Of course I was wrong, though I did not know it then, for it must be borne in mind that there were no Board Schools in those days, and general education, amongst the poor, was deplorably deficient. At first, my idea was to give the children (they were all boys) a taste for the 'humanities,' which might afterwards lead to their further pursuit. I assumed that on the Sunday they would be thinking of the baked meats awaiting them when church was over, or of their week-day tops and tipcats; but I was equally sure that a time would come when these would be forgotten, and the other things remembered. The success was greater from the beginning than could be looked for; and some years afterwards I had reason to hope that the forecast was not altogether too sanguine.

While the Victoria Tower was being built, I stopped one day to watch the masons chiselling the blocks of stone. Presently one of them, in a flannel jacket and a paper cap, came and held out his hand to me. He was a handsome young fellow with a big black beard and moustache, both powdered with his chippings.

'You don't remember me, sir, do you?'

'Did I ever see you before?'

'My name is Richards; don't you remember, sir? I was one of the boys you used to teach at the Sunday-school. It gave me a turn for mechanics, which I followed up; and that's how I took to this trade. I'm a master mason now, sir; and the whole of this lot is under me.'

'I wonder what you would have been,' said I, 'if we'd stuck to the collects?'

'I don't think I should have had a hand in this little job,' he answered, looking up with pride at the mighty tower, as though he had a creative share in its construction.

All this while I was working hard at my own education, and trying to make up for the years I had wasted (so I thought of them), by knocking about the world. I spent laborious days and nights in reading, dabbling in geology, chemistry, physiology, metaphysics, and what not. On the score of dogmatic religion I was as restless as ever. I had an insatiable thirst for knowledge; but was without guidance. I wanted to learn everything; and, not knowing in what direction to concentrate my efforts, learnt next to nothing. All knowledge seemed to me equally important, for all bore alike upon the great problems of belief and of existence. But what to pursue, what to relinquish, appeared to me an unanswerable riddle. Difficult as this puzzle was, I did not know then that a long life's experience would hardly make it simpler. The man who has to earn his bread must fain resolve to adapt his studies to that end. His choice not often rests with him. But the unfortunate being cursed in youth with the means of idleness, yet without genius, without talents even, is terribly handicapped and perplexed.

And now, with life behind me, how should I advise another in such a plight? When a young lady, thus embarrassed, wrote to Carlyle for counsel, he sympathetically bade her 'put her drawers in order.'

Here is the truth to be faced at the outset: 'Man has but the choice to go a little way in many paths, or a great way in only one.' 'Tis thus John Mill puts it. Which will he, which should he, choose? Both courses lead alike to incompleteness. The universal man is no specialist, and has to generalise without his details. The specialist sees only through his microscope, and knows about as much of cosmology as does his microbe. Goethe, the most comprehensive of Seers, must needs expose his incompleteness by futile attempts to disprove Newton's theory of colour. Newton must needs expose his, by a still more lamentable attempt to prove the Apocalypse as true as his own discovery of the laws of gravitation. All science nowadays is necessarily confined to experts. Without illustrating the fact by invidious hints, I invite anyone to consider the intellectual cost to the world which such limitation entails; nor is the loss merely negative; the specialist is unfortunately too often a bigot, when beyond his contracted sphere.

This, you will say, is arguing in a circle. The universal must be given up for the detail, the detail for the universal; we leave off where we began. Yes, that is the dilemma. Still, the gain to science through a devotion of a whole life to a mere group of facts, in a single branch of a single science, may be an incalculable acquisition to human knowledge, to the intellectual capital of the race - a gain that sometimes far outweighs the loss. Even if we narrow the question to the destiny of the individual, the sacrifice of each one for the good of the whole is doubtless the highest aim the one can have.

But this conclusion scarcely helps us; for remember, the option is not given to all. Genius, or talent, or special aptitude, is a necessary equipment for such an undertaking. Great discoverers must be great observers, dexterous manipulators, ingenious contrivers, and patient thinkers.

The difficulty we started with was, what you and I, my friend, who perhaps have to row in the same boat, and perhaps 'with the same sculls,' without any of these provisions, what we should do? What point of the compass should we steer for? 'Whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Truly there could be no better advice. But the 'finding' is the puzzle; and like the search for truth it must, I fear, be left to each one's power to do it. And then - and then the countless thousands who have the leisure without the means - who have hands at least, and yet no work to put them to - what is to be done for these? Not in your time or mine, dear friend, will that question be answered. For this, I fear we must wait till by the 'universal law of adaptation' we reach 'the ultimate development of the ideal man.' 'Colossal optimism,' exclaims the critic.



CHAPTER XXXIX



IN February, 1855, Roebuck moved for a select committee to inquire into the condition of the Army before Sebastopol. Lord John Russell, who was leader of the House, treated this as a vote of censure, and resigned. Lord Palmerston resisted Roebuck's motion, and generously defended the Government he was otherwise opposed to. But the motion was carried by a majority of 157, and Lord Aberdeen was turned out of office. The Queen sent for Lord Derby, but without Lord Palmerston he was unable to form a Ministry. Lord John was then appealed to, with like results; and the premiership was practically forced upon Palmerston, in spite of his unpopularity at Court. Mr. Horsman was made Chief Secretary for Ireland; and through Mr. Ellice I became his private secretary.

Before I went to the Irish Office I was all but a stranger to my chief. I had met him occasionally in the tennis court; but the net was always between us. He was a man with a great deal of manner, but with very little of what the French call 'conviction.' Nothing keeps people at a distance more effectually than simulated sincerity; Horsman was a master of the art. I was profoundly ignorant of my duties. But though this was a great inconvenience to me at first, it led to a friendship which I greatly prized until its tragic end. For all information as to the writers of letters, as to Irish Members who applied for places for themselves, or for others, I had to consult the principal clerk. He was himself an Irishman of great ability; and though young, was either personally or officially acquainted, so it seemed to me, with every Irishman in the House of Commons, or out of it. His name is too well known - it was Thomas Bourke, afterwards Under Secretary, and one of the victims of the Fenian assassins in the Phoenix Park. His patience and amiability were boundless; and under his guidance I soon learnt the tricks of my trade.

During the session we remained in London; and for some time it was of great interest to listen to the debates. When Irish business was before the House, I had often to be in attendance on my chief in the reporters' gallery. Sometimes I had to wait there for an hour or two before our questions came on, and thus had many opportunities of hearing Bright, Gladstone, Disraeli, and all the leading speakers. After a time the pleasure, when compulsory, began to pall; and I used to wonder what on earth could induce the ruck to waste their time in following, sheeplike, their bell-wethers, or waste their money in paying for that honour. When Parliament was up we moved to Dublin. I lived with Horsman in the Chief Secretary's lodge. And as I had often stayed at Castle Howard before Lord Carlisle became Viceroy, between the two lodges I saw a great deal of pleasant society.

Amongst those who came to stay with Horsman was Sidney Herbert, then Colonial Secretary, a man of singular nobility of nature. Another celebrity for the day, but of a very different character, was Lord Cardigan. He had just returned from the Crimea, and was now in command of the forces in Ireland. This was about six months after the Balaklava charge. Horsman asked him one evening to give a description of it, with a plan of the battle. His Lordship did so; no words could be more suited to the deed. If this was 'pell- mell, havock, and confusion,' the account of it was proportionately confounded. The noble leader scrawled and inked and blotted all the phases of the battle upon the same scrap of paper, till the batteries were at the starting-point of the charge, the Light Brigade on the far side of the guns, and all the points of the compass, attack and defence, had changed their original places; in fact, the gallant Earl brandished his pen as valiantly as he had his sword. When quite bewildered, like everybody else, I ventured mildly to ask, 'But where were you, Lord Cardigan, and where were our men when it came to this?'

'Where? Where? God bless my soul! How should I know where anybody was?' And this, no doubt, described the situation to a nicety.

My office was in the Castle, and the next room to mine was that of the Solicitor-General Keogh, afterwards Judge. We became the greatest of friends. It was one of Horsman's peculiarities to do business circuitously. He was fond of mysteries and of secrets, secrets that were to be kept from everyone, but which were generally known to the office messengers. When Keogh and I met in the morning he would say, with admirable imitation of Horsman's manner, 'Well, it is all settled; the Viceroy has considered the question, and has decided to act upon my advice. Mind you don't tell anyone - it is a profound secret,' then, lowering his voice and looking round the room, 'His Excellency has consented to score at the next cricket match between the garrison and the Civil Service.' If it were a constabulary appointment, or even a village post-office, the Attorney or the Solicitor- General would be strictly enjoined not to inform me, and I received similar injunctions respecting them. In spite of his apparent attention to details, Mr. Horsman hunted three days a week, and stated in the House of Commons that the office of Chief Secretary was a farce, meaning when excluded from the Cabinet. All I know is, that his private secretary was constantly at work an hour before breakfast by candle- light, and never got a single day's holiday throughout the winter.

Horsman had hired a shooting - Balnaboth in Scotland; here, too, I had to attend upon him in the autumn, mainly for the purpose of copying voluminous private correspondence about a sugar estate he owned at Singapore, then producing a large income, but the subsequent failure of which was his ruin. One year Sir Alexander Cockburn, the Lord Chief Justice, came to stay with him; and excellent company he was. Horsman had sometimes rather an affected way of talking; and referring to some piece of political news, asked Cockburn whether he had seen it in the 'Courier.' This he pronounced with an accent on the last syllable, like the French 'Courrier.' Cockburn, with a slight twinkle in his eye, answered in his quiet way, 'No, I didn't see it in the "Courrier," perhaps it is in the "Morning Post,"' also giving the French pronunciation to the latter word.

Sir Alexander told us an amusing story about Disraeli. He and Bernal Osborne were talking together about Mrs. Disraeli, when presently Osborne, with characteristic effrontery, exclaimed: 'My dear Dizzy, how could you marry such a woman?' The answer was; 'My dear Bernal, you never knew what gratitude was, or you would not ask the question.'

The answer was a gracious one, and doubtless sincere. But, despite his cynicism, no one could be more courteous or say prettier things than Disraeli. Here is a little story that was told me at the time by my sister-in-law, who was a woman of the bedchamber, and was present on the occasion. When her Majesty Queen Alexandra was suffering from an accident to her knee, and had to use crutches, Disraeli said to her: 'I have heard of a devil on two sticks, but never before knew an angel to use them.'

Keogh, Bourke, and I, made several pleasant little excursions to such places as Bray, the Seven Churches, Powerscourt, &c., and, with a chosen car-driver, the wit and fun of the three clever Irishmen was no small treat. The last time I saw either of my two friends was at a dinner-party which Bourke gave at the 'Windham.' We were only four, to make up a whist party; the fourth was Fred Clay, the composer. It is sad to reflect that two of the lot came to violent ends - Keogh, the cheeriest of men in society, by his own hands. Bourke I had often spoken to of the danger he ran in crossing the Phoenix Park nightly on his way home, on foot and unarmed. He laughed at me, and rather indignantly - for he was a very vain man, though one of the most good-natured fellows in the world. In the first place, he prided himself on his physique - he was a tall, well-built, handsome man, and a good boxer and fencer to boot. In the next place, he prided himself above all things on being a thorough-bred Irishman, with a sneaking sympathy with even Fenian grievances. 'They all know ME,' he would say. 'The rascals know I'm the best friend they have. I'm the last man in the world they'd harm, for political reasons. Anyway, I can take care of myself.' And so it was he fell.

The end of Horsman's secretaryship is soon told. A bishopric became vacant, and almost as much intrigue was set agoing as we read of in the wonderful story of 'L'Anneau d'Amethyste.' Horsman, at all times a profuse letter-writer, wrote folios to Lord Palmerston on the subject, each letter more exuberant, more urgent than the last. But no answer came. Finally, the whole Irish vote, according to the Chief Secretary, being at stake - not to mention the far more important matter of personal and official dignity - Horsman flew off to London, boiling over with impatience and indignation. He rushed to 10 Downing Street. His Lordship was at the Foreign office, but was expected every minute; would Mr. Horsman wait? Mr. Horsman was shown into his Lordship's room. Piles of letters, opened and unopened, were lying upon the table. The Chief Secretary recognised his own signatures on the envelopes of a large bundle, all amongst the 'un's.' The Premier came in, an explanation EXTREMEMENT VIVE followed; on his return to Dublin Mr. Horsman resigned his post, and from that moment became one of Lord Palmerston's bitterest opponents.



CHAPTER XL



THE lectures at the Royal Institution were of some help to me. I attended courses by Owen, Tyndall, Huxley, and Bain. Of these, Huxley was FACILE PRINCEPS, though both Owen and Tyndall were second to no other. Bain was disappointing. I was a careful student of his books, and always admired the logical lucidity of his writing. But to the mixed audience he had to lecture to - fashionable young ladies in their teens, and drowsy matrons in charge of them, he discreetly kept clear of transcendentals. In illustration perhaps of some theory of the relation of the senses to the intellect, he would tell an amusing anecdote of a dog that had had an injured leg dressed at a certain house, after which the recovered dog brought a canine friend to the same house to have his leg - or tail - repaired. Out would come all the tablets and pretty pencil cases, and every young lady would be busy for the rest of the lecture in recording the marvellous history. If the dog's name had been 'Spot' or 'Bob,' the important psychological fact would have been faithfully registered. As to the theme of the discourse, that had nothing to do with - millinery. And Mr. Bain doubtless did not overlook the fact.

Owen was an accomplished lecturer; but one's attention to him depended on two things - a primary interest in the subject, and some elementary acquaintance with it. If, for example, his subject were the comparative anatomy of the cycloid and ganoid fishes, the difference in their scales was scarcely of vital importance to one's general culture. But if he were lecturing on fish, he would stick to fish; it would be essentially a JOUR MAIGRE.

With Huxley, the suggestion was worth more than the thing said. One thought of it afterwards, and wondered whether his words implied all they seemed to imply. One knew that the scientist was also a philosopher; and one longed to get at him, at the man himself, and listen to the lessons which his work had taught him. At one of these lectures I had the honour of being introduced to him by a great friend of mine, John Marshall, then President of the College of Surgeons. In later years I used to meet him constantly at the Athenaeum.

Looking back to the days of one's plasticity, two men are pre-eminent among my Dii Majores. To John Stuart Mill and to Thomas Huxley I owe more, educationally, than to any other teachers. Mill's logic was simply a revelation to me. For what Kant calls 'discipline,' I still know no book, unless it be the 'Critique' itself, equal to it. But perhaps it is the men themselves, their earnestness, their splendid courage, their noble simplicity, that most inspired one with reverence. It was Huxley's aim to enlighten the many, and he enlightened them. It was Mill's lot to help thinkers, and he helped them. SAPERE AUDE was the motto of both. How few there are who dare to adopt it! To love truth is valiantly professed by all; but to pursue it at all costs, to 'dare to be wise' needs daring of the highest order.

Mill had the enormous advantage, to start with, of an education unbiassed by any theological creed; and he brought exceptional powers of abstract reasoning to bear upon matters of permanent and supreme importance to all men. Yet, in spite of his ruthless impartiality, I should not hesitate to call him a religious man. This very tendency which no imaginative mind, no man or woman with any strain of poetical feeling, can be without, invests Mill's character with a clash of humanity which entitles him to a place in our affections. It is in this respect that he so widely differs from Mr. Herbert Spencer. Courageous Mr. Spencer was, but his courage seems to have been due almost as much to absence of sympathy or kinship with his fellow-creatures, and to his contempt of their opinions, as from his dispassionate love of truth, or his sometimes passionate defence of his own tenets.

My friend Napier told me an amusing little story about John Mill when he was in the East India Company's administration. Mr. Macvey Napier, my friend's elder brother, was the senior clerk. On John Mill's retirement, his co-officials subscribed to present him with a silver standish. Such was the general sense of Mill's modest estimate of his own deserts, and of his aversion to all acknowledgment of them, that Mr. Napier, though it fell to his lot, begged others to join in the ceremony of presentation. All declined; the inkstand was left upon Mill's table when he himself was out of the room.

Years after the time of which I am writing, when Mill stood for Westminster, I had the good fortune to be on the platform at St. James's Hall, next but one to him, when he made his first speech to the electors. He was completely unknown to the public, and, though I worshipped the man, I had never seen him, nor had an idea what he looked like. To satisfy my curiosity I tried to get a portrait of him at the photographic shop in Regent Street.

'I want a photograph of Mr. Mill.'

'Mill? Mill?' repeated the shopman, 'Oh yes, sir, I know - a great sporting gent,' and he produced the portrait of a sportsman in top boots and a hunting cap.

Very different from this was the figure I then saw. The hall and the platform were crowded. Where was the principal personage? Presently, quite alone, up the side steps, and unobserved, came a thin but tallish man in black, with a tail coat, and, almost unrecognised, took the vacant front seat. He might have been, so far as dress went, a clerk in a counting-house, or an undertaker. But the face was no ordinary one. The wide brow, the sharp nose of the Burke type, the compressed lips and strong chin, were suggestive of intellect and of suppressed emotion. There was no applause, for nothing was known to the crowd, even of his opinions, beyond the fact that he was the Liberal candidate for Westminster. He spoke with perfect ease to himself, never faltering for the right word, which seemed to be always at his command. If interrupted by questions, as he constantly was, his answers could not have been amended had he written them. His voice was not strong, and there were frequent calls from the far end to 'speak up, speak up; we can't hear you.' He did not raise his pitch a note. They might as well have tried to bully an automaton. He was doing his best, and he could do no more. Then, when, instead of the usual adulations, instead of declamatory appeals to the passions of a large and a mixed assembly, he gave them to understand, in very plain language, that even socialists are not infallible, - that extreme and violent opinions, begotten of ignorance, do not constitute the highest political wisdom; then there were murmurs of dissent and disapproval. But if the ignorant and the violent could have stoned him, his calm manner would still have said, 'Strike, but hear me.'

Mr. Robert Grosvenor - the present Lord Ebury - then the other Liberal member for Westminster, wrote to ask me to take the chair at Mill's first introduction to the Pimlico electors. Such, however, was my admiration of Mill, I did not feel sure that I might not say too much in his favour; and mindful of the standish incident, I knew, that if I did so, it would embarrass and annoy him.

Under these circumstances I declined the honour.

When Owen was delivering a course of lectures at Norwich, my brother invited him to Holkham. I was there, and we took several long walks together. Nothing seemed to escape his observation. My brother had just completed the recovery of many hundred acres of tidal marsh by embankments. Owen, who was greatly interested, explained what would be the effect upon the sandiest portion of this, in years to come; what the chemical action of the rain would be, how the sand would eventually become soil, how vegetation would cover it, and how manure render it cultivable. The splendid crops now grown there bear testimony to his foresight. He had always something instructive to impart, stopping to contemplate trifles which only a Zadig would have noticed.

'I observe,' said he one day, 'that your prevailing wind here is north-west.'

'How do you know?' I asked.

'Look at the roots of all these trees; the large roots are invariably on the north-west side. This means that the strain comes on this side. The roots which have to bear it loosen the soil, and the loosened soil favours the extension and the growth of the roots. Nature is beautifully scientific.'

Some years after this, I published a book called 'Creeds of the Day.' My purpose was to show, in a popular form, the bearings of science and speculative thought upon the religious creeds of the time. I sent Owen a copy of the work. He wrote me one of the most interesting letters I ever received. He had bought the book, and had read it. But the important content of the letter was the confession of his own faith. I have purposely excluded all correspondence from these Memoirs, but had it not been that a forgotten collector of autographs had captured it, I should have been tempted to make an exception in its favour. The tone was agnostic; but timidly agnostic. He had never freed himself from the shackles of early prepossessions. He had not the necessary daring to clear up his doubts. Sometimes I fancy that it was this difference in the two men that lay at the bottom of the unfortunate antagonism between Owen and Huxley. There is in Owen's writing, where he is not purely scientific, a touch of the apologist. He cannot quite make up his mind to follow evolution to its logical conclusions. Where he is forced to do so, it is to him like signing the death warrant of his dearest friend. It must not be forgotten that Owen was born more than twenty years before Huxley; and great as was the offence of free-thinking in Huxley's youth, it was nothing short of anathema in Owen's. When I met him at Holkham, the 'Origin of Species' had not been published; and Napier and I did all we could to get Owen to express some opinion on Lamarck's theory, for he and I used to talk confidentially on this fearful heresy even then. But Owen was ever on his guard. He evaded our questions and changed the subject.

Whenever I pass near the South Kensington Museum I step aside to look at the noble statues of the two illustrious men. A mere glance at them, and we appreciate at once their respective characters. In the one we see passive wisdom, in the other militant force.



CHAPTER XLI



BEFORE I went to America, I made the acquaintance of Dr. George Bird; he continued to be one of my most intimate friends till his death, fifty years afterwards. When I first knew him, Bird was the medical adviser and friend of Leigh Hunt, whose family I used often to meet at his house. He had been dependent entirely upon his own exertions; had married young; and had had a pretty hard fight at starting to provide for his children and for himself. His energy, his abilities, his exceeding amiability, and remarkable social qualities, gradually procured him a large practice and hosts of devoted friends. He began looking for the season for sprats - the cheapest of fish - to come in; by middle life he was habitually and sumptuously entertaining the celebrities of art and literature. With his accomplished sister, Miss Alice Bird, to keep house for him, there were no pleasanter dinner parties or receptions in London. His CLIENTELE was mainly amongst the artistic world. He was a great friend of Miss Ellen Terry's, Mr. Marcus Stone and his sisters were frequenters of his house, so were Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Woolner the sculptor - of whom I was not particularly fond - Horace Wigan the actor, and his father, the Burtons, who were much attached to him - Burton dedicated one volume of his 'Arabian Nights' to him - Sir William Crookes, Mr. Justin Macarthy and his talented son, and many others.

The good doctor was a Radical and Home Ruler, and attended professionally the members of one or two labouring men's clubs for fees which, as far as I could learn, were rigorously nominal. His great delight was to get an order for the House of Commons, especially on nights when Mr. Gladstone spoke; and, being to the last day of his life as simple-minded as a child, had a profound belief in the statemanship and integrity of that renowned orator.

As far as personality goes, the Burtons were, perhaps, the most notable of the above-named. There was a mystery about Burton which was in itself a fascination. No one knew what he had done; or consequently what he might not do. He never boasted, never hinted that he had done, or could do, anything different from other men; and, in spite of the mystery, one felt that he was transparently honest and sincere. He was always the same, always true to himself; but then, that 'self' was a something PER SE, which could not be categorically classed - precedent for guidance was lacking. There is little doubt Burton had gipsy blood in his veins; there was something Oriental in his temperament, and even in his skin.

One summer's day I found him reading the paper in the Athenaeum. He was dressed in a complete suit of white - white trousers, a white linen coat, and a very shabby old white hat. People would have stared at him anywhere.

'Hullo, Burton!' I exclaimed, touching his linen coat, 'Do you find it so hot - DEJA?'

Said he: 'I don't want to be mistaken for other people.'

'There's not much fear of that, even without your clothes,' I replied.

Such an impromptu answer as his would, from any other, have implied vanity. Yet no man could have been less vain, or more free from affectation. It probably concealed regret at finding himself conspicuous.

After dinner at the Birds' one evening we fell to talking of garrotters. About this time the police reports were full of cases of garrotting. The victim was seized from behind, one man gagged or burked him, while another picked his pocket.

'What should you do, Burton?' the Doctor asked, 'if they tried to garrotte you?'

'I'm quite ready for 'em,' was the answer; and turning up his sleeve he partially pulled out a dagger, and shoved it back again.

We tried to make him tell us what became of the Arab boy who accompanied him to Mecca, and whose suspicions threatened Burton's betrayal, and, of consequence, his life. I don't think anyone was present except us two, both of whom he well knew to be quite shock-proof, but he held his tongue.

'You would have been perfectly justified in saving your own life at any cost. You would hardly have broken the sixth commandment by doing so in this case,' I suggested.

'No,' said he gravely, 'and as I had broken all the ten before, it wouldn't have so much mattered.'

The Doctor roared. It should, however, be stated that Burton took no less delight in his host's boyish simplicity, than the other in what he deemed his guest's superb candour.

'Come, tell us,' said Bird, 'how many men have you killed?'

'How many have you, Doctor?' was the answer.

Richard Burton was probably the most extraordinary linguist of his day. Lady Burton mentions, I think, in his Life, the number of languages and dialects her husband knew. That Mahometans should seek instruction from him in the Koran, speaks of itself for his astonishing mastery of the greatest linguistic difficulties. With Indian languages and their variations, he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal's Sais; and, one may suppose, could have played the ROLE of a fakir as perfectly as he did that of a Mecca pilgrim. I asked him what his method was in learning a fresh language. He said he wrote down as many new words as he could learn and remember each day; and learnt the construction of the language colloquially, before he looked at a grammar.

Lady Burton was hardly less abnormal in her way than Sir Richard. She had shared his wanderings, and was intimate, as no one else was, with the eccentricities of his thoughts and deeds. Whatever these might happen to be, she worshipped her husband notwithstanding. For her he was the standard of excellence; all other men were departures from it. And the singularity is, her religious faith was never for an instant shaken - she remained as strict a Roman Catholic as when he married her from a convent. Her enthusiasm and cosmopolitanism, her NAIVETE and the sweetness of her disposition made her the best of company. She had lived so much the life of a Bedouin, that her dress and her habits had an Eastern glow. When staying with the Birds, she was attended by an Arab girl, one of whose duties it was to prepare her mistress' chibouk, which was regularly brought in with the coffee. On one occasion, when several other ladies were dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton's persuasion to satisfy their curiosity. The Arab girl soon provided the means; and it was not long before there were four or five faces as white as Mrs. Alfred Wigan's, under similar circumstances, in the 'Nabob.'

Alfred Wigan's father was an unforgettable man. To describe him in a word, he was Falstag REDIVIVUS. In bulk and stature, in age, in wit and humour, and morality, he was Falstaff. He knew it and gloried in it. He would complain with zest of 'larding the lean earth' as he walked along. He was as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack. He would exhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments; and would appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at his last gasp, for 'just a tea-spoonful' of the grateful stimulant. She served him with a liberal hand, till he cried 'Stop!' But if she then stayed, he would softly insinuate 'I didn't mean it, my dear.' Yet he was no Costigan. His brain was stronger than casks of whisky. And his powers of digestion were in keeping. Indeed, to borrow the well-known words applied to a great man whom we all love, 'He tore his dinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling in his forehead, and the perspiration running down his cheeks.' The trend of his thoughts, though he was eminently a man of intellect, followed the dictates of his senses. Walk with him in the fields and, from the full stores of a prodigious memory, he would pour forth pages of the choicest poetry. But if you paused to watch the lambs play, or disturbed a young calf in your path, he would almost involuntarily exclaim: 'How deliciously you smell of mint, my pet!' or 'Bless your innocent face! What sweetbreads you will provide!'

James Wigan had kept a school once. The late Serjeant Ballantine, who was one of his pupils, mentions him in his autobiography. He was a good scholar, and when I first knew him, used to teach elocution. Many actors went to him, and not a few members of both Houses of Parliament. He could recite nearly the whole of several of Shakespeare's plays; and, with a dramatic art I have never known equalled by any public reader.

His later years were passed at Sevenoaks, where he kept an establishment for imbeciles, or weak-minded youths. I often stayed with him (not as a patient), and a very comfortable and pretty place it was. Now and then he would call on me in London; and, with a face full of theatrical woe, tell me, with elaborate circumlocution, how the Earl of This, or the Marquis of That, had implored him to take charge of young Lord So-and-So, his son; who, as all the world knew, had - well, had 'no guts in his brains.' Was there ever such a chance? Just consider what it must lead to! Everybody knew - no, nobody knew - the enormous number of idiots there were in noble families. And, such a case as that of young Lord Dash - though of course his residence at Sevenoaks would be a profound secret, would be patent to the whole peerage; and, my dear sir, a fortune to your humble servant, if - ah! if he could only secure it!'

'But I thought you said you had been implored to take him?'

'I did say so. I repeat it. His Lordship's father came to me with tears in his eyes. "My dear Wigan," were that nobleman's words, "do me this one favour and trust me, you will never regret it!" But - ' he paused to remove the dramatic tear, 'but, I hardly dare go on. Yes - yes, I know your kindness' (seizing my hand) 'I know how ready you are to help me' - (I hadn't said a word) - 'but - '

'How much is it this time? and what is it for?'

'For? I have told you what it is for. The merest trifle will suffice. I have the room - a beautiful room, the best aspect in the house. It is now occupied by young Rumagee Bumagee the great Bombay millionaire's son. Of course he can be moved. But a bed - there positively is not a spare bed in the house. This is all I want - a bed, and perhaps a tuppenny ha'penny strip of carpet, a couple of chairs, a - let me see; if you give me a slip of paper I can make out in a minute what it will come to.'

'Never mind that. Will a ten-pound note serve your purposes?'

'Dear boy! Dear boy! But on one condition, on one condition only, can I accept it - this is a loan, a loan mind! and not a gift. No, no - it is useless to protest; my pride, my sense of honour, forbids my acceptance upon any other terms.'

A day or two afterwards I would learn from George Bird that he and Miss Alice had accepted an invitation to meet me at Sevenoaks. Mr. Donovan, the famous phrenologist, was to be of the party; the Rector of Sevenoaks, and one or two local magnates, had also been invited to dine. We Londoners were to occupy the spare rooms, for this was in the coaching days.

We all knew what we had to expect - a most enjoyable banquet of conviviality. Young Mrs. Wigan, his second wife, was an admirable housekeeper, and nothing could have been better done. The turbot and the haunch of venison were the pick of Grove's shop, the champagne was iced to perfection, and there was enough of it, as Mr. Donovan whispered to me, casting his eyes to the ceiling, 'to wash an omnibus, bedad.' Mr. Donovan, though he never refused Mr. Wigan's hospitality, balanced the account by vilipending his friend's extravagant habits. While Mr. Wigan, probably giving him full credit for his gratitude, always spoke of him as 'Poor old Paddy Donovan.'

With Alfred Wigan, the eldest son, I was on very friendly terms. Nothing could be more unlike his father. His manner in his own house was exactly what it was on the stage. Albany Fonblanque, whose experiences began nearly forty years before mine, and who was not given to waste his praise, told me he considered Alfred Wigan the best 'gentleman' he had ever seen on the stage. I think this impression was due in a great measure to Wigan's entire absence of affectation, and to his persistent appeal to the 'judicious' but never to the 'groundlings.' Mrs. Alfred Wigan was also a consummate artiste.



CHAPTER XLII



THROUGH George Bird I made the acquaintance of the leading surgeons and physicians of the North London Hospital, where I frequently attended the operations of Erichsen, John Marshall, and Sir Henry Thompson, following them afterwards in their clinical rounds. Amongst the physicians, Professor Sydney Ringer remains one of my oldest friends. Both surgery and therapeutics interested me deeply. With regard to the first, curiosity was supplemented by the incidental desire to overcome the natural repugnance we all feel to the mere sight of blood.

Chemistry I studied in the laboratory of a professional friend of Dr. Bird's. After a while my teacher would leave me to carry out small commissions of a simple character which had been put into his hands, such as the analysis of water, bread, or other food-stuffs. He himself often had engagements elsewhere, and would leave me in possession of the laboratory, with a small urchin whom he had taught to be useful. This boy was of the meekest and mildest disposition. Whether his master had frightened him or not I do not know. He always spoke in a whisper, and with downcast eyes. He handled everything as if it was about to annihilate him, or he it, and looked as if he wouldn't bite - even a tartlet.

One day when I had finished my task, and we were alone, I bethought me of making some laughing gas, and trying the effect of it on the gentle youth. I offered him a shilling for the experiment, which, however, proved more expensive than I had bargained for. I filled a bladder with the gas, and putting a bit of broken pipe-stem in its neck for a mouthpiece, gave it to the boy to suck - and suck he did. In a few seconds his eyes dilated, his face became lividly white, and I had some trouble to tear the intoxicating bladder from his clutches. The moment I had done so, the true nature of the gutter-snipe exhibited itself. He began by cutting flip-flaps and turning windmills all round the room; then, before I could stop him, swept an armful of valuable apparatus from the tables, till the whole floor was strewn with wreck and poisonous solutions. The dismay of the chemist when he returned may be more easily imagined than described.

Some years ago, there was a well-known band of amateur musicians called the 'Wandering Minstrels.' This band originated in my rooms in Dean's Yard. Its nucleus was composed of the following members: Seymour Egerton, afterwards Lord Wilton, Sir Archibald Macdonald my brother- in-law, Fred Clay, Bertie Mitford (the present Lord Redesdale - perhaps the finest amateur cornet and trumpet player of the day), and Lord Gerald Fitzgerald. Our concerts were given in the Hanover Square Rooms, and we played for charities all over the country.

To turn from the musical art to the art - or science is it called? - of self-defence, once so patronised by the highest fashion, there was at this time a famous pugilistic battle - the last of the old kind - fought between the English champion, Tom Sayers, and the American champion, Heenan. Bertie Mitford and I agreed to go and see it.

The Wandering Minstrels had given a concert in the Hanover Square Rooms. The fight was to take place on the following morning. When the concert was over, Mitford and I went to some public-house where the 'Ring' had assembled, and where tickets were to be bought, and instructions received. Fights when gloves were not used, and which, especially in this case, might end fatally, were of course illegal; and every precaution had been taken by the police to prevent it. A special train was to leave London Bridge Station about 6 A.M. We sat up all night in my room, and had to wait an hour in the train before the men with their backers arrived. As soon as it was daylight, we saw mounted police galloping on the roads adjacent to the line. No one knew where the train would pull up. Ten minutes after it did so, a ring was formed in a meadow close at hand. The men stripped, and tossed for places. Heenan won the toss, and with it a considerable advantage. He was nearly a head taller than Sayers, and the ground not being quite level, he chose the higher side of the ring. But this was by no means his only 'pull.' Just as the men took their places the sun began to rise. It was in Heenan's back, and right in the other's face.

Heenan began the attack at once with scornful confidence; and in a few minutes Sayers received a blow on the forehead above his guard which sent him slithering under the ropes; his head and neck, in fact, were outside the ring. He lay perfectly still, and in my ignorance, I thought he was done for. Not a bit of it. He was merely reposing quietly till his seconds put him on his legs. He came up smiling, but not a jot the worse. But in the course of another round or two, down he went again. The fight was going all one way. The Englishman seemed to be completely at the mercy of the giant. I was so disgusted that I said to my companion: 'Come along, Bertie, the game's up. Sayers is good for nothing.'

But now the luck changed. The bull-dog tenacity and splendid condition of Sayers were proof against these violent shocks. The sun was out of his eyes, and there was not a mark of a blow either on his face or his body. His temper, his presence of mind, his defence, and the rapidity of his movements, were perfect. The opening he had watched for came at last. He sprang off his legs, and with his whole weight at close quarters, struck Heenan's cheek just under the eye. It was like the kick of a cart-horse. The shouts might have been heard half-a-mile off. Up till now, the betting called after each round had come to 'ten to one on Heenan'; it fell at once to evens.

Heenan was completely staggered. He stood for a minute as if he did not know where he was or what had happened. And then, an unprecedented thing occurred. While he thus stood, Sayers put both hands behind his back, and coolly walked up to his foe to inspect the damage he had inflicted. I had hold of the ropes in Heenan's corner, consequently could not see his face without leaning over them. When I did so, and before time was called, one eye was completely closed. What kind of generosity prevented Sayers from closing the other during the pause, is difficult to conjecture. But his forbearance did not make much difference. Heenan became more fierce, Sayers more daring. The same tactics were repeated; and now, no longer to the astonishment of the crowd, the same success rewarded them. Another sledge-hammer blow from the Englishman closed the remaining eye. The difference in the condition of the two men must have been enormous, for in five minutes Heenan was completely sightless.

Sayers, however, had not escaped scot-free. In countering the last attack, Heenan had broken one of the bones of Sayers' right arm. Still the fight went on. It was now a brutal scene. The blind man could not defend himself from the other's terrible punishment. His whole face was so swollen and distorted, that not a feature was recognisable. But he evidently had his design. Each time Sayers struck him and ducked, Heenan made a swoop with his long arms, and at last he caught his enemy. With gigantic force he got Sayers' head down, and heedless of his captive's pounding, backed step by step to the ring. When there, he forced Sayers' neck on to the rope, and, with all his weight, leant upon the Englishman's shoulders. In a few moments the face of the strangled man was black, his tongue was forced out of his mouth, and his eyes from their sockets. His arms fell powerless, and in a second or two more he would have been a corpse. With a wild yell the crowd rushed to the rescue. Warning cries of 'The police! The police!' mingled with the shouts. The ropes were cut, and a general scamper for the waiting train ended this last of the greatest prize-fights.

We two took it easily, and as the mob were scuttling away from the police, we saw Sayers with his backers, who were helping him to dress. His arm seemed to hurt him a little, but otherwise, for all the damage he had received, he might have been playing at football or lawn tennis.

We were quietly getting into a first-class carriage, when I was seized by the shoulder and roughly spun out of the way. Turning to resent the rudeness, I found myself face to face with Heenan. One of his seconds had pushed me on one side to let the gladiator get in. So completely blind was he, that the friend had to place his foot upon the step. And yet neither man had won the fight.

We still think - profess to think - the barbarism of the 'Iliad' the highest flight of epic poetry; if Homer had sung this great battle, how glorious we should have thought it! Beyond a doubt, man 'yet partially retains the characteristics that adapted him to an antecedent state.'



CHAPTER XLIII



THROUGH the Cayley family, I became very intimate with their near relatives the Worsleys of Hovingham, near York. Hovingham has now become known to the musical world through its festivals, annually held at the Hall under the patronage of its late owner, Sir William Worsley. It was in his father's time that this fine place, with its delightful family, was for many years a home to me. Here I met the Alisons, and at the kind invitation of Sir Archibald, paid the great historian a visit at Possil, his seat in Scotland. As men who had achieved scientific or literary distinction inspired me with far greater awe than those of the highest rank - of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance - Alison's celebrity, his courteous manner, his oracular speech, his voluminous works, and his voluminous dimensions, filled me with too much diffidence and respect to admit of any freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he held forth of an evening when surrounded by his family, with reverential silence. He had a strong Scotch accent; and, if a wee bit prosy at times, it was sententious and polished prose that he talked; he talked invariably like a book. His family were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knew him could help liking him.

When Thackeray was giving readings from 'The Four Georges,' I dined with Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hear him. I had heard Dickens read 'The Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,' and it was curious to compare the style of the two great novelists. With Thackeray, there was an entire absence of either tone or colour. Of course the historical nature of his subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be looked for in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparison inapposite. Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them. Thackeray's features were impassive, and his voice knew no inflection. But his elocution in other respects was perfect, admirably distinct and impressive from its complete obliteration of the reader.

The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and no part of it was more attentively listened to than his passing allusion to himself. 'I came,' he says, 'from India as a child, and our ship touched at an island on the way home, where my black servant took me a long walk over rocks and hills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking. "That is he," said the black man, "that is Bonaparte! He eats three sheep every day, and all the little children he can lay hands on!"' One went to hear Thackeray, to see Thackeray; and the child and the black man and the ogre were there on the stage before one. But so well did the lecturer perform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgotten him, and saw only George Selwyn and his friend Horace Walpole, and Horace's friend, Miss Berry - whom by the way I too knew and remember. One saw the 'poor society ghastly in its pleasures, its loves, its revelries,' and the redeeming vision of 'her father's darling, the Princess Amelia, pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the extreme passionate tenderness with which her father loved her.' The story told, as Thackeray told it, was as delightful to listen to as to read.

Not so with Dickens. He disappointed me. He made no attempt to represent the different characters by varied utterance; but whenever something unusually comic was said, or about to be said, he had a habit of turning his eyes up to the ceiling; so that, knowing what was coming, one nervously anticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost the illusion. In both entertainments, the reader was naturally the central point of interest. But in the case of Dickens, when curiosity was satisfied, he alone possessed one; Pickwick and Mrs. Bardell were put out of court.

Was it not Charles Lamb, or was it Hazlitt, that could not bear to see Shakespeare upon the stage? I agree with him. I have never seen a Falstaff that did not make me miserable. He is even more impossible to impersonate than Hamlet. A player will spoil you the character of Hamlet, but he cannot spoil his thoughts. Depend upon it, we are fortunate not to have seen Shakespeare in his ghost of Royal Denmark.

In 1861 I married Lady Katharine Egerton, second daughter of Lord Wilton, and we took up our abode in Warwick Square, which, by the way, I had seen a few years before as a turnip field. My wife was an accomplished pianiste, so we had a great deal of music, and saw much of the artist world. I may mention one artistic dinner amongst our early efforts at housekeeping, which nearly ended with a catastrophe.

Millais and Dicky Doyle were of the party; music was represented by Joachim, Piatti, and Halle. The late Lord and Lady de Ros were also of the number. Lady de Ros, who was a daughter of the Duke of Richmond, had danced at the ball given by her father at Brussels the night before Waterloo. As Lord de Ros was then Governor of the Tower, it will be understood that he was a veteran of some standing. The great musical trio were enchanting all ears with their faultless performance, when the sweet and soul-stirring notes of the Adagio were suddenly interrupted by a loud crash and a shriek. Old Lord de Ros was listening to the music on a sofa at the further end of the room. Over his head was a large picture in a heavy frame. What vibrations, what careless hanging, what mischievous Ate or Discord was at the bottom of it, who knows? Down came the picture on the top of the poor old General's head, and knocked him senseless on the floor. He had to be carried upstairs and laid upon a bed. Happily he recovered without serious injury. There were many exclamations of regret, but the only one I remember was Millais'. All he said was: 'And it is a good picture too.'

Sir Arthur Sullivan was one of our musical favourites. My wife had known him as a chorister boy in the Chapel Royal; and to the end of his days we were on terms of the closest intimacy and friendship. Through him we made the acquaintance of the Scott Russells. Mr. Scott Russell was the builder of the Crystal Palace. He had a delightful residence at Sydenham, the grounds of which adjoined those of the Crystal Palace, and were beautifully laid out by his friend Sir Joseph Paxton. One of the daughters, Miss Rachel Russell, was a pupil of Arthur Sullivan's. She had great musical talent, she was remarkably handsome, exceedingly clever and well-informed, and altogether exceptionally fascinating. Quite apart from Sullivan's genius, he was in every way a charming fellow. The teacher fell in love with the pupil; and, as naturally, his love was returned. Sullivan was but a youth, a poor and struggling music-master. And, very naturally again, Mrs. Scott Russell, who could not be expected to know what magic baton the young maestro carried in his knapsack, thought her brilliant daughter might do better. The music lessons were put a stop to, and correspondence between the lovers was prohibited.

Once a week or so, either the young lady or the young gentleman would, quite unexpectedly, pay us a visit about tea or luncheon time. And, by the strangest coincidence, the other would be sure to drop in while the one was there. This went on for a year or two. But destiny forbade the banns. In spite of the large fortune acquired by Mr. Scott Russell - he was the builder of the 'Great Eastern' as well as the Crystal Palace - ill-advised or unsuccessful ventures robbed him of his well-earned wealth. His beautiful place at Sydenham had to be sold; and the marriage of Miss Rachel with young Arthur Sullivan was abandoned. She ultimately married an Indian official.

Her story may here be told to the end. Some years later she returned to England to bring her two children home for their education, going back to India without them, as Indian mothers have to do. The day before she sailed, she called to take leave of us in London. She was terribly depressed, but fought bravely with her trial. She never broke down, but shunted the subject, talking and laughing with flashes of her old vivacity, about music, books, friends, and 'dear old dirty London,' as she called it. When she left, I opened the street-door for her, and with both her hands in mine, bade her 'Farewell.' Then the tears fell, and her parting words were: 'I am leaving England never to see it again.' She was seized with cholera the night she reached Bombay, and died the following day.

To return to her father, the eminent engineer. He was distinctly a man of genius, and what is called 'a character.' He was always in the clouds - not in the vapour of his engine-rooms, nor busy inventing machines for extracting sunbeams from cucumbers, but musing on metaphysical problems and abstract speculations about the universe generally. In other respects a perfectly simple-minded man.

It was in his palmy days that he invited me to run down to Sheerness with him, and go over the 'Great Eastern' before she left with the Atlantic cable. This was in 1865. The largest ship in the world, and the first Atlantic cable, were both objects of the greatest interest. The builder did not know the captain - Anderson - nor did the captain know the builder. But clearly, each would be glad to meet the other.

As the leviathan was to leave in a couple of days, everything on board her was in the wildest confusion. Russell could not find anyone who could find the Captain; so he began poking about with me, till we accidentally stumbled on the Commander. He merely said that he was come to take a parting glance at his 'child,' which did not seem of much concern to the over-busy captain. He never mentioned his own name, but introduced me as 'my friend Captain Cole.' Now, in those days, Captain Cole was well known as a distinguished naval officer. To Russell's absent and engineering mind, 'Coke' had suggested 'Cole,' and 'Captain' was inseparable from the latter. It was a name to conjure with. Captain Anderson took off his cap, shook me warmly by the hand, expressed his pleasure at making my acquaintance, and hoped I, and my friend Mr. - ahem - would come into his cabin and have luncheon, and then allow him to show me over his ship. Scott Russell was far too deeply absorbed in his surroundings to note any peculiarity in this neglect of himself and marked respect for 'Captain Cole.' We made the round of the decks, then explored the engine room. Here the designer found himself in an earthly paradise. He button-holed the engineer and inquired into every crank, and piston, and valve, and every bolt, as it seemed to me, till the officer in charge unconsciously began to ask opinions instead of offering explanations. By degrees the captain was equally astonished at the visitor's knowledge, and when at last my friend asked what had become of some fixture or other which he missed, Captain Anderson turned to him and exclaimed, 'Why, you seem to know more about the ship than I do.'

'Well, so I ought,' says my friend, never for a moment supposing that Anderson was in ignorance of his identity.

'Indeed! Who then are you, pray?'

'Who? Why, Scott Russell of course, the builder!'

There was a hearty laugh over it all. I managed to spare the captain's feelings by preserving my incognito, and so ended a pleasant day.



CHAPTER XLIV



IN November, 1862, my wife and I received an invitation to spend a week at Compiegne with their Majesties the Emperor and Empress of the French. This was due to the circumstance that my wife's father, Lord Wilton, as Commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, had entertained the Emperor during his visit to Cowes.

We found an express train with the imperial carriages awaiting the arrival of the English guests at the station du Nord. The only other English besides ourselves were Lord and Lady Winchilsea with Lady Florence Paget, and Lord and Lady Castlerosse, now Lord and Lady Kenmare. These, however, had preceded us, so that with the exception of M. Drouyn de Lhuys, we had the saloon carriage to ourselves.

The party was a very large one, including the Walewskis, the Persignys, the Metternichs - he, the Austrian Ambassador - Prince Henri VII. of Reuss, Prussian Ambassador, the Prince de la Moskowa, son of Marshal Ney, and the Labedoyeres, amongst the historical names. Amongst those of art and literature, of whom there were many, the only one whom I made the acquaintance of was Octave Feuillet. I happened to have brought his 'Comedies et Proverbes' and another of his books with me, never expecting to meet him; this so pleased him that we became allies. I was surprised to find that he could not even read English, which I begged him to learn for the sake of Shakespeare alone.

We did not see their Majesties till dinner-time. When the guests were assembled, the women and the men were arranged separately on opposite sides of the room. The Emperor and Empress then entered, each respectively welcoming those of their own sex, shaking hands and saying some conventional word in passing. Me, he asked whether I had brought my guns, and hoped we should have a good week's sport. To each one a word. Every night during the week we sat down over a hundred to dinner. The Army was largely represented. For the first time I tasted here the national frog, which is neither fish nor flesh. The wine was, of course, supreme; but after every dish a different wine was handed round. The evening entertainments were varied. There was the theatre in the Palace, and some of the best of the Paris artistes were requisitioned for the occasion. With them came Dejazet, then nearly seventy, who had played before Buonaparte.

Almost every night there was dancing. Sometimes the Emperor would walk through a quadrille, but as a rule he would retire with one of his ministers, though only to a smaller boudoir at the end of the suite, where a couple of whist-tables were ready for the more sedate of the party. Here one evening I found Prince Metternich showing his Majesty a chess problem, of which he was the proud inventor. The Emperor asked whether I was fond of chess. I was very fond of chess, was one of the regular HABITUES of St. George's Chess Club, and had made a study of the game for years. The Prince challenged me to solve his problem in four moves. It was not a very profound one. I had the hardihood to discover that three, rather obvious moves, were sufficient. But as I was not Gil Blas, and the Prince was not the Archbishop of Grenada, it did not much matter. Like the famous prelate, his Excellency proffered his felicitations, and doubtless also wished me 'un peu plus de gout' with the addition of 'un peu moins de perspicacite.'

One of the evening performances was an exhibition of POSES- PLASTIQUES, the subjects being chosen from celebrated pictures in the Louvre. Theatrical costumiers, under the command of a noted painter, were brought from Paris. The ladies of the court were carefully rehearsed, and the whole thing was very perfectly and very beautifully done. All the English ladies were assigned parts. But, as nearly all these depended less upon the beauties of drapery than upon those of nature, the English ladies were more than a little staggered by the demands of the painter and of the - UNdressers. To the young and handsome Lady Castlerosse, then just married, was allotted the figure of Diana. But when informed that, in accordance with the original, the drapery of one leg would have to be looped up above the knee, her ladyship used very firm language; and, though of course perfectly ladylike, would, rendered into masculine terms, have signified that she would 'see the painter d-d first.' The celebrated 'Cruche cassee' of Greuze, was represented by the reigning beauty, the Marquise de Gallifet, with complete fidelity and success.

There was one stage of the performance which neither I nor Lord Castlerosse, both of us newly married, at all appreciated. This was the privileges of the Green-room, or rather of the dressing-rooms. The exhibition was given in the ball-room. On one side of this, until the night of the performances, an enclosure was boarded off. Within it, were compartments in which the ladies dressed and - undressed. At this operation, as we young husbands discovered, certain young gentlemen of the court were permitted to assist - I think I am not mistaken in saying that his Majesty was of the number. What kind of assistance was offered or accepted, Castlerosse and I, being on the wrong side of the boarding, were not in a position to know.

There was a door in the boarding, over which one expected to see, 'No admittance except on business,' or perhaps, 'on pleasure.' At this door I rapped, and rapped again impatiently. It was opened, only as wide as her face, by the empress.

'What do you want, sir?' was the angry demand.

'To see my wife, madame,' was the submissive reply.

'You can't see her; she is rehearsing.'

'But, madame, other gentlemen - '

'Ah! Mais, c'est un enfantillage! Allez-vous-en.'

And the door was slammed in my face.

'Well,' thought I, 'the right woman is in the right place there, at all events.'

Another little incident at the performance itself also recalled the days and manners of the court of Louis XV. Between each tableau, which was lighted solely from the raised stage, the lights were put out, and the whole room left in complete darkness. Whenever this happened, the sounds of immoderate kissing broke out in all directions, accompanied by little cries of resistance and protestation. Until then, I had always been under the impression that humour of this kind was confined to the servants' hall. One could not help thinking of another court, where things were managed differently.

But the truth is, these trivial episodes were symptomatic of a pervading tone. A no inconsiderable portion of the ladies seemed to an outsider to have been invited for the sake of their personal charms. After what has just been related, one could not help fancying that there were some amongst them who had availed themselves of the privilege which, according to Tacitus, was claimed by Vistilia before the AEdiles. So far, however, from any of these noble ladies being banished to the Isle of Seriphos, they seemed as much attached to the court as the court to them; and whatever the Roman Emperor might have done, the Emperor of the French was all that was most indulgent.

There were two days' shooting, one day's stag hunting, an expedition to Pierrefonds, and a couple of days spent in riding and skating. The shooting was very much after the fashion of that already described at Prince Esterhazy's, though of a much more Imperial character. As in Hungary, the game had been driven into coverts cut down to the height of the waist, with paths thirty to forty yards apart, for the guns.

The weather was cold, with snow on the ground, but it was a beautifully sunny day. This was the party: the two ambassadors, the Prince de la Moskowa, Persigny, Walewski - Bonaparte's natural son, and the image of his father - the Marquis de Toulongeon, Master of the Horse, and we three Englishmen. We met punctually at eleven in the grand saloon. Here the Emperor joined us, with his cigarette in his mouth, shook hands with each, and bade us take our places in the char-a-bancs. Four splendid Normandy greys, with postilions in the picturesque old costume, glazed hats and huge jack- boots, took us through the forest at full gallop, and in half an hour we were at the covert side. The Emperor was very cheery all the way. He cautioned me not to shoot back for the beaters' sakes, and asked me how many guns I had brought.

'Two only? that's not enough, I will lend you some of mine.'

Arrived at our beat - 'Tire de Royallieu,' we found a squadron of dismounted cavalry drawn up in line, ready to commence operations. They were in stable dress, with canvas trousers and spurs to their boots. Several officers were galloping about giving orders, the whole being under the command of a mounted chief in green uniform and cocked hat! The place of each shooter had been settled by M. de Toulongeon. I, being the only Nobody of the lot, was put on the extreme outside. The Emperor was in the middle; and although, as I noticed, he made some beautiful shots at rocketers, he was engaged much of the time in talking to ministers who walked behind, or beside, him.

Our servants were already in the places allotted to their masters, and each of us had two keepers to carry spare guns (the Emperor had not forgotten to send me two of his, which I could not shoot with, and never used), and a sergeant with a large card to prick off each head of game, not as it fell to the gun, but only after it was picked up. This conscientious scoring amused me greatly; for, as it chanced, my bag was a heavy one, and the Emperor's marker sent constant messages to mine to compare notes, and so arrange, as it transpired, to keep His Majesty at the top of the score.

About half-past one we reached a clearing where DEJEUNER was awaiting us. The scene presented was striking. Around a tent in which every delicacy was spread out were numbers of little charcoal fires, where a still greater number of cooks in white caps and jackets were preparing dainty dishes; while the Imperial footmen bustling about brightened the picture with colour. After coffee all the cards were brought to his Majesty. When he had scanned them, he said to me across the table:

'I congratulate you, Mr. Coke, upon having killed the most.'

My answer was, 'After you, Sir.'

'Yes,' said he, giving his moustache an upward twist, but with perfect gravity, 'I always kill the most.'

Just then the Empress and the whole court drove up. Presently she came into the tent and, addressing her husband, exclaimed:

'Avez-vous bientot fini, vous autres? Ah! que vous etes des gourmands!'

Till the finish, she and the rest walked with the shooters. By four it was over. The total score was 1,387 head. Mine was 182, which included thirty-six partridges, two woodcocks, and four roedeer. This, in three and a half hours' shooting, with two muzzle-loaders (breech-loaders were not then in use), was an unusually good bag.

Fashion is capricious. When lunch was over I went to one of the charcoal fires, quite in the background, to light a cigarette. An aide-de-camp immediately pounced upon me, with the information that this was not permitted in company with the Empress. It reminded one at once of the ejaculation at Oliver Twist's bedside, 'Ladies is present, Mr. Giles.' After the shooting, I was told to go to tea with the Empress - a terrible ordeal, for one had to face the entire feminine force of the palace, nearly every one of whom, from the highest to the lowest, was provided with her own CAVALIERE SERVENTE.

The following night, when we assembled for dinner, I received orders to sit next to the Empress. This was still more embarrassing. It is true, one does not speak to a sovereign unless one is spoken to; but still one is permitted to make the initiative easy. I found that I was expected to take my share of the task; and by a happy inspiration, introduced the subject of the Prince Imperial, then a child of eight years old. The MONDAINE Empress was at once merged in the adoring mother; her whole soul was wrapped up in the boy. It was easy enough then to speculate on his career, at least so far as the building of castles in the air for fantasies to roam in. What a future he had before him! - to consolidate the Empire! to perfect the great achievement of his father, and render permanent the foundation of the Napoleonic dynasty! to build a superstructure as transcendent for the glories of Peace, as those of his immortal ancestor had been for War!

It was not difficult to play the game with such court cards in one's hand. Nor was it easy to coin these PHRASES DE SUCRECANDI without sober and earnest reflections on the import of their contents. What, indeed, might or might not be the consequences to millions, of the wise or unwise or evil development of the life of that bright and handsome little fellow, now trotting around the dessert table, with the long curls tumbling over his velvet jacket, and the flowers in his hand for some pretty lady who was privileged to kiss him? Who could foretell the cruel doom - heedless of such favours and such splendid promises - that awaited the pretty child? Who could hear the brave young soldier's last shrieks of solitary agony? Who could see the forsaken body slashed with knives and assegais? Ah! who could dream of that fond mother's heart, when the end came, which eclipsed even the disasters of a nation!

One by-day, when my wife and I were riding with the Emperor through the forest of Compiegne, a rough-looking man in a blouse, with a red comforter round his neck, sprang out from behind a tree; and before he could be stopped, seized the Emperor's bridle. In an instant the Emperor struck his hand with a heavy hunting stock; and being free, touched his horse with the spur and cantered on. I took particular notice of his features and his demeanour, from the very first moment of the surprise. Nothing happened but what I have described. The man seemed fierce and reckless. The Emperor showed not the faintest signs of discomposure. All he said was, turning to my wife, 'Comme il avait l'air sournois, cet homme!' and resumed the conversation at the point where it was interrupted.

Before we had gone a hundred yards I looked back to see what had become of the offender. He was in the hands of two GENS D'ARMES, who had been invisible till then.

'Poor devil,' thought I, 'this spells dungeon for you.'

Now, with Kinglake's acrimonious charge of the Emperor's personal cowardice running in my head, I felt that this exhibition of SANG FROID, when taken completely unawares, went far to refute the imputation. What happened later in the day strongly confirmed this opinion.

After dark, about six o'clock, I took a stroll by myself through the town of Compiegne. Coming home, when crossing the bridge below the Palace, I met the Emperor arm-in-arm with Walewski. Not ten minutes afterwards, whom should I stumble upon but the ruffian who had seized the Emperor's bridle? The same red comforter was round his neck, the same wild look was in his face. I turned after he had passed, and at the same moment he turned to look at me.

Would this man have been at large but for the Emperor's orders? Assuredly not. For, supposing he were crazy, who could have answered for his deeds? Most likely he was shadowed; and to a certainty the Emperor would be so. Still, what could save the latter from a pistol-shot? Yet, here he was, sauntering about the badly lighted streets of a town where his kenspeckle figure was familiar to every inhabitant. Call this fatalism if you will; but these were not the acts of a coward. I told this story to a friend who was well 'posted' in the club gossip of the day. He laughed.

'Don't you know the meaning of Kinglake's spite against the Emperor?' said he. 'CHERCHEZ LA FEMME. Both of them were in love with Mrs. - '

This is the way we write our histories.

Wishing to explore the grounds about the palace before anyone was astir, I went out one morning about half-past eight. Seeing what I took to be a mausoleum, I walked up to it, found the door opened, and peeped in. It turned out to be a museum of Roman antiquities, and the Emperor was inside, arranging them. I immediately withdrew, but he called to me to come in.

He was at this time busy with his Life of Caesar; and, in his enthusiasm, seemed pleased to have a listener to his instructive explanations; he even encouraged the curiosity which the valuable collection and his own remarks could not fail to awaken.

Not long ago, I saw some correspondence in the Times' and other papers about what Heine calls 'Das kleine welthistorische Hutchen,' which the whole of Europe knew so well, to its cost. Some six or seven of the Buonaparte hats, so it appears, are still in existence. But I noticed, that though all were located, no mention was made of the one in the Luxembourg.

When we left Compiegne for Paris we were magnificently furnished with orders for royal boxes at theatres, and for admission to places of interest not open to the public. Thus provided, we had access to many objects of historical interest and of art - amongst the former, the relics of the great conqueror. In one glass case, under lock and key, was the 'world-historical little hat.' The official who accompanied us, having stated that we were the Emperor's guests, requested the keeper to take it out and show it to us. I hope no Frenchman will know it, but, I put the hat upon my head. In one sense it was a 'little' hat - that is to say, it fitted a man with a moderate sized skull - but the flaps were much larger than pictures would lead one to think, and such was the weight that I am sure it would give any ordinary man accustomed to our head-gear a still neck to wear it for an hour. What has become of this hat if it is not still in the Luxembourg?



CHAPTER XLV



SOME few years later, while travelling with my family in Switzerland, we happened to be staying at Baveno on Lago Maggiore at the same time, and in the same hotel, as the Crown Prince and Princess of Germany. Their Imperial Highnesses occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor. Our rooms were immediately above them. As my wife was known to the Princess, occasional greetings passed from balcony to balcony.

One evening while watching two lads rowing from the shore in the direction of Isola Bella, I was aroused from my contemplation of a gathering storm by angry vociferations beneath me. These were addressed to the youths in the boat. The anxious father had noted the coming tempest; and, with hands to his mouth, was shouting orders to the young gentlemen to return. Loud and angry as cracked the thunder, the imperial voice o'ertopped it. Commands succeeded admonitions, and as the only effect on the rowers was obvious recalcitrancy, oaths succeeded both: all in those throat- clearing tones to which the German language so consonantly lends itself. In a few minutes the boat was immersed in the down-pour which concealed it.

The elder of the two oarsmen was no other than the future firebrand peacemaker, Miching Mallecho, our fierce little Tartarin de Berlin. One wondered how he, who would not be ruled, would come in turn to rule? That question is a burning one; and may yet set the world in flames to solve it.

A comic little incident happened here to my own children. There was but one bathing-machine. This, the two - a schoolboy and his sister - used in the early morning. Being rather late one day, they found it engaged; and growing impatient the boy banged at the door of the machine, with a shout in schoolboy's vernacular: 'Come, hurry up; we want to dip.' Much to the surprise of the guilty pair, an answer, also in the best of English, came from the inside: 'Go away, you naughty boy.' The occupant was the Imperial Princess. Needless to say the children bolted with a mingled sense of mischief and alarm.

About this time I joined a society for the relief of distress, of which Bromley Davenport was the nominal leader. The 'managing director,' so to speak, was Dr. Gilbert, father of Mr. W. S. Gilbert. To him I went for instructions. I told him I wanted to see the worst. He accordingly sent me to Bethnal Green. For two winters and part of a third I visited this district twice a week regularly. What I saw in the course of those two years was matter for a thoughtful - ay, or a thoughtless - man to think of for the rest of his days.

My system was to call first upon the clergyman of the parish, and obtain from him a guide to the severest cases of destitution. The guide would be a Scripture reader, and, as far as I remember, always a woman. I do not know whether the labours of these good creatures were gratuitous - they themselves were certainly poor, yet singularly earnest and sympathetic. The society supplied tickets for coal, blankets, and food. Needless to say, had these supplies been a thousand-fold as great, they would have done as little permanent good as those at my command.

In Bethnal Green the principal industry is, or was, silk- weaving by hand looms. Nearly all the houses were ancient and dilapidated. A weaver and his family would occupy part of a flat, consisting of two rooms perhaps, one of which would contain his loom. The room might be about seven feet high, nearly dark, lighted only by a lattice window, half of the panes of which would be replaced by dirty rags or old newspaper. As the loom was placed against the window the light was practically excluded. The foulness of the air and filth which this entailed may be too easily imagined. A couple of cases, taken almost at random, will sample scores as bad.

It is one of the darkest days of December. The Thames is nearly frozen at Waterloo Bridge. On the second floor of an old house in - Lane, in an unusually spacious room (or does it only look spacious because there is nothing in it save four human beings?) are a father, a mother, and a grown-up son and daughter. They scowl at the visitor as the Scripture reader opens the door. What is the meaning of the intrusion? Is he too come with a Bible instead of bread? The four are seated side by side on the floor, leaning against the wall, waiting for - death. Bedsteads, chairs, table, and looms have been burnt this week or more for fuel. The grate is empty now, and lets the freezing draught blow down the chimney. The temporary relief is accepted, but not with thanks. These four stubbornly prefer death to the work- house.

One other case. It is the same hard winter. The scene: a small garret in the roof, a low slanting little skylight, now covered six inches deep in snow. No fireplace here, no ventilation, so put your scented cambric to your nose, my noble Dives. The only furniture a scanty armful of - what shall we call it? It was straw once. A starving woman and a baby are lying on it, notwithstanding. The baby surely will not be there to-morrow. It has a very bad cold - and the mucus, and the - pah! The woman in a few rags - just a few - is gnawing a raw carrot. The picture is complete. There's nothing more to paint. The rest - the whole indeed, that is the consciousness of it - was, and remains, with the Unseen.

You will say, 'Such things cannot be'; you will say, 'There are relieving officers, whose duty, etc., etc.' May be. I am only telling you what I myself have seen. There is more goes on in big cities than even relieving officers can cope with. And who shall grapple with the causes? That's the point.

Here is something else that I have seen. I have seen a family of six in one room. Of these, four were brothers and sisters, all within, none over, their teens. There were three beds between the six. When I came upon them they were out of work, - the young ones in bed to keep warm. I took them for very young married couples. It was the Scripture reader who undeceived me. This is not the exception to the rule, look you, but the rule itself. How will you deal with it? It is with Nature, immoral Nature and her heedless instincts that you have to deal. With what kind of fork will you expel her? It is with Nature's wretched children, the BETES HUMAINES,

Quos venerem incertam rapientes more ferarum,

that your account lies. Will they cease to listen to her maddening whispers: 'Unissez-vous, multipliez, il n'est d'autre loi, d'autre but, que l'amour?' What care they for her aside - 'Et durez apres, si vous le pouvez; cela ne me regarde plus'? It doesn't regard them either.

The infallible panacea, so the 'Progressive' tell us, is education - lessons on the piano, perhaps? Doctor Malthus would be more to the purpose; but how shall we administer his prescriptions? One thing we might try to teach to advantage, and that is the elementary principles of hygiene. I am heart and soul with the Progressive as to the ultimate remedial powers of education. Moral advancement depends absolutely on the humanising influences of intellectual advancement. The foreseeing of consequences is a question of intelligence. And the appreciation of consequences which follow is the basis of morality. But we must not begin at the wrong end. The true foundation and condition of intellectual and moral progress postulates material and physical improvement. The growth of artificial wants is as much the cause as the effect of civilisation: they proceed PARI PASSU. A taste of comfort begets a love of comfort. And this kind of love militates, not impotently, against the other; for self- interest is a persuasive counsellor, and gets a hearing when the blood is cool. Life must be more than possible, it must be endurable; man must have some leisure, some repose, before his brain-needs have a chance with those of his belly. He must have a coat to his back before he can stick a rose in its button-hole. The worst of it is, he begins - in Bethnal Green at least - with the rose-bud; and indulges, poor devil! in a luxury which is just the most expensive, and - in our Bethnal Greens - the most suicidal he could resort to.

There was one method I adopted with a show of temporary success now and then. It frequently happens that a man succumbs to difficulties for which he is not responsible, and which timely aid may enable him to overcome. An artisan may have to pawn or sell the tools by which he earns his living. The redemption of these, if the man is good for anything, will often set him on his legs. Thus, for example, I found a cobbler one day surrounded by a starving family. His story was common enough, severe illness being the burden of it. He was an intelligent little fellow, and, as far as one could judge, full of good intentions. His wife seemed devoted to him, and this was the best of vouchers. 'If he had but a shilling or two to redeem his tools, and buy two or three old cast-off shoes in the rag-market which he could patch up and sell, he wouldn't ask anyone for a copper.'

We went together to the pawnbroker's, then to the rag-market, and the little man trotted home with an armful of old boots and shoes, some without soles, some without uppers; all, as I should have thought, picked out of dust-bins and rubbish heaps, his sunken eyes sparkling with eagerness and renovated hope. I looked in upon him about three weeks later. The family were sitting round a well provided tea-table, close to a glowing fire, the cheeks of the children smeared with jam, and the little cobbler hammering away at his last, too busy to partake of the bowl of hot tea which his wife had placed beside him.

The same sort of treatment was sometimes very successful with a skilful workman - like a carpenter, for instance. Here a double purpose might be served. Nothing more common in Bethnal Green than broken looms, and consequent disaster. There you had the ready-made job for the reinstated carpenter; and good could be done in a small way, at very little cost. Of coarse much discretion is needed; still, the Scripture readers or the relieving officers would know the characters of the destitute, and the visitor himself would soon learn to discriminate.

A system similar to this was the basis of the aid rendered by the Royal Society for the Assistance of Discharged Prisoners, which was started by my friend, Mr. Whitbread, the present owner of Southill, and which I joined in its early days at his instigation. The earnings of the prisoner were handed over by the gaols to the Society, and the Society employed them for his advantage - always, in the case of an artisan, by supplying him with the needful implements of his trade. But relief in which the pauper has no productive share, of which he is but a mere consumer, is of no avail.

One cannot but think that if instead of the selfish principles which govern our trades-unions, and which are driving their industries out of the country, trade-schools could be provided - such, for instance, as the cheap carving schools to be met with in many parts of Germany and the Tyrol - much might be done to help the bread-earners. Why could not schools be organised for the instruction of shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, smiths of all kinds, and the scores of other trades which in former days were learnt by compulsory apprenticeship? Under our present system of education the greater part of what the poor man's children learn is clean forgotten in a few years; and if not, serves mainly to create and foster discontent, which vents itself in a passion for mass-meetings and the fuliginous oratory of our Hyde Parks.

The emigration scheme for poor-law children as advocated by Mrs. Close is the most promising, in its way, yet brought before the public, and is deserving of every support.

In the absence of any such projects as these, the hopelessness of the task, and the depressing effect of the contact with much wretchedness, wore me out. I had a nursery of my own, and was not justified in risking infectious diseases. A saint would have been more heroic, and could besides have promised that sweetest of consolations to suffering millions - the compensation of Eternal Happiness. I could not give them even hope, for I had none to spare. The root-evil I felt to be the overcrowding due to the reckless intercourse of the sexes; and what had Providence to do with a law of Nature, obedience to which entailed unspeakable misery?



CHAPTER XLVI



IN the autumn following the end of the Franco-German war, Dr. Bird and I visited all the principal battlefields. In England the impression was that the bloodiest battle was fought at Gravelotte. The error was due, I believe, to our having no war correspondent on the spot. Compared with that on the plains between St. Marie and St. Privat, Gravelotte was but a cavalry skirmish. We were fortunate enough to meet a German artillery officer at St. Marie who had been in the action, and who kindly explained the distribution of the forces. Large square mounds were scattered about the plain where the German dead were buried, little wooden crosses being stuck into them to denote the regiment they had belonged to. At Gravelotte we saw the dogs unearthing the bodies from the shallow graves. The officer told us he did not think there was a family in Germany unrepresented in the plains of St. Privat.

It was interesting so soon after the event, to sit quietly in the little summer-house of the Chateau de Bellevue, commanding a view of Sedan, where Bismarck and Moltke and General de Wimpfen held their memorable Council. 'Un terrible homme,' says the story of the 'Debacle,' 'ce general de Moltke, qui gagnait des batailles du fond de son cabinet a coups d'algebre.'

We afterwards made a walking tour through the Tyrol, and down to Venice. On our way home, while staying at Lucerne, we went up the Rigi. Soon after leaving the Kulm, on our descent to the railway, which was then uncompleted, we lost each other in the mist. I did not get to Vitznau till late at night, but luckily found a steamer just starting for Lucerne. The cabin was crammed with German students, each one smoking his pipe and roaring choruses to alternate singers. All of a sudden, those who were on their legs were knocked off them. The panic was instantaneous, for every one of us knew it was a collision. But the immediate peril was in the rush for the deck. Violent with terror, rough by nature, and full of beer, these wild young savages were formidable to themselves and others. Having arrived late, I had not got further than the cabin door, and was up the companion ladder at a bound. It was pitch dark, and piteous screams came up from the surrounding waters. At first it was impossible to guess what had happened. Were we rammed, or were we rammers? I pulled off my coats ready for a swim. But it soon became apparent that we had run into and sunk another boat.

The next morning the doctor and I went on to England. A week after I took up the 'Illustrated News.' There was an account of the accident, with an illustration of the cabin of the sunken boat. The bodies of passengers were depicted as the divers had found them.

On the very day the peace was signed I chanced to call on Sir Anthony Rothschild in New Court. He took me across the court to see his brother Lionel, the head of the firm. Sir Anthony bowed before him as though the great man were Plutus himself. He sat at a table alone, not in his own room, but in the immense counting-room, surrounded by a brigade of clerks. This was my first introduction to him. He took no notice of his brother, but received me as Napoleon received the emperors and kings at Erfurt - in other words, as he would have received his slippers from his valet, or as he did receive the telegrams which were handed to him at the rate of about one a minute.

The King of Kings was in difficulties with a little slip of black sticking-plaster. The thought of Gumpelino's Hyacinthos, ALIAS Hirsch, flashed upon me. Behold! the mighty Baron Nathan come to life again; but instead of Hyacinthos paring his mightiness's HUHNERAUGEN, he himself, in paring his own nails, had contrived to cut his finger.

'Come to buy Spanish?' he asked, with eyes intent upon the sticking-plaster.

'Oh no,' said I, 'I've no money to gamble with.'

'Hasn't Lord Leicester bought Spanish?' - never looking off the sticking-plaster, nor taking the smallest notice of the telegrams.

'Not that I know of. Are they good things?'

'I don't know; some people think so.'

Here a message was handed in, and something was whispered in his ear.

'Very well, put it down.'

'From Paris,' said Sir Anthony, guessing perhaps at its contents.

But not until the plaster was comfortably adjusted did Plutus read the message. He smiled and pushed it over to me. It was the terms of peace, and the German bill of costs.

'200,000,000 pounds!' I exclaimed. 'That's a heavy reckoning. Will France ever be able to pay it?'

'Pay it? Yes. If it had been twice as much!' And Plutus returned to his sticking-plaster. That was of real importance.

Last autumn - 1904, the literary world was not a little gratified by an announcement in the 'Times' that the British Museum had obtained possession of the original manuscript of Keats's 'Hyperion.' Let me tell the story of its discovery. During the summer of last year, my friend Miss Alice Bird, who was paying me a visit at Longford, gave me this account of it.

When Leigh Hunt's memoirs were being edited by his son Thornton in 1861, he engaged the services of three intimate friends of the family to read and collate the enormous mass of his father's correspondence. Miss Alice Bird was one of the chosen three. The arduous task completed, Thornton Hunt presented each of his three friends with a number of autographic letters, which, according to Miss Bird's description, he took almost at random from the eliminated pile. Amongst the lot that fell to Miss Bird's share was a roll of stained paper tied up with tape. This she was led to suppose - she never carefully examined it - might be either a copy or a draft of some friend's unpublished poem.

The unknown treasure was put away in a drawer with the rest. Here it remained undisturbed for forty-three years. Having now occasion to remove these papers, she opened the forgotten scroll, and was at once struck both with the words of the 'Hyperion,' and with the resemblance of the writing to Keats's.

She forthwith consulted the Keepers of the Manuscripts in the British Museum, with the result that her TROUVAILLE was immediately identified as the poet's own draft of the 'Hyperion.' The responsible authorities soon after, offered the fortunate possessor five hundred guineas for the manuscript, but courteously and honestly informed her that, were it put up to auction, some American collector would be almost sure to give a much larger sum for it.

Miss Bird's patriotism prevailed over every other consideration. She expressed her wish that the poem should be retained in England; and generously accepted what was indubitably less than its market value.



CHAPTER XLVII



A MAN whom I had known from my school-days, Frederick Thistlethwayte, coming into a huge fortune when a subaltern in a marching regiment, had impulsively married a certain Miss Laura Bell. In her early days, when she made her first appearance in London and in Paris, Laura Bell's extraordinary beauty was as much admired by painters as by men of the world. Amongst her reputed lovers were Dhuleep Singh, the famous Marquis of Hertford, and Prince Louis Napoleon. She was the daughter of an Irish constable, and began life on the stage at Dublin. Her Irish wit and sparkling merriment, her cajolery, her good nature and her feminine artifice, were attractions which, in the eyes of the male sex, fully atoned for her youthful indiscretions.

My intimacy with both Mr. and Mrs. Thistlethwayte extended over many years; and it is but justice to her memory to aver that, to the best of my belief, no wife was ever more faithful to her husband. I speak of the Thistlethwaytes here for two reasons - absolutely unconnected in themselves, yet both interesting in their own way. The first is, that at my friend's house in Grosvenor Square I used frequently to meet Mr. Gladstone, sometimes alone, sometimes at dinner. As may be supposed, the dinner parties were of men, but mostly of men eminent in public life. The last time I met Mr. Gladstone there the Duke of Devonshire and Sir W. Harcourt were both present. I once dined with Mrs. Thistlethwayte in the absence of her husband, when the only others were Munro of Novar - the friend of Turner, and the envied possessor of a splendid gallery of his pictures - and the Duke of Newcastle - then a Cabinet Minister. Such were the notabilities whom the famous beauty gathered about her.

But it is of Mr. Gladstone that I would say a word. The fascination which he exercised over most of those who came into contact with him is incontestable; and everyone is entitled to his own opinion, even though unable to account for it. This, at least, must be my plea, for to me, Mr. Gladstone was more or less a Dr. Fell. Neither in his public nor in his private capacity had I any liking for him. Nobody cares a button for what a 'man in the street' like me says or thinks on subject matters upon which they have made up their minds. I should not venture, even as one of the crowd, to deprecate a popularity which I believe to be fast passing away, were it not that better judges and wiser men think as I do, and have represented opinions which I sincerely share. 'He was born,' says Huxley, 'to be a leader of men, and he has debased himself to be a follower of the masses. If working men were to-day to vote by a majority that two and two made five, to-morrow Gladstone would believe it, and find them reasons for it which they had never dreamt of.' Could any words be truer? Yes; he was not born to be a leader of men. He was born to be, what he was - a misleader of men. Huxley says he could be made to believe that two and two made five. He would try to make others believe it; but would he himself believe it? His friends will plead, 'he might deceive himself by the excessive subtlety of his mind.' This is the charitable view to take. But some who knew him long and well put another construction upon this facile self- deception. There were, and are, honourable men of the highest standing who failed to ascribe disinterested motives to the man who suddenly and secretly betrayed his colleagues, his party, and his closest friends, and tried to break up the Empire to satisfy an inordinate ambition, and an insatiable craving for power. 'He might have been mistaken, but he acted for the best'? Was he acting conscientiously for the best in persuading the 'masses' to look upon the 'classes' - the war cries are of his coining - as their natural enemies, and worthy only of their envy and hatred? Is this the part of a statesman, of a patriot?