour we are about ten thousand miles nearer to theconstellation of Lyra. 'The sun and his system must travelat his present rate for far more than a million years (dividethis into half-hours) before we have crossed the abyssbetween 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 andsubdivide it into one million equal parts, each of theseparts would be long enough to span the great distance of92,700,000 miles from the earth to the sun,' yet Sirius isone of the NEAREST of the stars to us.
　　The velocity with which light traverses space is 186,300miles a second, at which rate it has taken the rays fromSirius which we may see to-night, nine years to reach us.
　　The proper motion of Sirius through space is about onethousand miles a minute. Yet 'careful alignment of the eyewould hardly detect that Sirius was moving, in . . . eventhree or four centuries.'
　　'There may be, and probably are, stars from which Noah mightbe seen stepping into the Ark, Eve listening to thetemptation of the serpent, or that older race, eating theoysters and leaving the shell-heaps behind them, when theBaltic was an open sea' (Froude's 'Science of History').
　　Facts and figures such as these simply stupefy us. Theyvaguely convey the idea of something immeasurably great, butnothing further. They have no more effect upon us than wordsaddressed to some poor 'bewildered creature, stunned andparalysed by awe; no more than the sentence of death to theterror-stricken wretch at the bar. Indeed, it is in thissense that the sceptic uses them for our warning.
　　'Seit Kopernikus,' says Schopenhauer, 'kommen die Theologenmit dem lieben Gott in Verlegenheit.' 'No one,' he adds,'has so damaged Theism as Copernicus.' As if limitation andimperfection in the celestial mechanism would make for thebelief in God; or, as if immortality were incompatible withdependence. Des Cartes, for one, (and he counts for many,)held just the opposite opinion.
　　Our sun and all the millions upon millions of suns whoselight will never reach us are but the aggregation of atomsdrawn together by the same force that governs their orbit,and which makes the apple fall. When their heat, howevergenerated, is expended, they die to frozen cinders; possiblyto be again diffused as nebulae, to begin again the eternalround of change.
　　What is life amidst this change? 'When I consider the workof Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hastordained, what is man that Thou art mindful of him?'
　　But is He mindful of us? That is what the sceptic asks. IsHe mindful of life here or anywhere in all this boundlessspace? We have no ground for supposing (so we are told) thatlife, if it exists at all elsewhere, in the solar system atleast, is any better than it is here? 'Analogy compels us tothink,' says M. France, one of the most thoughtful of livingwriters, 'that our entire solar system is a gehenna where theanimal is born for suffering. . . . This alone would sufficeto disgust me with the universe.' But M. France is too deepa thinker to abide by such a verdict. There must besomething 'behind the veil.' 'Je sens que ces immensites nesont rien, et qu'enfin, s'il y a quelque chose, ce quelquechose n'est pas ce que nous voyons.' That is it. All theseimmensities are not 'rien,' but they are assuredly not whatwe 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, provesthe futility of our speculations, and should help us best ofall though outwardly so appalling, to stand calm while thesnake of unbelief writhes beneath our feet. The unutterableinsignificance of man and his little world connotes theinfinity which leaves his possibilities as limitless asitself.
　　Spectrology informs us that the chemical elements of matterare everywhere the same; and in a boundless universe wheresuch unity is manifested there must be conditions similar tothose which support life here. It is impossible to doubt, onthese grounds alone, that life does exist elsewhere. Were werashly to assume from scientific data that no form of animallife could obtain except under conditions similar to our own,would not reason rebel at such an inference, on the mereground that to assume that there is no conscious being in theuniverse save man, is incomparably more unwarrantable, and initself incredible?
　　Admitting, then, the hypothesis of the universal distributionof life, has anyone the hardihood to believe that this iseither the best or worst of worlds? Must we not suppose thatlife exists in every stage of progress, in every state ofimperfection, and, conversely, of advancement? Have we stillthe audacity to believe with the ancient Israelites, or asthe Church of Rome believed only three centuries ago, thatthe universe was made for us, and we its centre? Or must wenot believe that - infinity given - the stages and degrees oflife are infinite as their conditions? And where is this tostop? There is no halting place for imagination till wereach the ANIMA MUNDI, the infinite and eternal Spirit fromwhich all Being emanates.
　　The materialist and the sceptic have forcible arguments ontheir 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 beingweary prove that he hath where to rest?' They smile at theflights of poetry and imagination, and love to repeat:
　　Fools! that so often hereHappiness mocked our prayer,I think might make us fearA like event elsewhere;Make us not fly to dreams, but moderate desire.
　　But then, if the other view is true, the Elsewhere is not theHere, 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 ournature, and I see not that reason, doubtless our trustiestguide, has one syllable to utter against our loftiest hopes.
　　Our higher instincts are just as much a part of us as anythat we listen to; and reason, to the end, can neverdogmatise with what it is not conversant.
The End