The Days Before Yesterday (2024)

by

Lord Frederick Hamilton

FOREWORD

The Public has given so kindly a reception to The Varnished Pomps ofYesterday (a reception which took its author wholly by surprise), thatI have extracted some further reminiscences from the lumber-room ofrecollections. Those who expect startling revelations, or stale whiffsof forgotten scandals in these pages, will, I fear, be disappointed,for the book contains neither. It is merely a record of everydayevents, covering different ground to those recounted in the formerbook, which may, or may not, prove of interest. I must tender myapologies for the insistent recurrence of the first person singular; ina book of this description this is difficult to avoid.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

Early days—The passage of many terrors—Crocodiles, grizzlies andhunchbacks—An adventurous journey and its reward—The famous spring inSouth Audley Street—Climbing chimney-sweeps—The story of Mrs.Montagu's son—The sweeps' carnival—Disraeli—Lord John Russell—Achild's ideas about the Whigs—The Earl of Aberdeen—"Old BrownBread"—Sir Edwin Landseer, a great family friend—A live lion at atea-party—Landseer as an artist—Some of his vagaries—His frescoes atArdverikie—His latter days—A devoted friend—His last Academy picture

CHAPTER II

The "swells" of the "sixties"—Old Lord Claud Hamilton—My firstpresentation to Queen Victoria—Scandalous behaviour of abrother—Queen Victoria's letters—Her character and strong commonsense—My mother's recollections of George III. and George IV.—CarltonHouse, and the Brighton Pavilion—Queen Alexandra—The FairchildFamily—Dr. Cumming and his church—A clerical Jazz—First visit toParis—General de Flahault's account of Napoleon's campaign of1812—Another curious link with the past—"SomethingFrench"—Attraction of Paris—Cinderella's glass slipper—A glimpse ofNapoleon III.—The Rue de Rivoli—The Riviera in 1865—A novelTricolour flag—Jenny Lind—The championship of the Mediterranean—Myfather's boat and crew—The race—The Abercorn wins the championship

CHAPTER III

A new departure—A Dublin hotel in the "sixties"—The Irish mailservice—The wonderful old paddle mail-boats—The convivial waiters ofthe Munster—The Viceregal Lodge—Indians and pirates—The imaginationof youth—A modest personal ambition—Death-warrants; imaginary andreal—The Fenian outbreak of 1866-7—The Abergele railway accident—ADublin Drawing-Room—Strictly private ceremonials—Some of theamenities of the Chapel Royal—An unbidden spectator of the Statedinners—Irish wit—Judge Keogh—Father Healy—Happy Dublin knack ofnomenclature—An unexpected honour and its cause—Incidents of theFenian rising—Dr. Hatchell—A novel prescription—Visit of KingEdward—Gorgeous ceremonial, but a chilly drive—An anecdote of QueenAlexandra

CHAPTER IV

Chittenden's—A wonderful teacher—My personal experiences as aschoolmaster—My "boys in blue"—My unfortunate garments—A "braveBelge"—The model boy, and his name—A Spartan regime—"The ThreeSundays"—Novel religious observances—Harrow—"John Smith ofHarrow"—"Tommy"—Steele—"Tosher"—An ingenious punishment—JohnFarmer—His methods—The birth of a famous song—Harrow schoolsongs—"Ducker"—The "Curse of Versatility"—Advancing old age—Therace between three brothers—A family failing—My father's race atsixty-four—My own—A most acrimonious dispute at Rome—Harrow afterfifty years

CHAPTER V

Mme. Ducros—A Southern French country town—"Tartarin deTarascon"—His prototypes at Nyons—M. Sisteron the roysterer—TheSouthern French—An octogenarian pasteur—Frenchindustry—"Bone-shakers"—A wonderful"Cordon-bleu"—"Slop-basin"—French legal procedure—Thebons-vivants—The merry French judges—La gaiete francaise—Delightfulexcursions—Some sleepy old towns—Oronge and Avignon—M. Thiers'ingenious cousin—Possibilities—French political situation in1874—The Comte de Chambord—Some French characteristics—Highintellectual level—Three days in a Trappist Monastery—Details of lifethere—The Arian heresy—Silkworm culture—Tendencies of French tocomplicate details—Some examples—Cicadas in London.

CHAPTER VI

Brunswick—Its beauty—High level of culture—The BrunswickTheatre—Its excellence—Gas vs. Electricity—Primitive theatretoilets—Operatic stars in private life—Some operas unknown inLondon—Dramatic incidents in them—Levasseur's parody of"Robert"—Some curious details about operas—Two fiery oldpan-Germans—Influence of the teaching profession on modernGermany—The "French and English Clubs"—A meeting of the "EnglishClub" Some reflections about English reluctance to learn foreigntongues—Mental attitude of non-Prussians in 1875—Concerning variousbeers—A German sportsman—The silent, quinine-loving youth—The HarzMountains—A "Kettle-drive" for hares—Dialects of German—The odious"Kaffee-Klatch"—Universal gossip—Hamburg's overpoweringhospitality—Hamburg's attitude towards Britain—The city itself—Tripto British Heligoland—The island—Some peculiarities—Migratingbirds—Sir Fitzhardinge Maxse—Lady Maxse—The HeligolandTheatre—Winter in Heligoland

CHAPTER VII

Some London beauties of the "seventies"—Great ladies—The Victoriangirl—Votaries of the Gaiety Theatre Two witty ladies—Two clever girlsand mock-Shakespeare—The family who talked JohnsonianEnglish—Old-fashioned tricks of pronunciation—Practical jokes—LordCharles Beresford and the old Club-member—The shoelesslegislator—Travellers' palms—The tree that spouted wine—Ceylon'sspicy breezes—Some reflections—Decline of public interest inParliament—Parliamentary giants—Gladstone, John Bright, andChamberlain—Gladstone's last speech—His resignation—W.H. Smith—TheAssistant Whips—Sir William Hart-Dyke—Weary hours at Westminster—APseudo-Ingoldsbean Lay

CHAPTER VIII

The Foreign Office—The new Private Secretary—A Cabinetkey—Concerning theatricals—Some surnames which have passed intoeveryday use—Theatricals at Petrograd—A mock-opera—The family fromRuncorn—An embarrassing predicament—Administering the oath—SecretService—Popular errors—Legitimate employment of information—ThePhoenix Park murders—I sanction an arrest—The innocent victim—Theexecution of the murderers of Alexander II.—The jarring militaryband—Black Magic—Sir Charles Wyke—Some of his experiences—Theseance at the Pantheon—Sir Charles' experiments on myself—TheAlchemists—The Elixir of Life, and the Philosopher's Stone—Luciddirections for their manufacture—Glamis Castle and itsinhabitants—The tuneful Lyon family—Mr. Gladstone at Glamis—He singsin the glees—The castle and its treasures—Recollections of Glamis

CHAPTER IX

Canada—The beginnings of the C.P.R.—Attitude of British Columbia—TheC.P.R. completed—Quebec—A swim at Niagara—Other mightywaterfalls—Ottawa and Rideau Hall—Effects of dry climate—Personalelectricity—Every man his own dynamo—Attraction of Ottawa—The"roaring game"—Skating—An ice-palace—A ball on skates—Difficultiesof translating the Bible into Eskimo—The building of the snow hut—Thesnow hut in use—Sir John Macdonald—Some personal traits—The CanadianParliament buildings—Monsieur l'Orateur—A quaint oration—The "Pages'Parliament"—An all-night sitting—The "Arctic Cremorne"—A curiousLisbon custom—The Balkan "souvenir-hunters"—Personal inspection ofCanadian convents—Some incidents—The unwelcome novice—The MontrealCarnival—The Ice-castle—The Skating Carnival—A stupendous tobogganslide—The pioneer of "ski" in Canada—The old-fashioned raquettes—ACanadian Spring—Wonders of the Dominion

CHAPTER X

Calcutta—Hooghly pilots—Government House—A Durbar—The sulkyRajah—The customary formalities—An ingenious interpreter—The sailingclippers in the Hooghly—Calcutta Cathedral—A succulent banquet—Themistaken Minister—The "Gordons"—Barrackpore—A Swiss Family Robinsonaerial house—The child and the elephants—The merry midshipmen—Someof their escapades—A huge haul of fishes—Queen Victoria andHindustani—The Hills—The Manipur outbreak—A riding tour—A wise oldAnglo-Indian—Incidents—The fidelity of native servants—A novelprinting-press—Lucknow—The loss of an illusion

CHAPTER XI

Matters left untold—The results of improved communications—Myfather's journey to Naples—Modern stereotyped uniformity—Changes incustoms—The faithful family retainer—Some details—Samuel Pepys'stupendous banquets—Persistence of idea—Ceremonialincense—Patriarchal family life—The barn dances—My father'shabits—My mother—A son's tribute—Autumn days—Conclusion

CHAPTER I

Early days—The passage of many terrors—Crocodiles, grizzlies andhunchbacks—An adventurous journey and its reward—The famous spring inSouth Audley Street—Climbing chimney-sweeps—The story of Mrs.Montagu's son—The sweeps' carnival—Disraeli—Lord John Russell—Achild's ideas about the Whigs—The Earl of Aberdeen—"Old BrownBread"—Sir Edwin Landseer, a great family friend—A live lion at atea-party—Landseer as an artist—Some of his vagaries—His frescoes atArdverikie—His latter days—A devoted friend—His last Academy picture.

I was born the thirteenth child of a family of fourteen, on thethirteenth day of the month, and I have for many years resided at No.13 in a certain street in Westminster. In spite of the popularprejudice attached to this numeral, I am not conscious of havingderived any particular ill-fortune from my accidental association withit.

Owing to my sequence in the family procession, I found myself on myentry into the world already equipped with seven sisters and foursurviving brothers. I was also in the unusual position of being born anuncle, finding myself furnished with four ready-made nephews—thepresent Lord Durham, his two brothers, Mr. Frederick Lambton andAdmiral-of-the-Fleet Sir Hedworth Meux, and the late Lord Lichfield.

Looking down the long vista of sixty years with eyes that have alreadylost their keen vision, the most vivid impression that remains of myearly childhood is the nightly ordeal of the journey down "The Passageof Many Terrors" in our Irish home. It had been decreed that, as I hadreached the mature age of six, I was quite old enough to comedownstairs in the evening by myself without the escort of a maid, butno one seemed to realise what this entailed on the small boyimmediately concerned. The house had evidently been built by somemalevolent architect with the sole object of terrifying little boys.Never, surely, had such a prodigious length of twisting, windingpassages and such a superfluity of staircases been crammed into onebuilding, and as in the early "sixties" electric light had not beenthought of, and there was no gas in the house, these endless passageswere only sparingly lit with dim colza-oil lamps. From his nursery thelittle boy had to make his way alone through a passage and up somesteps. These were brightly lit, and concealed no terrors. The staircasethat had to be negotiated was also reassuringly bright, but at its basecame the "Terrible Passage." It was interminably long, and only lit byan oil lamp at its far end. Almost at once a long corridor running atright angles to the main one, and plunged in total darkness, had to becrossed. This was an awful place, for under a marble slab in its dimrecesses a stuffed crocodile reposed. Of course in the daytime thecrocodile PRETENDED to be very dead, but every one knew that as soon asit grew dark, the crocodile came to life again, and padded noiselesslyabout the passage on its scaly paws seeking for its prey, with itsgreat cruel jaws snapping, its fierce teeth gleaming, and its hornytail lashing savagely from side to side. It was also a matter of commonknowledge that the favourite article of diet of crocodiles was a littleboy with bare legs in a white suit. Even should one be fortunate enoughto escape the crocodile's jaws, there were countless other terrorsawaiting the traveller down this awe-inspiring passage. A littlefarther on there was a dark lobby, with cupboards surrounding it. Anyone examining these cupboards by daylight would have found that theycontained innocuous cricket-bats and stumps, croquet-mallets and balls,and sets of bowls. But as soon as the shades of night fell, theseharmless sporting accessories were changed by some mysterious andmalign agency into grizzly bears, and grizzly bears are notoriously thefiercest of their species. It was advisable to walk very quickly, butquietly, past the lair of the grizzlies, for they would have gobbled upa little boy in one second. Immediately after the bears' den came theculminating terror of all—the haunt of the wicked little hunchbacks.These malignant little beings inhabited an arched and recessedcross-passage. It was their horrible habit to creep noiselessly behindtheir victims, tip...tip...tip-toeing silently but swiftly behind theirprey, and then ... with a sudden spring they threw themselves on tolittle boys' backs, and getting their arms round their necks, theyremorselessly throttled the life out of them. In the early "sixties"there was a perfect epidemic of so-called "garrotting" in London.Harmless citizens proceeding peaceably homeward through unfrequentedstreets or down suburban roads at night were suddenly seized frombehind by nefarious hands, and found arms pressed under their chinsagainst their windpipe, with a second hand drawing their heads backuntil they collapsed insensible, and could be despoiled leisurely ofany valuables they might happen to have about them. Those familiar withJohn Leech's Punch Albums will recollect how many of his drawingsturned on this outbreak of garrotting. The little boy had heard hiselders talking about this garrotting, and had somehow mixed it up witha story about hunchbacks and the fascinating local tales about "the weepeople," but the terror was a very real one for all that. Thehunchbacks baffled, there only remained a dark archway to pass, butthis archway led to the "Robbers' Passage." A peculiarly bloodthirstygang of malefactors had their fastnesses along this passage, but thedread of being in the immediate neighbourhood of such a band ofdesperadoes was considerably modified by the increasing light, as thesolitary oil-lamp of the passage was approached. Under the comfortingbeams of this lamp the little boy would pause until his heart began tothump less wildly after his deadly perils, and he would turn the handleof the door and walk into the great hall as demurely as though he hadmerely traversed an ordinary everyday passage in broad daylight. It wasvery reassuring to see the big hall blazing with light, with the logsroaring on the open hearth, and grown-ups writing, reading, and talkingunconcernedly, as though unconscious of the awful dangers lurkingwithin a few yards of them. In that friendly atmosphere, what with toysand picture-books, the fearful experiences of the "Passage of ManyTerrors" soon faded away, and the return journey upstairs would be freefrom alarms, for Catherine, the nursery-maid, would come to fetch thelittle boy when his bedtime arrived.

Catherine was fat, freckled, and French. She was also of a very stoliddisposition. She stumped unconcernedly along the "Passage of Terrors,"and any reference to its hidden dangers of robbers, hunchbacks, bears,and crocodiles only provoked the remark, "Quel tas de betises!" Inorder to reassure the little boy, Catherine took him to view thestuffed crocodile reposing inertly under its marble slab. Of course,before a grown-up the crocodile would pretend to be dead and stuffed,but ... the little boy knew better. It occurred gleefully to him, too,that the plump French damsel might prove more satisfactory as a repastto a hungry saurian than a skinny little boy with thin legs. In thecheerful nursery, with its fragrant peat fire (we called it "turf"),the terrors of the evening were quickly forgotten, only to be renewedwith tenfold activity next evening, as the moment for making thedreaded journey again approached.

The little boy had had the Pilgrim's Progress read to him on Sundays.He envied "Christian," who not only usually enjoyed the benefit of somereassuring companion, such as "Mr. Interpreter," or "Mr. Greatheart,"to help him on his road, but had also been expressly told, "Keep in themidst of the path, and no harm shall come to thee." This was distinctlycomforting, and Christian enjoyed another conspicuous advantage. Allthe lions he encountered in the course of his journey were chained up,and could not reach him provided he adhered to the Narrow Way. Thelittle boy thought seriously of tying a rolled-up tablecloth to hisback to represent Christian's pack; in his white suit, he might perhapsthen pass for a pilgrim, and the strip of carpet down the centre of thepassage would make an admirable Narrow Way, but it all depended onwhether the crocodile, bears, and hunchbacks knew, and would observethe rules of the game. It was most improbable that the crocodile hadever had the Pilgrim's Progress read to him in his youth, and he mightnot understand that the carpet representing the Narrow Way wasinviolable territory. Again, the bears might make their spring beforethey realised that, strictly speaking, they ought to considerthemselves chained up. The ferocious little hunchbacks were clearlypast praying for; nothing would give them a sense of the mostelementary decency. On the whole, the safest plan seemed to be, onreaching the foot of the stairs, to keep an eye on the distant lamp andto run to it as fast as short legs and small feet could carry one. Oncesafe under its friendly beams, panting breath could be recovered, andthe necessary stolid look assumed before entering the hall.

There was another voyage, rich in its promise of ultimate rewards, butso perilous that it would only be undertaken under escort. That was tothe housekeeper's room through a maze of basem*nt passages. On the roadtwo fiercely-gleaming roaring pits of fire had to be encountered.Grown-ups said this was the furnace that heated the house, but thelittle boy had his own ideas on the subject. Every Sunday his nurseused to read to him out of a little devotional book, much in vogue inthe "sixties," called The Peep of Day, a book with the most terrifyingpictures. One Sunday evening, so it is said, the little boy's mothercame into the nursery to find him listening in rapt attention to whathis nurse was reading him.

"Emery is reading to me out of a good book," explained the small boyquite superfluously.

"And do you like it, dear?"

"Very much indeed."

"What is Emery reading to you about? Is it about Heaven?"

"No, it's about 'ell," gleefully responded the little boy, who had notyet found all his "h's."

Those glowing furnace-bars; those roaring flames ... there could be nodoubt whatever about it. A hymn spoke of "Gates of Hell" ... of coursethey just called it the heating furnace to avoid frightening him. Thelittle boy became acutely conscious of his misdeeds. He had taken ...no, stolen an apple from the nursery pantry and had eaten it. Againstall orders he had played with the taps in the sink. The burden of hisiniquities pressed heavily on him; remembering the encouraging warningsMrs. Fairchild, of The Fairchild Family, gave her offspring as to theircertain ultimate destiny when they happened to break any domestic rule,he simply dared not pass those fiery apertures alone. With his hand inthat of his friend Joseph, the footman, it was quite another matter.Out of gratitude, he addressed Joseph as "Mr. Greatheart," but Joseph,probably unfamiliar with the Pilgrim's Progress, replied that his namewas Smith.

The interminable labyrinth of passages threaded, the warm, comfortablehousekeeper's room, with its red curtains, oak presses and a delicioussmell of spice pervading it, was a real haven of rest. To this veryday, nearly sixty years afterwards, it still looks just the same, andkeeps its old fragrant spicy odour. Common politeness dictated a briefperiod of conversation, until Mrs. Pithers, the housekeeper, shouldtake up her wicker key-basket and select a key (the second press on theleft). From that inexhaustible treasure-house dates and figs wouldappear, also dried apricots and those little discs of crystallisedapple-paste which, impaled upon straws, and coloured green, red andyellow, were in those days manufactured for the special delectation ofgreedy little boys. What a happy woman Mrs. Pithers must have been withsuch a prodigal wealth of delicious products always at her command! Itwas comforting, too, to converse with Mrs. Pithers, for though thisintrepid woman was alarmed neither by bears, hunchbacks nor crocodiles,she was terribly frightened by what she termed "cows," and regulatedher daily walks so as to avoid any portion of the park where cattlewere grazing. Here the little boy experienced a delightful sense ofmasculine superiority. He was not the least afraid of cattle, or ofother things in daylight and the open air; of course at night in darkpassages infested with bears and little hunchbacks ... Well, it wasobviously different. And yet that woman who was afraid of "cows" couldwalk without a tremor, or a little shiver down the spine, past the very"Gates of Hell," where they roared and blazed in the dark passage.

Our English home had brightly-lit passages, and was consequentlypractically free from bears and robbers. Still, we all preferred theUlster home in spite of its obvious perils. Here were a chain of lakes,wide, silvery expanses of gleaming water reflecting the woods andhills. Here were great tracts of woodlands where countless little burnschattered and tinkled in their rocky beds as they hurried down to thelakes, laughing as they tumbled in miniature cascades over rocky ledgesinto swirling pools, in their mad haste to reach the placid watersbelow. Here were purple heather-clad hills, with their bigger brethrenrising mistily blue in the distance, and great wine-coloured tracts ofbog (we called them "flows") interspersed with glistening bands ofwater, where the turf had been cut which hung over the village in athin haze of fragrant blue smoke.

The woods in the English place were beautifully kept, but they wereuninteresting, for there were no rocks or great stones in them. AnEnglish brook was a dull, prosaic, lifeless stream, rolling itsclay-stained waters stolidly along, with never a dimple of laughter onits surface, or a joyous little gurgle of surprise at finding that itwas suddenly called upon to take a headlong leap of ten feet. TheEnglish brooks were so silent, too, compared to our noisy Ulster burns,whose short lives were one clamorous turmoil of protest against themany obstacles with which nature had barred their progress to the sea;here swirling over a miniature crag, there babbling noisily among alabyrinth of stones. They ultimately became merged in a foaming,roaring salmon river, expanding into amber-coloured pools, or breakinginto white rapids; a river which retained to the last its lordlyindependence and reached the sea still free, refusing to be harnessedor confined by man. Our English brook, after its uneventful childhood,made its stolid matter-of-fact way into an equally dull little riverwhich crawled inertly along to its destiny somewhere down by the docks.I know so many people whose whole lives are like that of thatparticular English brook.

We lived then in London at Chesterfield House, South Audley Street,which covered three times the amount of ground it does at present, forat the back it had a very large garden, on which Chesterfield Gardensare now built. In addition to this it had two wings at right angles toit, one now occupied by Lord Leconfield's house, the other by Nos. 1and 2, South Audley Street. The left-hand wing was used as our stablesand contained a well which enjoyed an immense local reputation inMayfair. Never was such drinking-water! My father allowed any one inthe neighbourhood to fetch their drinking-water from our well, and oneof my earliest recollections is watching the long daily procession ofmen-servants in the curious yellow-jean jackets of the "sixties," eachwith two large cans in his hands, fetching the day's supply of ourmatchless water. No inhabitants of Curzon Street, Great StanhopeStreet, or South Audley Street would dream of touching any water butthat from the famous Chesterfield House spring. In 1867 there was aserious outbreak of Asiatic cholera in London, and my father determinedto have the water of the celebrated spring analysed. There were loudprotests at this:—what, analyse the finest drinking-water in England!My father, however, persisted, and the result of the analysis was thatour incomparable drinking-water was found to contain thirty per cent.of organic matter. The analyst reported that fifteen per cent. of thewater must be pure sewage. My father had the spring sealed and brickedup at once, but it is a marvel that we had not poisoned every singleinhabitant of the Mayfair district years before.

In the early "sixties" the barbarous practice of sending wretchedlittle "climbing boys" up chimneys to sweep them still prevailed. Incommon with most other children of that day, I was perfectly terrifiedwhen the chimney-sweep arrived with his attendant coal-black imps, forthe usual threat of foolish nurses to their charges when they provedrefractory was, "If you are not good I shall give you to the sweep, andthen you will have to climb up the chimney." When the dust-sheets laidon the floors announced the advent of the sweeps, I used, if possible,to hide until they had left the house. I cannot understand how publicopinion tolerated for so long the abominable cruelty of forcing littleboys to clamber up flues. These unhappy brats were made to creep intothe chimneys from the grates, and then to wriggle their way up bydigging their toes into the interstices of the bricks, and by workingtheir elbows and knees alternately; stifled in the pitch-darkness ofthe narrow flue by foul air, suffocated by the showers of soot thatfell on them, perhaps losing their way in the black maze of chimneys,and liable at any moment, should they lose their footing, to comecrashing down twenty feet, either to be killed outright in the dark orto lie with a broken limb until they were extricated—should, indeed,it be possible to rescue them at all. These unfortunate children, too,were certain to get abrasions on their bare feet and on their elbowsand knees from the rough edges of the bricks. The soot working intothese abrasions gave them a peculiar form of sore. Think of theterrible brutality to which a nervous child must have been subjectedbefore he could be induced to undertake so hateful a journey for thefirst time. Should the boy hesitate to ascend, many of themaster-sweeps had no compunction in giving him what was termed a"tickler"—that is, in lighting some straw in the grate below him. Thepoor little urchin had perforce to scramble up his chimney then, toavoid being roasted alive.

All honour to the seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, the philanthropist, whoas Lord Ashley never rested in the House of Commons until he got ameasure placed on the Statute Book making the employment ofclimbing-boys illegal.

It will be remembered that little Tom, the hero of Charles Kingsley'sdelightful Water-Babies, was a climbing-sweep. In spite of all my care,I occasionally met some of these little fellows in the passages,inky-black with soot from the soles of their bare feet to the crowns oftheir heads, except for the whites of their eyes. They could not havebeen above eight or nine years old. I looked on them as awful warnings,for of course they would not have occupied their present position hadthey not been little boys who had habitually disobeyed the orders oftheir nurses.

Even the wretched little climbing-boys had their gala-day on the 1st ofMay, when they had a holiday and a feast under the terms of Mrs.Montagu's will.

The story of Mrs. Montagu is well known. The large house standing in agarden at the corner of Portman Square and Gloucester Place, now ownedby Lord Portman, was built for Mrs. Montagu by James Wyatt at the endof the eighteenth century, and the adjoining Montagu Street and MontaguSquare derive their names from her. Somehow Mrs. Montagu's only son gotkidnapped, and all attempts to recover the child failed. Time went on,and he was regarded as dead. On a certain 1st of May the sweeps arrivedto clean Mrs. Montagu's chimneys, and a climbing-boy was sent up to hishorrible task. Like Tom in the Water-Babies, he lost his way in thenetwork of flues and emerged in a different room to the one he hadstarted from. Something in the aspect of the room struck ahalf-familiar, half-forgotten chord in his brain. He turned the handleof the door of the next room and found a lady seated there. Then heremembered. Filthy and soot-stained as he was, the little sweep flunghimself into the arms of the beautiful lady with a cry of "Mother!"Mrs. Montagu had found her lost son.

In gratitude for the recovery of her son, Mrs. Montagu entertainedevery climbing-boy in London at dinner on the anniversary of her son'sreturn, and arranged that they should all have a holiday on that day.At her death she left a legacy to continue the treat.

Such, at least, is the story as I have always heard it.

At the Sweeps' Carnival, there was always a grown-up man figuring as"Jack-in-the-green." Encased in an immense frame of wicker-work coveredwith laurels and artificial flowers, from the midst of which his faceand arms protruded with a comical effect, "Jack-in-the-green" caperedslowly about in the midst of the street, surrounded by some twentylittle climbing-boys, who danced joyously round him with black faces,their soot-stained clothes decorated with tags of bright ribbon, andmaking a deafening clamour with their dustpans and brushes as they sangsome popular ditty. They then collected money from the passers-by,making usually quite a good haul. There were dozens of these"Jacks-in-the-green" to be seen then on Mayday in the London streets,each one with his attendant band of little black familiars. I summonedup enough courage once to ask a small inky-black urchin whether he haddisobeyed his nurse very often in order to be condemned to sweepchimneys. He gaped at me uncomprehendingly, with a grin; but being acheerful little soul, assured me that, on the whole, he rather enjoyedclimbing up chimneys.

It was my father and mother's custom in London to receive any of theirfriends at luncheon without a formal invitation, and a constantprocession of people availed themselves of this privilege. At six yearsof age I was promoted to lunch in the dining-room with my parents, andI always kept my ears open. I had then one brother in the House ofCommons, and we being a politically inclined family, most of thenotabilities of the Tory party put in occasional appearances atChesterfield House at luncheon-time. There was Mr. Disraeli, for whommy father had an immense admiration, although he had not yet occupiedthe post of Prime Minister. Mr. Disraeli's curiously impassive face,with its entire absence of colouring, rather frightened me. It lookedlike a mask. He had, too, a most singular voice, with a very impressivestyle of utterance. After 1868, by which time my three elder brotherswere all in the House of Commons, and Disraeli himself was PrimeMinister, he was a more frequent visitor at our house.

In 1865 my uncle, Lord John Russell, my mother's brother, was PrimeMinister. My uncle, who had been born as far back as 1792, was a verytiny man, who always wore one of the old-fashioned, high black-satinstocks right up to his chin. I liked him, for he was always full of funand small jokes, but in that rigorously Tory household he was looked onwith scant favour. It was his second term of office as Prime Minister,for he had been First Lord of the Treasury from 1846 to 1852; he hadalso sat in the House of Commons for forty-seven years. My father wasrather inclined to ridicule his brother-in-law's small stature, andabsolutely detested his political opinions, declaring that he unitedall the ineradicable faults of the Whigs in his diminutive person.Listening, as a child will do, to the conversation of his elders, Iderived the most grotesquely false ideas as to the Whigs and theirtraditional policy. I gathered that, with their tongues in theircheeks, they advocated measures in which they did not themselvesbelieve, should they think that by so doing they would be able toenhance their popularity and maintain themselves in office: that, inorder to extricate themselves from some present difficulty, they werealways prepared to mortgage the future recklessly, quite regardless ofthe ultimate consequences: that whilst professing the most liberalprinciples, they were absurdly exclusive in their private lives, notconsorting with all and sundry as we poor Tories did: that convictionsmattered less than office: that in fact nothing much mattered, providedthat the government of the country remained permanently in the hands ofa little oligarchy of Whig families, and that every office of profitunder the Crown was, as a matter of course, allotted to some member ofthose favoured families. In proof of the latter statement, I learntthat the first act of my uncle Lord John, as Prime Minister, had beento appoint one of his brothers Sergeant-at-Arms of the House ofCommons, and to offer to another of his brothers, the Rev. LordWriothesley Russell, the vacant Bishopric of Oxford. Much to the creditof my clergyman-uncle, he declined the Bishopric, saying that he hadneither the eloquence nor the administrative ability necessary for sohigh an office in the Church, and that he preferred to remain a plaincountry parson in his little parish, of which, at the time of hisdeath, he had been Rector for fifty-six years. All of which only goesto show what absurdly erroneous ideas a child, anxious to learn, maypick up from listening to the conversation of his elders, even when oneof those elders happened to be Mr. Disraeli himself.

Another ex-Prime Minister who was often at our house was the fourthEarl of Aberdeen, who had held office many times, and had been PrimeMinister during the Crimean War. He must have been a very old man then,for he was born in 1784. I have no very distinct recollection of him.Oddly enough, Lord Aberdeen was both my great-uncle and mystep-grandfather, for his first wife had been my grandfather's sister,and after her death, he married my grandfather's widow, his two wivesthus being sisters-in-law. Judging by their portraits by Lawrence,which hung round our dining-room, my great-grandfather, old LordAbercorn's sons and daughters must have been of singular and quiteunusual personal beauty. Not one of the five attained the age oftwenty-nine, all of them succumbing early to consumption. Lord Aberdeenhad a most unfortunate skin and complexion, and in addition he wasdeeply pitted with small-pox. As a result his face looked exactly likea slice of brown bread, and "Old Brown Bread" he was always called bymy elder brothers and sisters, who had but little love for him, for hedisliked young people, and always made the most disagreeable remarks hecould think of to them. I remember once being taken to see him atArgyll House, Regent Street, on the site of which the "Palladium" nowstands. I recollect perfectly the ugly, gloomy house, and its uglierand gloomier garden, but I have no remembrance of "Old Brown Bread"himself, or of what he said to me, which, considering his notoriousdislike to children, is perhaps quite as well.

Of a very different type was another constant and always welcomevisitor to our house, Sir Edwin Landseer, the painter. He was one of myfather and mother's oldest friends, and had been an equally closefriend of my grandparents, the Duke and duch*ess of Bedford. He hadpainted three portraits of my father, and five of my mother. Two of thelatter had been engraved, and, under the titles of "Cottage Industry"and "The Mask," had a very large sale in mid-Victorian days. His largepicture of my two eldest sisters, which hung over our dining-roomchimney-piece, had also been engraved, and was a great favourite, underthe title of "The Abercorn Children." Landseer was a most delightfulperson, and the best company that can be imagined. My father and motherwere quite devoted to him, and both of them always addressed him as"Lanny." My mother going to call on him at his St. John's Wood house,found "Lanny" in the garden, working from a ladder on a gigantic massof clay. Turning the corner, she was somewhat alarmed at finding afull-grown lion stretched out on the lawn. Landseer had beencommissioned by the Government to model the four lions for the base ofNelson's pillar in Trafalgar Square. He had made some studies in theZoological Gardens, but as he always preferred working from the livemodel, he arranged that an elderly and peculiarly docile lion should bebrought to his house from the Zoo in a furniture van attended by twokeepers. Should any one wish to know what that particular lion lookedlike, they have only to glance at the base of the Nelson pillar. Onpaying an afternoon call, it is so unusual to find a live lion includedamongst the guests, that my mother's perturbation at finding herself insuch close proximity to a huge loose carnivore is, perhaps, pardonable.Landseer is, of course, no longer in fashion as a painter. I quite ownthat at times his colour is unpleasing, owing to the bluish tintoverlaying it; but surely no one will question his draughtsmanship? Andhas there ever been a finer animal-painter? Perhaps he was really ablack-and-white man. My family possess some three hundred drawings ofhis: some in pen and ink, some in wash, some in pencil. I personallyprefer his very delicate pencil work, over which he sometimes threw alight wash of colour. No one, seeing some of his pen and ink work, candeny that he was a master of line. A dozen scratches, and the wholepicture is there! There is a charming little Landseer portrait of mymother with my eldest sister, in Room III of the Tate Gallery. Landseerpreferred painting on panel, and he never would allow his pictures tobe varnished. His wishes have been obeyed in that respect; none of theLandseers my family possess have ever been varnished.

He was certainly an unconventional guest in a country house. My fatherhad rented a deer-forest on a long lease from Cluny Macpherson, and hadbuilt a large house there, on Loch Laggan. As that was before the daysof railways, the interior of the house at Ardverikie was necessarilyvery plain, and the rooms were merely whitewashed. Landseer complainedthat the glare of the whitewash in the dining-room hurt his eyes, andwithout saying a word to any one, he one day produced his colours,mounted a pair of steps, and proceeded to rough-in a design in charcoalon the white walls. He worked away until he had completely covered thewalls with frescoes in colour. The originals of some of his best-knownengravings, "The Sanctuary," "The Challenge," "The Monarch of theGlen," made their first appearance on the walls of the dining-room atArdverikie. The house was unfortunately destroyed by fire some yearslater, and Landseer's frescoes perished with it.

At another time, my father leased for two years a large house in theMidlands. The dining-hall of this house was hung with hideously woodenfull-length portraits of the family owning it. Landseer declared thatthese monstrous pictures took away his appetite, so without anypermission he one day mounted a ladder, put in high-lights with whitechalk over the oils, made the dull eyes sparkle, and gave somesemblance of life to these forlorn effigies. Pleased with his success,he then brightened up the flesh tints with red chalk, and put somedrawing into the faces. To complete his work, he rubbed blacks into thebackgrounds with charcoal. The result was so excellent that we let itremain. At the conclusion of my father's tenancy, the family to whomthe place belonged were perfectly furious at the disrespect with whichtheir cherished portraits had been treated, for it was a traditionalarticle of faith with them that they were priceless works of art.

Towards the end of his life Landseer became hopelessly insane and,during his periods of violence a dangerous homicidal maniac. Such anaffection, however, had my father and mother for the friend of theiryounger days, that they still had him to stay with us in Kent for longperiods. He had necessarily to bring a large retinue with him: his owntrained mental attendant; Dr. Tuke, a very celebrated alienist in hisday; and, above all, Mrs. Pritchard. The case of Mrs. Pritchard is suchan instance of devoted friendship as to be worth recording. She was anelderly widow of small means, Landseer's neighbour in St. John's Wood;a little dried-up, shrivelled old woman. The two became firm allies,and when Landseer's reason became hopelessly deranged, Mrs. Pritcharddevoted her whole life to looking after her afflicted friend. In spiteof her scanty means, she refused to accept any salary, and Landseer waslike wax in her hands. In his most violent moods when the keeper andDr. Tuke both failed to quiet him, Mrs. Pritchard had only to hold upher finger and he became calm at once. Either his clouded reason orsome remnant of his old sense of fun led him to talk of Mrs. Pritchardas his "pocket Venus." To people staying with us (who, I think, were alittle alarmed at finding themselves in the company of a lunatic,however closely watched he might be), he would say, "In two minutes youwill see the loveliest of her sex. A little dainty creature, perfect infeature, perfect in shape, who might have stepped bodily out of theframe of a Greuze. A perfect dream of loveliness." They wereconsiderably astonished when a little wizened woman, with a face like awithered apple, entered the room. He was fond, too, of descanting onMrs. Pritchard's wonderfully virtuous temperament, notwithstanding heramazing charms. Visitors probably reflected that, given her appearance,the path of duty must have been rendered very easy to her.

Landseer painted his last Academy picture, "The Baptismal Font," whilststaying with us. It is a perfectly meaningless composition,representing a number of sheep huddled round a font, for whateverallegorical significance he originally meant to give it eluded the poorclouded brain. As he always painted from the live model, he sent downto the Home Farm for two sheep, which he wanted driven upstairs intohis bedroom, to the furious indignation of the housekeeper, whodeclared, with a certain amount of reason, that it was impossible tokeep a house well if live sheep were to be allowed in the bestbedrooms. So Landseer, his easel and colours and his sheep were alltransferred to the garden.

On another occasion there was some talk about a savage bull. Landseer,muttering, "Bulls! bulls! bulls!" snatched up an album of my sister's,and finding a blank page in it, made an exquisite little drawing of acharging bull. The disordered brain repeating "Bulls! bulls! bulls!" hethen drew a bulldog, a pair of bullfinches surrounded by bulrushes, anda hooked bull trout fighting furiously for freedom. That page has beencut out and framed for fifty years.

CHAPTER II

The "swells" of the "sixties"—Old Lord Claud Hamilton—My firstpresentation to Queen Victoria—Scandalous behaviour of abrother—Queen Victoria's letters—Her character and strong commonsense—My mother's recollections of George III. and George IV.—CarltonHouse, and the Brighton Pavilion—Queen Alexandra—The FairchildFamily—Dr. Cumming and his church—A clerical Jazz—First visit toParis—General de Flahault's account of Napoleon's campaign of1812—Another curious link with the past—"SomethingFrench"—Attraction of Paris—Cinderella's glass slipper—A glimpse ofNapoleon III.—The Rue de Rivoli The Riviera in 1865—A novel Tricolorflag—Jenny Lind—The championship of the Mediterranean—My father'sboat and crew—The race—The Abercorn wins the championship.

Every one familiar with John Leech's Pictures from Punch must have anexcellent idea of the outward appearance of "swells" of the "sixties."

As a child I had an immense admiration for these gorgeous beings,though, between ourselves, they must have been abominably louddressers. They affected rather vulgar sealskin waistcoats, with thefestoons of a long watch-chain meandering over them, above which theyexhibited a huge expanse of black or blue satin, secured by twoscarf-pins of the same design, linked together, like Siamese twins, bya little chain.

A reference to Leech's drawings will show the flamboyant checked"pegtop" trousers in which they delighted. Their principal adornmentlay in their immense "Dundreary" whiskers, usually at least eightinches long. In a high wind these immensely long whiskers blew backover their owners' shoulders in the most comical fashion, and they musthave been horribly inconvenient. I determined early in life to affect,when grown-up, longer whiskers than any one else—if possible down tomy waist; but alas for human aspirations! By the time that I hademerged from my chrysalis stage, Dundreary whiskers had ceased to bethe fashion; added to which unkind Nature had given me a hairless face.

My uncle, old Lord Claud Hamilton, known in our family as "TheDowager," adhered, to the day of his death, to the William IV. style ofdress. He wore an old-fashioned black-satin stock right up to his chin,with white "gills" above, and was invariably seen in a blue coat withbrass buttons, and a buff waistcoat. My uncle was one of the handsomestmen in England, and had sat for nearly forty years in Parliament. Hehad one curious faculty. He could talk fluently and well on almost anytopic at indefinite length, a very useful gift in the House of Commonsof those days. On one occasion when it was necessary "to talk a Billout," he got up without any preparation whatever, and addressed theHouse in flowing periods for four hours and twenty minutes. His speechheld the record for length for many years, but it was completelyeclipsed in the early "eighties" by the late Mr. Biggar, who spoke (ifmy memory serves me right) for nearly six hours on one occasion.Biggar, however, merely read interminable extracts from Blue Books,whereas my uncle indulged in four hours of genuine rhetoricaldeclamation. My uncle derived his nickname from the fact that in ourfamily the second son is invariably christened Claud, so I had alreadya brother of that name. There happen to be three Lord Claud Hamiltonsliving now, of three successive generations.

I shall never forget my bitter disappointment the first time I wastaken, at a very early age, to see Queen Victoria. I had pictured tomyself a dazzling apparition arrayed in sumptuous robes, seated on agolden throne; a glittering crown on her head, a sceptre in one hand,an orb grasped in the other. I had fancied Her Majesty seated thus,motionless during the greater part of the twenty-four hours, simply"reigning." I could have cried with disappointment when a middle-agedlady, simply dressed in widow's "weeds" and wearing a widow's cap, rosefrom an ordinary arm-chair to receive us. I duly made my bow, buthaving a sort of idea that it had to be indefinitely repeated, went onnodding like a porcelain Chinese mandarin, until ordered to stop.

Between ourselves, I behaved far better than a brother of mine once didunder similar circ*mstances. Many years before I was born, my fatherlent his Scotch house to Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort for tendays. This entailed my two eldest sisters and two eldest brothersvacating their nurseries in favour of the Royal children, and theirbeing transferred to the farm, where they had very cramped quartersindeed. My second brother deeply resented being turned out of hiscomfortable nursery, and refused to be placated. On the day after theQueen's arrival, my mother took her four eldest children to presentthem to Her Majesty, my sisters dressed in their best clothes, mybrothers being in kilts. They were duly instructed as to how they wereto behave, and upon being presented, my two sisters made theircurtsies, and my eldest brother made his best bow. "And this, yourMajesty, is my second boy. Make your bow, dear," said my mother; but mybrother, his heart still hot within him at being expelled from hisnursery, instead of bowing, STOOD ON HIS HEAD IN HIS KILT, and remainedlike that, an accomplishment of which he was very proud. The Queen wasexceedingly angry, so later in the day, upon my brother professing deeppenitence, he was taken back to make his apologies, when he didprecisely the same thing over again, and was consequently in disgraceduring the whole of the Royal visit. In strict confidence, I believethat he would still do it to-day, more than seventy-two years later.

During her stay in my father's house the Queen quite unexpectedlyannounced that she meant to give a dance. This put my mother in a greatdifficulty, for my sisters had no proper clothes for a ball, and inthose pre-railway days it would have taken at least ten days to getanything from Edinburgh or Glasgow. My mother had a sudden inspiration.The muslin curtains in the drawing-room! The drawing-room curtains wereat once commandeered; the ladies'-maids set to work with a will, and Ibelieve that my sisters looked extremely well dressed in the curtains,looped up with bunches of rowan or mountain-ash berries.

My mother was honoured with Queen Victoria's close friendship andconfidence for over fifty years. At the time of her death she had inher possession a numerous collection of letters from the Queen, many ofthem very long ones. By the express terms of my mother's will, thoseletters will never be published. Many of them touch on exceedinglyprivate matters relating to the Royal family, others refer to variouspolitical problems of the day. I have read all those letters carefully,and I fully endorse my mother's views. She was honoured with theconfidence of her Sovereign, and that confidence cannot be betrayed.The letters are in safe custody, and there they will remain. On readingthem it is impossible not to be struck with Queen Victoria's amazingshrewdness, and with her unfailing common sense. It so happens thatboth a brother and a sister of mine, the late duch*ess of Buccleuch,were brought into very close contact with Queen Victoria. It was thisquality of strong common sense in the Queen which continually impressedthem, as well as her very high standard of duty.

My brother George was twice Secretary of State for India. The Queen wasfond of suggesting amendments in the wording of dispatches relating toIndia, whilst not altering their sense. My brother tells me that thealterations suggested by the Queen were invariably in the direction ofsimplification. The Queen had a knack of stripping away unnecessaryverbiage and reducing a sentence to its simplest form, in which itsmeaning was unmistakably clear.

All Queen Victoria's tastes were simple. She liked simplicity in dress,in food, and in her surroundings. If I may say so without disrespect, Ithink that Queen Victoria's great hold on her people came from the factthat, in spite of her high station, she had the ideals, the tastes, thelikes and dislikes of the average clean-living, clean-minded wife ofthe average British professional man, together with the strict idealsas to the sanctity of the marriage-tie, the strong sense of duty, andthe high moral standard such wives usually possess.

It is, of course, the easy fashion now to sneer at Victorian standards.To my mind they embody all that is clean and sound in the nation. Itdoes not follow that because Victorians revelled in hideous wall-papersand loved ugly furniture, that therefore their points-of-view weremistaken ones. There are things more important than wall-papers. Theycertainly liked the obvious in painting, in music, and perhaps inliterature, but it hardly seems to follow logically from that, thattheir conceptions of a man's duty to his wife, family, and country werenecessarily false ones. They were not afflicted with the perpetualmodern restlessness, nor did they spend "their time in nothing else,but either to tell, or to hear some new thing"; still, all their ideasseem to me eminently sweet and wholesome.

In her old age my mother was the last person living who had seen GeorgeIII. She remembered perfectly seeing the old King, in one of his rarelucid intervals, driving through London, when he was enthusiasticallycheered.

She was also the last person alive who had been at Carlton House whichwas pulled down in 1826. My mother at the age of twelve danced as asolo "The Spanish Shawl dance" before George IV. at the Pavilion,Brighton. The King was so delighted with her dancing that he went up toher and said, "You are a very pretty little girl, and you dancecharmingly. Now is there anything I can do for you?" The childanswered, "Yes, there is. Your Majesty can bring me some ham sandwichesand a glass of port-wine negus, for I am very hungry," and to do GeorgeIV. justice, he promptly brought them. My mother was painted by aFrench artist doing her "shawl dance," and if it is a faithfullikeness, she must have been an extraordinarily pretty child. Onanother occasion at a children's party at Carlton House, my uncle,General Lord Alexander Russell, a very outspoken little boy, had beenwarned by his mother, the duch*ess of Bedford, that though the King worea palpable wig, he was to take no notice whatever of it. To my mother'sdismay, she heard her little brother go up to the King and say, "I knowthat your Majesty wears a wig, but I've been told not to say anythingabout it, so I promised not to tell any one."

Carlton House stood, from all I can learn, at the top of the Duke ofYork's steps. Several engravings of its beautiful gardens are still tobe found. These gardens extended from the present Carlton House Terraceto Pall Mall. Not only the Terrace, but the Carlton, Reform,Travellers', Athenaeum, and United Service Clubs now stand on theirsite. They were separated from Pall Mall by an open colonnade, and theCorinthian pillars from the front of Carlton House were re-erected in1834 as the portico of the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square.

As a child I had a wild adoration for Queen Alexandra (then, of course,Princess of Wales), whom I thought the most beautiful person I had everseen in my life, and I dare say that I was not far wrong. When I wastaken to Marlborough House, I remembered and treasured up every singleword she said to me. I was not present at the child's tea-party atMarlborough House given by the little Princess, including his presentMajesty, when SOME ONE (my loyalty absolutely refuses to let me saywho) suggested that as the woven flowers on the carpet looked ratherfaded, it might be as well to water them. The boys present, includingthe little Princes, gleefully emptied can after can of water on to thefloor in their attempts to revive the carpet, to the immenseimprovement of the ceiling and furniture of the room underneath.

In the "sixties" Sunday was very strictly observed. In our ownSabbatarian family, our toys and books all disappeared on Saturdaynight. On Sundays we were only allowed to read Line upon Line, The Peepof Day, and The Fairchild Family. I wonder if any one ever reads thisbook now. If they haven't, they should. Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were, Iregret to say it, self-righteous prigs of the deepest dye, whilst Lucy,Emily, and Henry, their children, were all little prodigies ofprecocious piety. It was a curious menage; Mr. Fairchild having noapparent means of livelihood, and no recreations beyond perpetuallyreading the Bible under a tree in the garden. Mrs. Fairchild had thepeculiar gift of being able to recite a different prayer off by heartapplicable to every conceivable emergency; whilst John, theirman-servant, was a real "handy-man," for he was not only gardener, butlooked after the horse and trap, cleaned out the pigsties, and waitedat table. One wonders in what sequence he performed his various duties,but perhaps the Fairchilds had not sensitive noses. Even the possiblyodoriferous John had a marvellous collection of texts at his command.It was refreshing after all this to learn that on one occasion allthree of the little Fairchilds got very drunk, which, as the eldest ofthem was only ten, would seem to indicate that, in spite of theiraggressive piety, they had their fair dose of original sin still leftin them. I liked the book notwithstanding. There was plenty abouteating and drinking; one could always skip the prayers, and there werethree or four very brightly written accounts of funerals in it. I waspresent at a "Fairchild Family" dinner given some twenty years ago inLondon by Lady Buxton, wife of the present Governor-General of SouthAfrica, at which every one of the guests had to enact one of thecharacters of the book.

My youngest brother had a great taste for drawing, and was perpetuallydepicting terrific steeplechases. From a confusion of ideas natural toa child, he always introduced a church steeple into the corner of hisdrawings. One Sunday he had drawn a most spirited and hotly-contested"finish" to a steeplechase. When remonstrated with on the ground thatit was not a "Sunday" subject, he pointed to the church steeple andsaid, "You don't understand. This is Sunday, and those jockeys are allracing to see which of them can get to church first," which strikes meas a peculiarly ready and ingenious explanation for a child of six.

In London we all went on Sundays to the Scottish Presbyterian Church inCrown Court, just opposite Drury Lane Theatre. Dr. Cumming, theminister of the church at that time, enjoyed an immense reputationamongst his congregation. He was a very eloquent man, but wasprincipally known as always prophesying the imminent end of the world.He had been a little unfortunate in some of the dates he had predictedfor the final cataclysm, these dates having slipped by uneventfullywithout anything whatever happening, but finally definitely fixed on adate in 1867 as the exact date of the Great Catastrophe. His influencewith his flock rather diminished when it was found that Dr. Cumming hadrenewed the lease of his house for twenty-one years, only two monthsbefore the date he had fixed with absolute certainty as being the endof all things. All the same, I am certain that he was thoroughly inearnest and perfectly genuine in his convictions. As a child I thoughtthe church—since rebuilt—absolutely beautiful, but it was in realitya great, gaunt, barn-like structure. It was always crammed. We werevery old-fashioned, for we sat down to sing, and we stood to pray, andthere was no instrument of any sort. The pew in front of us belonged toLord Aberdeen, and his brother Admiral Gordon, one of the Elders,always sat in it with his high hat on, conversing at the top of hisvoice until the minister entered, when he removed his hat and keptsilence. This was, I believe, intended as a protest against the idea ofthere being any special sanctity attached to the building itself quabuilding. Dr. Cumming had recently introduced an anthem, a newdeparture rather dubiously welcomed by his flock. It was the singularcustom of his congregation to leave their pews during the singing ofthis anthem and to move about in the aisles; whether as a protestagainst a daring innovation, or merely to stretch their limbs, or toseek better places, I could never make out.

Dr. Cumming invariably preached for over an hour, sometimes for an hourand a half, and yet I never felt bored or wearied by his longdiscourses, but really looked forward to them. This was because hissermons, instead of consisting of a string of pious platitudes,interspersed with trite ejacul*tions and irrelevant quotations, wereone long chain of closely-reasoned argument. Granted his first premiss,his second point followed logically from it, and so he led his hearerson point by point, all closely argued, to an indisputable conclusion. Isuppose that the inexorable logic of it all appealed to the Scottishside of me. His preaching had the same fascination for me that Euclid'spropositions exercised later, even on my hopelessly unmathematical mind.

Whatever the weather, we invariably walked home from Drury Lane toSouth Audley Street, a long trudge for young feet, as my mother hadscruples about using the carriages on Sundays.

Neither my father nor my mother ever dined out on a Sunday, nor didthey invite people to dinner on that day, for they wished as far aspossible to give those in their employment a day of rest. All quitehopelessly Victorian! for, after all, why should people ever think ofanybody but themselves?

Dr. Cumming was a great bee-fancier, and a recognised authority onbees. Calling one day on my mother, he brought with him four queen-beesof a new breed, each one encased in a little paper bag. He pridedhimself on his skill in handling bees, and proudly exhibited thosetreasures to my mother. He replaced them in their paper bags, and beinga very absent-minded man, he slipped the bags into the tail pocket ofhis clerical frock-coat. Soon after he began one of his long arguments(probably fixing the exact date of the end of the world), and, totallyoblivious of the presence of the bees in his tail pocket, he leantagainst the mantelpiece. The queen-bees, naturally resenting thepressure, stung him through the cloth on that portion of his anatomyimmediately nearest to their temporary prison. Dr. Cumming yelled withpain, and began skipping all round the room. It so tickled my fancy tosee the grim and austere minister, who towered above me in the pulpitevery Sunday, executing a sort of solo-Jazz dance up and down the bigroom, punctuated with loud cries, that I rolled about on the floor withlaughter.

The London of the "sixties" was a very dark and dingy place. Thestreets were sparingly lit with the dimmest of gas-jets set very farapart: the shop-windows made no display of lights, and the generaleffect was one of intense gloom.

Until I was seven years old, I had never left the United Kingdom. Wethen all went to Paris for a fortnight, on our way to the Riviera. Iwell remember leaving London at 7 a.m. on a January morning, in thedensest of fogs. So thick was the fog that the footman had to lead thehorses all the way to Charing Cross Station. Ten hours later I foundmyself in a fairy city of clean white stone houses, literally blazingwith light. I had never imagined such a beautiful, attractive place,and indeed the contrast between the dismal London of the "sixties" andthis brilliant, glittering town was unbelievable. Paris certainlydeserved the title of "La Ville Lumiere" in a literal sense. I like theFrench expression, "une ville ruisselante de lumiere," "a city drippingwith light." That is an apt description of the Paris of the SecondEmpire, for it was hardly a manufacturing city then, and the great rimof outlying factories that now besmirch the white stone of its housefronts had not come into existence, the atmosphere being as clear as inthe country. A naturally retentive memory is apt to store up perfectlyuseless items of information. What possible object can there be to myremembering that the engine which hauled us from Calais to Paris in1865 was built by J. Cail of Paris, on the "Crampton" system; that is,that the axle of the big single driving-wheels did not run under theframe of the engine, but passed through the "cab" immediately under thepressure-gauge?—nor can any useful purpose be served in recalling thatwe crossed the Channel in the little steamer La France.

In those days people of a certain class in England maintained farcloser social relations with people of the corresponding class inFrance than is the custom now, and this was mutual. Society in bothcapitals was far smaller. My father and mother had many friends inParis, and amongst the oldest of them were the Comte and Comtesse deFlahault. General de Flahault had been the personal aide-de-camp andtrusted friend of Napoleon I. Some people, indeed, declared that hisconnection with Napoleon III. was of a far closer nature, for his greatfriendship with Queen Hortense was a matter of common knowledge. Forsome reason or another the old General took a fancy to me, and findingthat I could talk French fluently, he used to take me to his room,stuff me with chocolate, and tell me about Napoleon's Russian campaignin 1812, in which he had taken part, I was then seven years old, andthe old Comte must have been seventy-eight or so, but it is curiousthat I should have heard from the actual lips of a man who had takenpart in it, the account of the battle of Borodino, of the entry of theFrench troops into Moscow, of the burning of Moscow, and of the awfulsufferings the French underwent during their disastrous retreat fromMoscow. General de Flahault had been present at the terrible carnage ofthe crossing of the Beresina on November 26, 1812, and had got both hisfeet frost-bitten there, whilst his faithful servant David had diedfrom the effects of the cold. I wish that I could have been older then,or have had more historical knowledge, for it was a unique opportunityfor acquiring information. I wish, too, that I could recall more ofwhat M. de Flahault told me. I have quite vivid recollections of theold General himself, of the room in which we sat, and especially of thechocolates which formed so agreeable an accompaniment to ourconversations. Still it remains an interesting link with the Napoleonicera. This is 1920; that was 1812!

I can never hear Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture" without thinking ofGeneral de Flahault. The present Lord Lansdowne is the Comte deFlahault's grandson.

Nearly fifty years later another interesting link with the past wasforged. I was dining with Prince and Princess Christian ofSchleswig-Holstein at Schomberg House. When the ladies left the roomafter dinner, H. R. H. was good enough to ask me to sit next him. Sometrain of thought was at work in the Prince's mind, for he suddenlysaid, "Do you know that you are sitting next a man who once tookNapoleon I.'s widow, the Empress Marie Louise, in to dinner?" and thePrince went on to say that as a youth of seventeen he had accompaniedhis father on a visit to the Emperor of Austria at Schonbrunn. On theoccasion of a state dinner, one of the Austrian Archdukes becamesuddenly indisposed. Sooner than upset all the arrangements, the youngPrince of Schleswig-Holstein was given the ex-Empress to lead in todinner.

I must again repeat that this is 1920. Napoleon married Marie Louise in1810.

Both my younger brother and I were absolutely fascinated by Paris, itsstreets and public gardens. As regards myself, something of the glamourof those days still remains; Paris is not quite to me as other towns,and I love its peculiar smell, which a discriminating nose wouldanalyse as one-half wood-smoke, one-quarter roasting coffee, andone-quarter drains. During the eighteen years of the Second Empire,Paris reached a height of material prosperity and of dazzlingbrilliance which she has never known before nor since. The undisputedsocial capital of Europe, the equally undisputed capital of literatureand art, the great pleasure-city of the world, she stood alone andwithout a rival. "La Ville Lumiere!" My mother remembered the Paris ofher youth as a place of tortuous, abominably paved, dimly lit streets,poisoned with atrocious smells; this glittering town of palaces andbroad white avenues was mainly the creation of Napoleon III. himself,aided by Baron Georges Haussmann and the engineer Adolphe Alphand, whobetween them evolved and made the splendid Paris that we know.

We loved the Tuileries gardens, a most attractive place for children inthose days. There were swings and merry-go-rounds; there were stallswhere hot brioches and gaufres were to be bought; there were, aboveall, little marionette theatres where the most fascinating dramas wereenacted. Our enjoyment of these performances was rather marred by ouranxious nurse, who was always terrified lest there should be "somethingFrench" in the little plays; something quite unfitted for the eyes andears of two staid little Britons. As the worthy woman was a mostindifferent French scholar, we were often hurried away quiteunnecessarily from the most innocuous performances when our faithfulwatch-dog scented the approach of "something French." All the shopsattracted us, but especially the delightful toy-shops. Here, again, wewere seldom allowed to linger, our trusty guardian being obsessed withthe idea that the toy-shops might include amongst their wares"something French." She was perfectly right; there WAS often something"very French," but my brother and I had always seen it and noted itbefore we were moved off from the windows.

I wonder if any "marchands de coco" still survive in Paris. "Coco" hadnothing to do with cocoa, but was a most mawkish beverage compoundedprincipally of liquorice and water. The attraction about it lay in thegreat tank the vendor carried strapped to his back. This tank wascovered with red velvet and gold tinsel, and was surmounted with anumber of little tinkling silver bells. In addition to that, the"marchand de coco" carried all over him dozens of silver goblets, or,at all events, goblets that looked like silver, in which he handed outhis insipid brew. Who would not long to drink out of a silver cup abeverage that flowed out of a red and gold tank, covered with littlesilver bells, be it never so mawkish?

The gardens of the Luxembourg were, if anything, even more attractivethan the Tuileries gardens.

Another delightful place for children was the Hippodrome, long sincedemolished and built over. It was a huge open-air stadium, where, inaddition to ordinary circus performances, there were chariot-races andgladiatorial combats. The great attraction of the Hippodrome was thatall the performers were driven into the arena in a real littleCinderella gilt coach, complete with four little ponies, a diminutivecoachman, and two tiny little footmen.

Talking of Cinderella, I always wonder that no one has pointed out thecurious mistake the original translator of this story fell into. If anyone will take the trouble to consult Perrault's Cendrillon in theoriginal French, he or she will find that Cinderella went to the ballwith her feet encased in "des pantoufles de vair." Now, vair means greyor white fur, ermine or miniver. The word is now obsolete, though itstill survives in heraldry. The translator, misled by the similarity ofsound between "vair" and "verre," rendered it "glass" instead of"ermine," and Cinderella's glass slippers have become a Britishtradition. What would "Cinderella" be as a pantomime without the scenewhere she triumphantly puts on her glass slipper? And yet, a littlereflection would show that it would be about as easy to dance in a pairof glass slippers as it would in a pair of fisherman's waders.

I remember well seeing Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugenie drivingdown the Rue de Rivoli on their return from the races at Longchamp. Iand my brother were standing close to the edge of the pavement, andthey passed within a few feet of us. They were driving in achar-a-banes—in French parlance, "attele a la Daumont"—that is, withfour horses, of which the wheelers are driven from the box by acoachman, and the leaders ridden by a postilion. The Emperor andEmpress were attended by an escort of mounted Cent-Gardes, and over thecarriage there was a curious awning of light blue silk, with a heavygold fringe, probably to shield the occupants from the sun at theraces. I thought the Emperor looked very old and tired, but the Empresswas still radiantly beautiful. My young brother, even then a bigotedlittle patriot, obstinately refused to take off his cap. "He isn't MYEmperor," he kept repeating, "and I won't do it." The shrill cries of"Vive l'Empereur!" seemed to me a very inadequate substitute for thefull-throated cheers with which our own Queen was received when shedrove through London. I used to hear the Emperor alluded to as"Badinguet" by the hall-porter of our hotel, who was a Royalist, andconsequently detested the Bonapartes.

My father had been on very friendly terms with Napoleon III., thenPrince Louis Napoleon, during the period of his exile in London in1838, when he lived in King Street, St. James'. Prince Louis Napoleonacted as my father's "Esquire" at the famous Eglinton Tournament inAugust, 1839. The tournament, over which such a vast amount of troubleand expense had been lavished, was ruined by an incessant downpour ofrain, which lasted four days. My father gave me as a boy the "ChallengeShield" with coat of arms, which hung outside his tent at thetournament, and that shield has always accompanied me in my wanderings.It hangs within a few feet of me as I write, as it hung forty-threeyears ago in my room in Berlin, and later in Petrograd, Lisbon, andBuenos Ayres.

One of the great sights of Paris in the "sixties," whilst it was stillgas-lighted, was the "cordon de lumiere de la Rue de Rivoli." As everyone knows, the Rue de Rivoli is nearly two miles long, and runsperfectly straight, being arcaded throughout its length. In every archof the arcades there hung then a gas lamp. At night the continuousribbon of flame from these lamps, stretching in endless vista down thestreet, was a fascinatingly beautiful sight. Every French provincialwho visited Paris was expected to admire the "cordon de lumiere de laRue de Rivoli." Now that electricity has replaced gas, I fancy that thelamps are placed further apart, and so the effect of a continuousquivering band of yellow flame is lost. Equally every French provincialhad to admire the "luxe de gaz" of the Place de la Concorde. Itcertainly blazed with gas, but now with electric arc-lamps there isdouble the light with less than a tenth of the number of old flickeringgas-lamps; another example of quality vs. quantity.

Most of my father and mother's French friends lived in the FaubourgSaint Germain. Their houses, though no doubt very fine forentertaining, were dark and gloomy in the daytime. Our little friendsof my own age seemed all to inhabit dim rooms looking into courtyards,where, however, we were bidden to unbelievably succulent repasts, verydifferent to the plain fare to which we were accustomed at home. Bothmy brother and myself were, I think, unconscious as to whether we werespeaking English or French; we could express ourselves with equalfacility in either language. When I first went to school, I could speakFrench as well as English, and it is a wonderful tribute to theefficient methods of teaching foreign languages practised in ourEnglish schools, that at the end of nine years of French lessons, bothat a preparatory school and at Harrow, I had not forgotten much morethan seventy-five per cent. of the French I knew when I went there. Inthe same way, after learning German at Harrow for two-and-a-half years,my linguistic attainments in that language were limited to two words,ja and nein. It is true that, for some mysterious reason, German wastaught us at Harrow by a Frenchman who had merely a bowingacquaintanceship with the tongue.

In 1865 the fastest train from Paris to the Riviera took twenty-sixhours to accomplish the journey, and then was limited to first-classpassengers. There were, of course, neither dining-cars nor sleepingcars, no heating, and no toilet accommodation. Eight people were jammedinto a first-class compartment, faintly lit by the dim flicker of anoil-lamp, and there they remained. I remember that all the Frenchladies took off their bonnets or hats, and replaced them with thickknitted woollen hoods and capes combined, which they fastened tightlyround their heads. They also drew on knitted woollen over-boots; these,I suppose, were remnants of the times, not very far distant then, whenall-night journeys had frequently to be made in the diligence.

The Riviera of 1865 was not the garish, flamboyant rendezvous ofcosmopolitan finance, of ostentatious newly acquired wealth, and ofhighly decorative ladies which it has since become. Cannes, inparticular, was a quiet little place of surpassing beauty, frequentedby a few French and English people, most of whom were there on accountof some delicate member of their families. We went there solely becausemy sister, Lady Mount Edgcumbe, had already been attacked bylung-disease, and to prolong her life it was absolutely necessary forher to winter in a warm climate. Lord Brougham, the ex-Lord Chancellor,had virtually created Cannes, as far as English people were concerned,and the few hotels there were still unpretentious and comfortable.

Amongst the French boys of our own age with whom we played daily wasAntoine de Mores, eldest son of the Duc de Vallombrosa. Later on inlife the Marquis de Mores became a fanatical Anglophobe, and he losthis life leading an army of irregular Arab cavalry against the Britishforces in the Sudan; murdered, if I remember rightly, by his own men.Most regretfully do I attribute Antoine de Mores' violent Anglophobiato the very rude things I and my brother were in the habit of saying tohim when we quarrelled, which happened on an average about four times aday.

The favourite game of these French boys was something like our "King ofthe Castle," only that the victor had to plant his flag on the summitof the "Castle." Amongst our young friends were the two sons of the DucDes Cars, a strong Legitimist, the Vallombrosa boy's family beingBonapartists. So whilst my brother and I naturally carried "UnionJacks," young Antoine de Mores had a tricolour, but the two Des Carsboys carried white silk flags, with a microscopic border of blue andred ribbon running down either side. One day, as boys will do, wemarched through the town in procession with our flags, when the policestopped us and seized the young Des Cars' white banners, the display ofthe white flag of the Bourbons being then strictly forbidden in France.The Des Cars boys' abbe, or priest-tutor, pointed out to the police thenarrow edging of red and blue on either side, and insisted on it thatthe flags were really tricolours, though the proportion in which thecolours were displayed might be an unusual one. The three colours wereundoubtedly there, so the police released the flags, though I feel surethat that abbe must have been a Jesuit.

The Comte de Chambord (the Henri V. of the Legitimists) was virtuallyoffered the throne of France in either 1874 or 1875, but all thenegotiations failed because he obstinately refused to recognise theTricolour, and insisted upon retaining the white flag of his ancestors.Any one with the smallest knowledge of the psychology of the Frenchnation must have known that under no circ*mstances whatever would theyconsent to abandon their adored Tricolour. The Tricolour is part ofthemselves: it is a part of their very souls; it is more than a flag,it is almost a religion. I wonder that in 1875 it never occurred to anyone to suggest to the Comte de Chambord the ingenious expedient of theDes Cars boys. The Tricolour would be retained as the national flag,but the King could have as his personal standard a white flag borderedwith almost invisible bands of blue and red. Technically, it wouldstill be a tricolour, and on the white expanse the golden fleur-de-lysof the Bourbons could be embroidered, or any other device.

Even had the Comte de Chambord ascended the throne, I am convinced thathis tenure of it as Henri V. would have been a very brief one, giventhe temperament of the French nation.

My youngest brother managed to contract typhoid fever at Cannes aboutthis time, and during his convalescence he was moved to an hotelstanding on much higher ground than our villa, on account of thefresher air there. A Madame Goldschmidt was staying at this hotel, andshe took a great fancy to the little fellow, then about six years old.On two occasions I found Madame Goldschmidt in my brother's room,singing to him in a voice as sweet and spontaneous as a bird's. Mybrother was a very highly favoured little mortal, for MadameGoldschmidt was no other than the world-famous Jenny Lind, theincomparable songstress who had had all Europe at her feet. She hadthen retired from the stage for some years, but her voice was as sweetas ever. The nineteenth century was fortunate in having produced twosuch peerless singers as Adelina Patti and Jenny Lind, "the SwedishNightingale." The present generation are not likely to hear theirequals. Both these great singers had that same curious bird-likequality in their voices; they sang without any effort in crystal-cleartones, as larks sing.

In 1865 it was announced that there would be a great regatta at Cannesin the spring of 1866, and that the Emperor Napoleon would give aspecial prize for the open rowing (not sculling) championship of theMediterranean. We further learnt that the whole of the FrenchMediterranean fleet would be at Villefranche at the time, and thatpicked oarsmen from the fleet would compete for the championship. Myfather at once determined to win this prize; the idea became a perfectobsession with him, and he determined to have a special boat built.When we returned to England, he went to Oxford and entered into longconsultations with a famous boat-builder there. The boat, a four-oar,had to be built on special lines. She must be light and fast, yetcapable of withstanding a heavy sea, for off Cannes the Mediterraneancan be very lumpy indeed, and it would be obviously inconvenient tohave the boat swamped, and her crew all drowned. The boat-builderhaving mastered the conditions, felt certain that he could turn out thecraft required, which my father proposed to stroke himself.

When we returned to Cannes in 1866, the completed boat was sent out bysea, and we saw her released from her casing with immense interest. Shewas christened in due form, with a bottle of champagne, by our firstcousin, the venerable Lady de Ros, and named the Abercorn. Lady de Roswas a daughter of the Duke of Richmond, and had been present at thefamous ball in Brussels on the eve of Waterloo in 1815; a ball given byher father in honour of her youngest sister.

The crew then went into serious training. Bow was Sir David Erskine,for many years Sergeant-at-Arms of the House of Commons; No. 2, mybrother-in-law, Lord Mount Edgcumbe; No. 3, General Sir GeorgeHigginson, with my father as stroke. Lord Elphinstone, who had been inthe Navy early in life, officiated as coxswain. But my father was thenfifty-five years old, and he soon found out that his heart was nolonger equal to the strain to which so long and so very arduous acourse (three miles), in rough water, would subject it. As soon as herealised that his age might militate against the chance of his crewwinning, he resigned his place in the boat in favour of Sir GeorgeHigginson, who was replaced as No. 3 by Mr. Meysey-Clive. My fathertook Lord Elphinstone's place as coxswain, but here, again, his weighttold against him. He was over six feet high and proportionately broad,and he brought the boat's stern too low down in the water, so LordElphinstone was re-installed, and my father most reluctantly had tocontent himself with the role of a spectator, in view of his age. Thecrew dieted strictly, ran in the mornings, and went to bed early. Theywere none of them in their first youth, for Sir George Higginson wasthen forty; Sir David Erskine was twenty-eight; my brother-in-law, LordMount Edgcumbe, thirty-four; and Lord Elphinstone thirty-eight.

The great day of the race arrived. We met with one signal piece ofill-luck. Our No. 3, Mr. Meysey-Clive, had gone on board the Frenchflagship, and was unable to get ashore again in time, so at the verylast minute a young Oxford rowing-man, the late Mr. Philip Green,volunteered to replace him, though he was not then in training. TheFrench men-of-war produced huge thirty-oared galleys, with two men ateach oar. There were also smaller twenty and twelve-oared boats, butnot a single "four" but ours. The sea was heavy and lumpy, the coursewas five kilometres (three miles), and there was a fresh breeze blowingoff the land. Our little mahogany Oxford-built boat, lying very low inthe water, looked pitiably small beside the great French galleys. Itwasn't even David and Goliath, it was as though "Little Tich" stood upto Georges Carpentier. We saw the race from a sailing yacht; my fatherabsolutely beside himself with excitement.

Off they went! The French galleys lumbering along at a great pace,their crews pulling a curiously short stroke, and their coxswainsyelling "En avant, mes braves!" with all the strength of their lungs.It must have been very like the boat-race Virgil describes in the fifthbook of the Aeneid. There was the "huge Chimaera" the "mighty Centaur"and possibly even the "dark-blue Scylla" with their modern counterpartsof Gyas, Sergestus, and Cloanthus, bawling just as lustily as doubtlessthose coxswains of old shouted; no one, however, struck on the rocks,as we are told the unfortunate "Centaur" did. Still the littlemahogany-built Abercorn continued to forge ahead of her unwieldy Frenchcompetitors. The Frenchmen splashed and spurted nobly, but the littleOxford-built boat increased her lead, her silken "Union Jack" trailingin the water. All the muscles of the French fleet came into play; theadmiral's barge churned the water into creaming foam; "mes braves" wereincited to superhuman exertions; in spite of it all, the Abercorn shotpast the mark-boat, a winner by a length and a half.

My father was absolutely frantic with delight. We reached the shorelong before our crew did, for they had to return to receive the judge'sformal award. He ceremoniously decorated our boat's bows with a largelaurel-wreath, and so—her stem adorned with laurels, and the largesilk "Union Jack" trailing over her stern—the little mahoganyOxford-built boat paddled through the lines of her French competitors.I am sorry to have to record that the French took their defeat in amost unsportsmanlike fashion; the little Abercorn was received all downthe line with storms of hoots and hisses. Possibly we, too, might feelannoyed if, say at Portsmouth, in a regatta in which all the crackoarsmen of the British Home Fleet were competing, a French four shouldsuddenly appear from nowhere, and walk off with the big prize of theday. Still, the conditions of the Cannes regatta were clear; this wasan open race, open to any nationality, and to any rowing craft of anysize or build, though the result was thought a foregone certainty forthe French naval crews.

Our crew were terribly exhausted when they landed. They had had a veryvery severe pull, in a heavy sea, and with a strong head-wind againstthem, and most of them were no longer young; still, after a bath and achange of clothing, and, quite possibly, a brandy-and-soda or two(nobody ever drank whisky in the "sixties"), they pulled themselvestogether again. It was Lord Mount Edgcumbe who first suggested that asthere was an afternoon dance that day at the Cercle Nautique de laMediterranee, they should all adjourn to the club and dance vigorously,just to show what sturdy, hard-bitten dogs they were, to whom astrenuous three-mile pull in a heavy sea was a mere trifle, even thoughsome of them were forty years old. So off we all went to the Cercle,and I well remember seeing my brother-in-law and Sir George Higginsongyrating wildly and ceaselessly round the ball-room, tired out thoughthey were. Between ourselves, our French friends were immenselyimpressed with this exhibition of British vigour, and almost forgaveour boat for having won the rowing championship of the Mediterranean.

At the Villa Beaulieu where we lived, there were immense rejoicingsthat night. Of course all our crew dined there, and I was allowed tocome down to dinner myself. Toasts were proposed; healths were drunkagain and again. Speeches were made, and the terrific cheering musthave seriously weakened the rafters and roof of the house. No onegrudged my father his immense satisfaction, for after all he hadoriginated the idea of winning the championship of the Mediterranean,and had had the boat built at his sole expense, and it was not hisdefects as an oarsman but his fifty-five years which had prevented himfrom stroking his own boat.

Long after I had been sent to bed, I heard the uproar from belowcontinuing, and, in the strictest confidence, I have every reason tobelieve that they made a real night of it.

Two of that crew are still alive. Gallant old Sir George Higginson wasborn in 1826, consequently the General is now ninety-four years of age.The splendid old veteran's mental faculties are as acute as ever; he isnot afflicted with deafness and he is still upright as a dart, thoughhis eyesight has failed him. It is to Sir George and to Sir DavidErskine that I am indebted for the greater portion of the detailsconcerning this boat-race of 1866, and of its preliminaries, for manyof these would not have come within the scope of my knowledge at nineyears of age.

Sir David Erskine, the other member of the crew still surviving,ex-Sergeant-at-Arms, was a most familiar, respected, and greatlyesteemed personality to all those who have sat in the House of Commonsduring the last forty years. I might perhaps have put it more strongly;for he was invariably courteous, and such a great gentleman. Sir Davidwas born in 1838, consequently he is now eighty-two years old.

One of my brothers has still in his keeping a very large gold medal.One side of it bears the effigy of "Napoleon III., Empereur desFrancais." The other side testifies that it is the "Premier Prixd'Avirons de la Mediterrannee, 1866." The ugly hybrid word"Championnat" for "Championship" had not then been acclimatised inFrance.

Shortly after the boat-race, being now nine years old, I went home toEngland to go to school.

CHAPTER III

A new departure—A Dublin hotel in the "sixties"—The Irish mailservice—The wonderful old paddle mail-boats—The convivial waiters ofthe Munster—The Viceregal Lodge-Indians and pirates—The imaginationof youth—A modest personal ambition—Death-warrants; imaginary andreal—The Fenian outbreak of 1866-7—The Abergele railway accident—ADublin Drawing-Room—Strictly private ceremonials—Some of theamenities of the Chapel Royal—An unbidden spectator of the Statedinners—Irish wit—Judge Keogh—Father Healy—Happy Dublin knack ofnomenclature—An unexpected honour and its cause—Incidents of theFenian rising—Dr. Hatchell—A novel prescription—Visit of KingEdward—Gorgeous ceremonial but a chilly drive—An anecdote of QueenAlexandra.

Upon returning from school for my first holidays, I learnt that myfather had been appointed Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and that we werein consequence to live now for the greater portion of the year inDublin.

We were all a little doubtful as to how we should like this newdeparture. Dublin was, of course, fairly familiar to us from our staysthere, when we travelled to and from the north of Ireland. Some of theminor customs of the "sixties" seem so remote now that it may be worthwhile recalling them. In common with most Ulster people, we alwaysstayed at the Bilton Hotel in Dublin, a fine old Georgian house inSackville Street. Everything at the Bilton was old, solid, heavy, andeminently respectable. All the plate was of real Georgian silver, andall the furniture in the big gloomy bedrooms was of solid, notveneered, mahogany. Quite invariably my father was received in thehall, on arrival, by the landlord, with a silver candlestick in hishand. The landlord then proceeded ceremoniously to "light us upstairs"to a sitting-room on the first floor, although the staircase was brightwith gas. This was a survival from the eighteenth century, whenstaircases and passages in inns were but dimly lit; but it was anattention that was expected. In the same way, when dinner was ready inour sitting-room, the landlord always brought in the silver soup-tureenwith his own hands, placed it ceremoniously before my father, andremoved the cover with a great flourish; after which he retired, andleft the rest to the waiter. This was another traditional attention.

Towards the end of dinner it became my father's turn to repay thesecivilities. Though he himself very rarely touched wine, he would lookdown the wine-list until he found a peculiarly expensive port. This hewould order for what was then termed "the good of the house." When thischoice product of the Bilton bins made its appearance, wreathed incobwebs, in a wicker cradle, my father would send the waiter with amessage to the landlord, "My compliments to Mr. Massingberg, and willhe do me the favour of drinking a glass of wine with me." So thelandlord would reappear, and, sitting down opposite my father, theywould solemnly dispose of the port, and let us trust that it never gaveeither of them the faintest twinge of gout. These little mutualattentions were then expected on both sides. Neither my father normother ever used the word "hotel" in speaking of any hostelry in theUnited Kingdom. Like all their contemporaries, they always spoke of an"inn."

In 1860 a new contract had been signed with the Post Office by theLondon and North-Western Railway and the City of Dublin Steam-PacketCo., by which they jointly undertook to convey the mails between Londonand Dublin in eleven hours. Up to 1860, the time occupied by thejourney was from fourteen to sixteen hours. Everything in this worldbeing relative, this was rapidity itself compared to the five days myuncle, Lord John Russell, the future Prime Minister, spent on thejourney in 1806. He was then a schoolboy at Westminster, his father,the sixth Duke of Bedford, being Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. My uncle,who kept a diary from his earliest days, gives an account of thisjourney in it. He spent three days going by stage-coach to Holyhead,sleeping on the way at Coventry and Chester, and thirty-eight hourscrossing the Channel in a sailing-packet. The wind shifting, the packethad to land her passengers at Balbriggan, twenty-one miles north ofDublin, from which my uncle took a special post-chaise to Dublin,presenting his glad parents, on his arrival, with a bill for L31 16s.,a nice fare for a boy of fourteen to pay for going home for hisholidays!

In order to fulfil the terms of the 1860 contract, the mail-trains hadto cover the 264 miles between London and Holyhead at an average rateof 42 miles per hour; an unprecedented speed in those days. People thenthought themselves most heroic in entrusting their lives to a trainthat travelled with such terrific velocity as the "Wild Irishman." Itwas to meet this acceleration that Mr. Ramsbottom, the LocomotiveSuperintendent of the London and North-Western Railway, devised ascheme for laying water-troughs between the rails, by which the enginecould pick up water through a scoop whilst running. I have somewhereseen this claimed as an American innovation, but the North-Westernengines have been picking up water daily now ever since 1861; nearlysixty years ago.

The greatest improvement, however, was effected in the cross-Channelpassage. To accomplish the sixty-five miles between Holyhead andKingstown in the contract time of four hours, the City of Dublin Co.built four paddle-vessels, far exceeding any cross-Channel steamer thenafloat in tonnage, speed and accommodation. They were over threehundred feet in length, of two thousand tons burden, and had a speed offifteen knots. Of these the Munster, Connaught, and Ulster were builtby Laird of Birkenhead, while the Leinster was built in London bySamuda. These boats were most elaborately and comfortably fitted up,and many people of my age, who were in the habit of travellingconstantly to Ireland, retain a feeling of almost personal affectionfor those old paddle-wheel mailboats which carried them so often insafety across St. George's Channel. It is possible that this feelingmay be stronger in those who, like myself, are unaffected bysea-sickness. I think that we all took a pride in the finest Channelsteamers then afloat, and, as a child, I was always conscious of alittle added dignity and an extra ray of reflected glory when crossingin the Leinster or the Connaught, for they had four funnels each. Ithink that I am correct in saying that these splendid seaboats nevermissed one single passage, whatever the weather, for nearly fortyyears, until they were superseded by the present three thousand tons,twenty-four knot twin-screw boats. The old paddle-wheelers wererejuvenated in 1883, when they were fitted with forced draught, andtheir paddles were submerged deeper, giving them an extra speed of twoknots. Their engines being "simple," they consumed a perfectly ruinousamount of coal, sixty-four tons for the round trip; considerably morethan the coal consumption of the present twenty-four knotters.

In the "sixties" a new Lord-Lieutenant crossed in a specialmail-steamer, for which he had the privilege of paying.

When my father went over to be sworn-in, we arrived at Holyhead in theevening, and on going on board the special steamer Munster, we found asumptuous supper awaiting us.

There is an incident connected with that supper of which, of course, Iknew nothing at the time, but which was told me more than thirty yearsafter by Mrs. Campbell, the comely septuagenarian head-stewardess ofthe Munster, who had been in the ship for forty-four years. Mosthabitual travelers to Ireland will cherish very kindly recollections ofgenial old Mrs. Campbell, with her wonderfully fresh complexion and herinexhaustible fund of stories.

It appears that the supper had been supplied by a firm of Dublincaterers, who sent four of their own waiters with it, much to theindignation of the steward's staff, who resented this as a slight ontheir professional abilities.

Mrs. Campbell told me the story in some such words as these:

"About ten minutes before your father, the new Lord-Lieutenant, wasexpected, the chiefs-steward put his head into the ladies' cabin andcalled out to me, 'Mrs. Campbell, ma'am! For the love of God come intothe saloon this minute.' 'What is it, then, Mr. Murphy?' says I. 'Waittill ye see,' says he. So I go into the saloon where there was thetable set out for supper, so grand that ye wouldn't believe it, andthem four Dublin waiters was all lying dead-drunk on the saloon floor.

"'I put out the spirit decanters on the supper-table,' says Mr. Murphy,'and see! Them Dublin waiters have every drop of it drunk on me,' hegoes on, showing me the empty decanters. 'They have three bottles ofchampagne drunk on me besides. What will we do with them now? The newLord Lieutenant may be arriving this minute, and we have no time tomove the drunk waiters for'ard. Will we put them in the littleside-cabins here?' 'Ah then!' says I, 'and have them roaring andshouting, and knocking the place down maybe in half an hour or so? I'msurprised at ye, Mr. Murphy. We'll put the drunk waiters under thesaloon table, and you must get another table-cloth. We'll pull it downon both sides, the way the feet of them will not show." So I call uptwo stewards and the boys from the pantry, and we get the drunk waitersarranged as neat as herrings in a barrel under the saloon table. Mr.Murphy and I put on the second cloth, pulling it right down to thefloor, and ye wouldn't believe the way we worked, setting out thedishes, and the flowers and the swatemates on the table. 'Now,' says I,'for the love of God let none of them sit down at the table, or they'llfeel the waiters with their feet. Lave it to me to get His Excellencyout of this, and then hurry the drunk waiters away!' And I spoke a wordto the boys in the pantry. 'Boys,' says I, 'as ye value your salvation,keep up a great clatteration here by dropping the spoons and forksabout, the way they'll not hear it if the drunk waiters get snoring,'and then the thrain arrives, and we run up to meet His Excellency yourfather.

"We went down to the saloon for a moment, and every one says that theynever saw the like of that for a supper, the boys in the pantry keepingup such a clatteration by tumbling the spoons and forks about, thatye'd think the bottom of the ship would drop out with the noise of itall. Then I said, 'Supper will not be ready for ten minutes, yourExcellency'—though God forgive me if every bit of it was not on thetable that minute. 'Would you kindly see if the sleeping accommodationis commodious enough, for we'll alter it if it isn't?' and so I getthem all out of that, and I kept talking of this, and of that, the Lordonly knows what, till Mr. Murphy comes up and says, 'Supper is ready,your Excellency,' giving me a look out of the tail of his eye as muchas to say, 'Glory be! We have them drunk waiters safely out of that.'"

Of course I knew nothing of the convivial waiters, but I retain vividrecollections of the splendours of the supper-table, and of the"swatemates," for I managed to purloin a whole pocketful of preservedginger and other good things from it, without being noticed.

We arrived at Kingstown in the early morning, and anchored in theharbour, but, by a polite fiction, the Munster was supposed to beabsolutely invisible to ordinary eyes, for the new Lord-Lieutenant'sofficial time of arrival from England was 11 a.m. Accordingly, everyone being arrayed in their very best for the State entry into Dublin,the Munster got up steam and crept out of the harbour (still, ofcourse, completely invisible), to cruise about a little, and tore-enter the harbour (obviously direct from England) amidst the boomingof twenty-one guns from the guardship, a vast display of bunting, and atornado of cheering.

Unfortunately, it had come on to blow; there was a very heavy seaoutside, and the Munster had an unrivalled opportunity for showing offher agility, and of exhibiting her unusual capacity for pitching androlling. My youngest brother and I have never been affected bysea-sickness; the ladies, however, had a very unpleasing half-hour,though it must be rather a novel and amusing experience to succumb tothis malady when arrayed in the very latest creations of a Parisdressmaker and milliner; still I fear that neither my mother nor mysisters can have been looking quite their best when we landed amidst anincredible din of guns, whistles and cheering.

My father, as was the custom then, made his entry into Dublin onhorseback. Since he had to keep his right hand free to remove his hatevery minute or so, in acknowledgment of his welcome, and as his horsegot alarmed by the noise, the cheering, and the waving of flags, hemanaged to give a very pretty exhibition of horsemanship.

By the way, Irish cheering is a thing sui generis. In place of thedeep-throated, reverberating English cheer, it is a long, shrill,sustained note, usually very high-pitched.

The State entry into Dublin was naturally the first occasion on which Ihad ever driven through streets lined with soldiers and gay withbunting. If I remember right, I accepted most of it as a tribute to myown small person.

On arriving at the Viceregal Lodge in the Phoenix Park, my brother andI were much relieved at finding that we were not expected to liveperpetually surrounded by men in full uniform and by ladies in smartdresses, as we had gathered that we were fated to do during themorning's ceremonies at Dublin Castle.

The Viceregal Lodge is a large, unpretentious, but most comfortablehouse, standing in really beautiful grounds. The 160 acres of itsenclosure have been laid out with such skill as to appear to the eyedouble or treble the extent they actually are. The great attraction tomy brother and me lay in a tract of some ten acres of woodland whichhad been allowed to run entirely wild. We soon peopled this verysatisfactorily with two tribes of Red Indians, two bands of peculiarlybloodthirsty robbers, a sufficiency of bears, lions and tigers, and anappalling man-eating dragon. I fear that in view of the size of thelittle wood, these imported inhabitants must have had rather crampedquarters.

The enacting of the role of a Red Indian "brave" was necessarily alittle fatiguing, for according to Fenimore Cooper, our guide in thesematters, it was essential to keep up an uninterrupted series ofguttural grunts of "Ug! Ug!" the invariable manner in which his"braves" prefaced their remarks.

There was perhaps little need for the imaginary menagerie, for theDublin Zoological Gardens adjoined the "Lodge" grounds, and wereaccessible to us at any time with a private key. The Dublin Zoo hadalways been very successful in breeding lions, and derived a largeamount of their income from the sale of the cubs. They consequentlykept a number of lions, and the roaring of these lions at night wasvery audible at the Viceregal Lodge, only a quarter of a mile away.When I told the boys at school, with perfect truth, that in Dublin Iwas nightly lulled to sleep by the gentle roaring of lions round mycouch, I was called a young liar.

There is a pretty lake inside the Viceregal grounds. My two elderbrothers were certain that they had seen wild duck on this lake in theearly morning, so getting up in the dusk of a December morning, theycrept down to the lake with their guns. With the first gleam of dawn,they saw that there were plenty of wild fowl on the water, and theysucceeded in shooting three or four of them. When daylight came, theyretrieved them with a boat, but were dismayed at finding that thesebirds were neither mallards, nor porchards, nor any known form ofBritish duck; their colouring, too, seemed strangely brilliant. Thenthey remembered the neighbouring Zoo, with its ornamental ponds coveredwith rare imported and exotic waterfowl, and they realised what theyhad done. It is quite possible that they had killed some uniquespecimens, imported at fabulous cost from Central Africa, or from theheart of the Australian continent, some priceless bird that was theapple of the eye of the Curator of the Gardens, so we buried theepisode and the birds, in profound secrecy.

For my younger brother and myself, this lake had a differentattraction, for, improbable as it may seem, it was the haunt of a gangof most abandoned pirates. Behind a wooded island, but quite invisibleto the adult eye, the pirate craft lay, conforming in the most orthodoxfashion to the descriptions in Ballantyne's books: "a schooner with along, low black hull, and a suspicious rake to her masts. The copper onher bottom had been burnished till it looked like gold, and the blackflag, with the skull and cross-bones, drooped lazily from her peak."

The presence of this band of desperadoes entailed the utmost cautionand watchfulness in the neighbourhood of the lake. Unfortunately, wenearly succeeded in drowning some young friends of ours, whom wepersuaded to accompany us in an attack on the pirates' stronghold. Weembarked on a raft used for cutting weeds, but no sooner had we shovedoff than the raft at once, most inconsiderately, sank to the bottom ofthe lake with us. Being Christmas time, the water was not over-warm,and we had some difficulty in extricating our young friends. Theirparents made the most absurd fuss about their sons having been forcedto take a cold bath in mid-December in their best clothes. Clearly wecould not be held responsible for the raft failing to prove sea-worthy,though my youngest brother, even then a nice stickler for correctEnglish, declared, that, given the circ*mstances, the proper epithetwas "lake-worthy."

What a wonderful dream-world the child can create for himself, andhaving fashioned it and peopled it, he can inhabit his creation inperfect content quite regardless of his material surroundings, unlesssome grown-up, with his matter-of-fact bluntness, happens to break thespell.

I have endeavoured to express this peculiar faculty of the child's inrather halting blank verse. I apologise for giving it here, as I makeno claim to be able to write verse. My only excuse must be that mylines attempt to convey what every man and woman must have felt, thoughprobably the average person would express himself in far betterlanguage than I am able to command.

"Eheu fugaces Postume! Postume!
Labuntur anni.

"The memories of childhood are a web
Of gossamer, most infinitely frail
And tender, shot with gleaming threads of gold
And silver, through the iridescent weft
Of subtlest tints of azure and of rose;
Woven of fragile nothings, yet most dear,
As binding us to that dim, far-off time,
When first our lungs inhaled the fragrance sweet
Of a new world, where all was bright and fair.
As we approach the end of mortal things,
The band of comrades ever smaller grows;
For those who have not shared our trivial round,
Nor helped with us to forge its many links,
Can only listen with dull, wearied mind.
Some few there are on whom the gods bestowed
The priceless gift of sympathy, and they,
Though knowing not themselves, yet understand.
So guard the fragile fabric rolled away
In the sweet-scented chests of memory,
Careful lest one uncomprehending soul
Should, thoughtless, rend the filmy texture frail
Into a thousand fragments, and destroy
The precious relic of the golden dawn
Of life, when all the unknown future lay
Bathed in unending sunlight, and the heights
Of manhood, veiled in distant purple haze,
Offered ten thousand chances of success.
But why the future, when the present seemed
A flower-decked meadow in eternal spring?
When every woodland glade its secrets told
To us, and us alone. The grown-up eye
Saw sun-flecked oaks, and tinkling, fern-fringed stream,
Nor knew that 'neath their shade most doughty Knights
Daily rode forth to deeds of chivalry;
And ruthless ruffians waged relentless war
On those who strayed (without the Talisman
Which turned their fury into impotence)
Into those leafy depths nor dreamed there lurked
Concealed amidst the bosky dells unseen,
Grim dragons spouting instant death; nor feared
The placid lake, along whose reed-fringed shore
Bold Buccaneers swooped down upon their prey.
Which things were hidden from maturer eyes.
To those who breathed the freshness of the morn,
Endless romance; to others, common things.
For to the Child is given to spin a web
Of golden glamour o'er the everyday.

Happy is he who can, in spite of years,
Retain at times the spirit of the Child."

My own personal ambition at that period was a modest one. My motheralways drove out in Dublin in a carriage-and-four, with postilions andtwo out-riders. We had always used black carriage-horses, and East, thewell-known job-master, had provided us for Dublin with twenty-twosplendid blacks, all perfect matches. Our family colour being crimson,the crimson barouche, with the six blacks and our own black and crimsonliveries, made a very smart turn-out indeed. O'Connor, thewheeler-postilion, a tiny little wizened elderly man, took charge ofthe carriage, and directed the outriders at turnings by a code of sharpwhistles. It was my consuming ambition to ride leader-postilion to mymother's carriage, and above all to wear the big silver coat-of-armsour postilions had strapped to the left sleeves of their short jacketson a broad crimson band. I went to O'Connor in the stable-yard, andconsulted him as to my chance of obtaining the coveted berth. O'Connorwas distinctly encouraging. He thought nine rather young for apostilion, but when I had grown a little, and had gained moreexperience, he saw no insuperable objections to my obtaining the post.The leader-postilion was O'Connor's nephew, a smart-looking,light-built boy of seventeen, named Byrne. Byrne was less hopeful aboutmy chance. He assured me that such a rare combination of physical andintellectual qualities were required for a successful leader-rider,that it was but seldom that they were found, as in his case, united inthe same person. That my mother had met with no accident whilst drivingwas solely due to his own consummate skill, and his wonderful presenceof mind. Little Byrne, however, was quite affable, and allowed me totry on his livery, including the coveted big silver arm-badge and histop-boots. In my borrowed plumes I gave the stablemen to understandthat I was as good as engaged already as postilion. Byrne informed meof some of the disadvantages of the position. "The heart in ye would bebroke at all the claning them leathers requires." I was also told thatafter an extra long drive, "ye'd come home that tired that ye'd bethinking ye were losing your life, and not knowing if ye had a leg leftto ye at all."

I often drove with my mother, and when we had covered more ground thanusual, upon arriving home, I always ran round to the leaders to inquireanxiously if my friend little Byrne "had a leg left to him, or if hehad lost his life," and was much relieved at finding him sitting on hishorse in perfect health, with his normal complement of limbs encased inwhite leathers. I believe that I expected his legs to drop off on theroad from sheer fatigue.

I knew, of course, that the Lord-Lieutenant had to confirm alldeath-sentences in Ireland. From much reading of Harrison Ainsworth, Iinsisted on calling the documents connected with this,"death-warrants." I begged and implored my father to let me see a"death-warrant." He told me that there was nothing to see, but I wenton insisting, until one day he told me that I might see one of thesegruesome documents. To avoid any misplaced sympathy with the condemnedman, I may say that it was a peculiarly brutal murder. A man at Corkhad kicked his wife to death, and had then battered her into ashapeless mass with the poker. I went into my father's study on thetip-toe of expectation. I pictured the Private Secretary coming inslowly, probably draped for the occasion in a long black cloak, andholding a white handkerchief to his eyes. In his hand he would bear animmense sheet of paper surrounded by a three-inch black border. Itwould be headed DEATH in large letters, with perhaps askull-and-crossbones below it, and from it would depend three ominousblack seals attached by black ribbons. The Secretary would naturallyhesitate before presenting so awful a document to my father, who, inhis turn, would exhibit a little natural emotion when receiving it. Atthat moment my mother, specially dressed in black for the occasion,would burst into the room, and falling on her knees, with streamingeyes and outstretched arms, she would plead passionately for thecondemned man's life. My father, at first obdurate, would gradually bemelted by my mother's entreaties. Turning aside to brush away a furtiveand not unmanly tear, he would suddenly tear the death-warrant toshreds, and taking up another huge placard headed REPRIEVE, he wouldquickly fill it in and sign it. He would then hand it to the PrivateSecretary, who would instantly start post-haste for Cork. As thecondemned man was being actually conducted to the scaffold, the PrivateSecretary would appear, brandishing the liberating document. All thenwould be joy, except for the executioner, who would grind his teeth atbeing baulked of his prey at the last minute.

That is, at all events, the way it would have happened in a book. As itwas, the Private Secretary came in just as usual, carrying an ordinaryofficial paper, precisely similar to dozens of other official paperslying about the room.

"It is the Cork murder case, sir," he said in his everyday voice. "Thesentence has to be confirmed by you."

"A bad business, Dillon," said my father. "I have seen the ChiefJustice about it twice, and I have consulted the Judge who tried thecase, and the Solicitor and the Attorney-General. I am afraid thatthere are no mitigating circ*mstances whatever. I shall certainlyconfirm it," and he wrote across the official paper, "Let the law takeits course," and appended his signature, and that was all!

Could anything be more prosaic? What a waste of an unrivalled dramaticsituation.

When I returned home for the Christmas holidays in 1866, the Fenianrebellion had already broken out. The authorities had reason to believethat the Vice-regal Lodge would be attacked, and various precautionshad been taken. Both guards and sentries were doubled; four lightfield-guns stood in the garden, and a row of gas-lamps had beeninstalled there. Stands of arms made their appearance in the passagesupstairs, which were patrolled all night by constables in rubber-soledboots, but the culminating joy to my brother and me lay in the fourloopholes with which the walls of the bed-room we jointly occupied werepierced. The room projected beyond the front of the main building, andwas accordingly a strategic point, but to have four real loopholes,closed with wooden shutters, in the walls of our own bedroom was to thetwo small urchins a source of immense pride. The boys at school werehideously jealous of our loopholes when they heard of them, though theyaffected to despise any one who, enjoying such undreamed-ofopportunities, had, on his own confession, failed to take advantage ofthem, and had never even fired through the loopholes, nor attempted tokill any one through them.

The Fenians were supposed to have the secret of a mysteriouscombustible known as "Greek Fire" which was unquenchable by water. Ithink that "Greek Fire" was nothing more or less than ordinarypetroleum, which was practically unknown in Europe in 1866, though frompersonal experience I can say that it was well known in 1868, in whichyear my mother, three sisters, two brothers and myself narrowly escapedbeing burnt to death, when the Irish mail, in which we were travelling,collided with a goods train loaded with petroleum at Abergele, NorthWales, an accident which resulted in thirty-four deaths.

Terrible as were the results of the Abergele accident, they might havebeen more disastrous still, for both lines were torn up, and the upIrish mail from Holyhead, which would be travelling at a great pacedown the steep bank from Llandulas, was due at any moment. The frontguard of our train had been killed by the collision, and the rear guardwas seriously hurt, so there was no one to give orders. It occurred atonce to my eldest brother, the late Duke, that as the train wasstanding on a sharp incline, the uninjured carriages would, ifuncoupled, roll down the hill of their own accord. He and some otherpassengers accordingly managed to undo the couplings, and the uninjuredcoaches, detached from the burning ones, glided down the incline intosafety. From the half-stunned guard my brother learned that the nearestsignal-box was at Llandulas, a mile away. He ran there at the top ofhis speed, and arrived in time to get the up Irish mail and all othertraffic stopped. On his return my brother had a prolonged fainting fit,as the strain on his heart had been very great. It took the doctorsover an hour to bring him round, and we all thought that he had died.

I was eleven years old at the time, and the shock of the collision, thesight of the burning coaches, the screams of the women, the wreckage,and my brother's narrow escape from death, affected me for some littlewhile afterwards.

It was the custom then for the Lord-Lieutenant to live for three monthsof the winter at the Castle, where a ceaseless round of entertainmentswent on. The Castle was in the heart of Dublin, and only boasted a dulllittle smoke-blackened garden in the place of the charming grounds ofthe Lodge, still there was plenty going on there. A band played dailyin the Castle Yard for an hour, there was the daily guard-mounting, andthe air was thick with bugle calls and rattling kettle-drums.

At "Drawing Rooms" it was still the habit for all ladies to be kissedby the Lord-Lieutenant on being presented to him, and every lady had tobe re-presented to every fresh Viceroy. This imposed an absolute orgyof compulsory osculation on the unfortunate Lord-Lieutenant, for ifmany of the ladies were fresh, young and pretty, the larger proportionof them were very distinctly the reverse.

There is a very fine white-and-gold throne-room in Dublin, decorated inthe heavy but effective style of George IV., and it certainly comparesvery favourably with the one at Buckingham Palace. St. Patrick's Hall,too, with its elaborate painted ceiling, is an exceedingly handsomeroom, as is the Long Gallery. At my father's first Drawing-Room, when Iofficiated as page, the perpetual kissing tickled my fancy so, that,forgetting that to live up to my new white-satin breeches and laceruffles I ought to wear an impassive countenance, I absolutely shook,spluttered and wriggled with laughter. The ceremony appeared to meinterminable, for ten-year-old legs soon get tired, and ten-year-oldeyelids grow very heavy as midnight approaches. When at length itended, and my fellow-page was curled up fast asleep on the steps of thethrone in his official finery, in glancing at my father I was amazed tofind him prematurely aged. The powder from eight hundred cheeks andnecks had turned his moustache and beard white; he had to retire to hisroom and spend a quarter of an hour washing and brushing the powderout, before he could take part in the procession through all thestaterooms which in those days preceded supper. My father was still aremarkably handsome man even at fifty-six years of age, with his greatheight and his full curly beard, and I thought my mother, with all herjewels on, most beautiful, as I am quite sure she was, though only ayear younger than my father.

The great white-and-gold throne-room brilliant with light, the glitterof the uniforms, and the sparkle of the jewels were attractive fromtheir very novelty to a ten-year-old schoolboy, perhaps a littleoverwhelmed by his own gorgeous and unfamiliar trappings. We two pageshad been ordered to stand quite motionless, one on either side of thethrone, but as the evening wore on and we began to feel sleepy, it wasdifficult to carry our instructions into effect, for there were nofacilities for playing even a game of "oughts and crosses" in order tokeep awake. The position had its drawbacks, as we were so veryconspicuous in our new uniforms. A detail which sticks in my memory isthat the guests at that Drawing-Room drank over three hundred bottlesof my father's sherry, in addition to other wines.

My brother and I were not allowed in the throne-room on ordinary days,but it offered such wonderful opportunities for processions andinvestitures, with the sword of state and the mace lying ready to one'shand in their red velvet cradles, that we soon discovered a back wayinto it. Should any of the staff of Lord French, the present Viceroy,care to examine the sword of state and the mace, they will find themboth heavily dented. This is due to two small boys having frequentlydropped them when they proved too heavy for their strength, duringstrictly private processions fifty-five years ago. I often wonder whata deputation from the Corporation of Belfast must have thought whenthey were ushered into the throne-room, and found it already in theoccupation of two small brats, one of whom, with a star cut out ofsilver paper pinned to his packet to counterfeit an order, was lollingback on the throne in a lordly manner, while the other was feigning toread a long statement from a piece of paper. The small boys, after themanner of their kind, quickly vanished through a bolt-hole.

The Chapel Royal in Dublin Castle was built by my grandfather, the Dukeof Bedford, who was Viceroy in 1806, and it bears the stamp of theunfortunate period of its birth on every detail of its"carpenter-Gothic" interior. It is, however, very ornate, with aprofusion of gilding, stained glass and elaborate oak carving. Myfather and mother sat by themselves on two red velvet arm-chairs in asort of pew-throne that projected into the Chapel. The Aide-de-Camp inwaiting, an extremely youthful warrior as a rule, had to stand untilthe door of the pew was shut, when a folding wooden flap was loweredacross the aperture, on which he seated himself, with his back restingagainst the pew door. At the conclusion of the service the Vergeralways opened the pew door with a sudden "click." Should theAide-de-Camp be unprepared for this and happen to be leaning againstthe door, with any reasonable luck he was almost certain to tumblebackwards into the aisle, "taking a regular toss," as hunting-men wouldsay, and to our unspeakable delight we would see a pair of slim legs inoveralls and a pair of spurred heels describing a graceful parabola asthey followed their youthful owner into the aisle. This particular formof religious relaxation appealed to me enormously, and I looked forwardto it every Sunday.

It was an episode that could only occur once with each person, forforewarned was forearmed; still, as we had twelve Aides-de-Camp, andthey were constantly changing, the pew door played its practical jokequite often enough to render the Services in the Chapel Royal veryattractive and engrossing, and I noticed that no Aide-de-Camp was everwarned of his possible peril. I think, too, that the Verger enjoyed hislittle joke.

In that same Chapel Royal I listened to the most eloquent and beautifulsermon I have ever heard in my life, preached by Dean Magee (afterwardsArchbishop of York) on Christmas Day, 1866. His text was: "There wereshepherds abiding in the fields." That marvellous orator must have hadsome peculiar gift of sympathy to captivate the attention of a child often so completely that he remembers portions of that sermon to thisvery day, fifty-four years afterwards.

To my great delight I discovered a little door near our joint bedroomwhich led directly into the gallery of St. Patrick's Hall. Here the bigdinners of from seventy to ninety people were held, and it was mydelight to creep into the gallery in my dressing-gown and slippers andwatch the brilliant scene below. The stately white-and-gold hall withits fine painted ceiling, the long tables blazing with plate andlights, the display of flowers, the jewels of the ladies and theuniforms of the men, made a picture very attractive to a child. Afterthe ladies had left, the uproar became deafening. In 1866 the olddrinking habits had not yet died out, and though my father very seldomtouched wine himself, he of course saw that his guests had sufficient;indeed, sufficient seems rather an elastic term, judging by what I sawand what I was told. It must have been rather like one of the scenesdescribed by Charles Lever in his books. In 1866 political, religious,and racial animosities had not yet assumed the intensely bittercharacter they have since reached in Ireland, and the traditional Irishwit, at present apparently dormant, still flashed, sparkled andscintillated. From my hiding-place in the gallery I could only hear theroars of laughter the good stories provoked, I could not hear thestories themselves, possibly to my own advantage.

Judge Keogh had a great reputation as a wit. The then Chief Justice wasa remarkable-looking man on account of his great snow-white whiskersand his jet-black head of hair. My mother, commenting on this, said toJudge Keogh, "Surely Chief Justice Monaghan must dye his hair." "To mycertain knowledge he does not," answered Keogh. "How, then, do youaccount for the difference in colour between his whiskers and hishair?" asked my mother. "To the fact that, throughout his life, he hasused his jaw a great deal more than he ever has his brain," retortedKeogh.

Father Healy, most genial and delightful of men, belongs, of course, toa much later period. I was at the Castle in Lord Zetland's time, whenFather Healy had just returned from a fortnight's visit to Monte Carlo,where he had been the guest (of all people in the world!) of LordRandolph Churchill. "May I ask how you explained your absence to yourflock, Father Healy?" asked Lady Zetland. "I merely told them that Ihad been for a fortnight's retreat to Carlow; I thought it superfluousprefixing the Monte," answered the priest. Again at a wedding, the lateLord Morris, the possessor of the hugest brogue ever heard, observed asthe young couple drove off, "I wish that I had an old shoe to throwafter them for luck." "Throw your brogue after them, my dear fellow; itwill do just as well," flashed out Father Healy. It was Father Healy,too, who, in posting a newly arrived lady as to Dublin notabilities,said, "You will find that there are only two people who count inDublin, the Lady-Lieutenant and Lady Iveagh, her Ex. and her double X,"for the marks on the barrels of the delicious beverage brewed by theGuinness family must be familiar to most people.

I myself heard Father Healy, in criticising a political appointmentwhich lay between a Welsh and a Scotch M.P., say, "Well, if we get theWelshman he'll pray on his knees all Sunday, and then prey on hisneighbours the other six days of the week; whilst if we get theScotchman hell keep the Sabbath and any other little trifles he can layhis hand on." Healy, who was parish priest of Little Bray, used toentertain sick priests from the interior of Ireland who were orderedsea-bathing. One day he saw one of his guests, a young priest, rushinto the sea, glass in hand, and begin drinking the sea water. "Youmustn't do that, my dear fellow," cried Father Healy, aghast. "I didn'tknow that there was any harm in it, Father Healy," said the youngpriest. "Whist! we'll not say one word about it, and maybe then they'llnever miss the little drop you have taken."

Some of these stories may be old, in which case I can only apologisefor giving them here.

Dublin people have always had the gift of coining extremely felicitousnicknames. I refrain from quoting those bestowed on two recentViceroys, for they are mordant and uncomplimentary, though possibly notwholly undeserved. My father was at once christened "Old Splendid," anappellation less scarifying than some of those conferred on hissuccessors. My father had some old friends living in the west ofIreland, a Colonel Tenison, and his wife, Lady Louisa Tenison. ColonelTenison had one of the most gigantic noses I have ever seen, a vast,hooked eagle's beak. He was so blind that he had to feel his way about.Lady Louisa Tenison allowed herself an unusual freedom of speech, andher comments on persons and things were unconventionally outspoken.They came to stay with us at the Castle in 1867, and before they hadbeen there twenty-four hours they were christened "Blind Hookey" and"Unlimited Loo."

In February 1867 my sister, brother and I contracted measles, and weresent out to the "Lodge" to avoid spreading infection.

We were already convalescent, when one evening a mysterious strangerarrived from the Castle, and had an interview with the governess. As aresult of that interview, the kindly old lady began clucking like ascared hen, fussed quite prodigiously, and told us to collect ourthings at once, as we were to start for the Castle in a quarter of anhour. After a frantically hurried packing, we were bustled into thecarriage, the mysterious stranger taking his seat on the box. To oursurprise we saw some thirty mounted Hussars at the door. As we movedoff, to our unspeakable delight, the Hussars drew their swords andclosed in on the carriage, one riding at either window. And so we drovethrough Dublin. We had never had an escort before, and felt immenselyelated and dignified. At the Castle there seemed to be some confusion.I heard doors banging and people moving about all through the night.

Long afterwards I learnt that the great Fenian rising was fixed forthat night. The authorities had heard that part of the Fenian plan wasto capture the Viceregal Lodge, and to hold the Lord-Lieutenant'schildren as hostages, which explains the arrival at the Lodge of ChiefInspector Dunn, the frantic haste, and the escort of Hussars with drawnswords.

That night an engagement, or it might more justly be termed a skirmish,did take place between the Fenians and the troops at Tallagh, sometwenty miles from Dublin. My brothers and most of my father's staff hadbeen present, which explained the mysterious noises during the night.As a result of this fight, some three hundred prisoners were taken, andLord Strathnairn, then Commander-in-Chief in Ireland, was very hard putto it to find sufficient men (who, of course, would have to be detachedfrom his force) to escort the prisoners into Dublin. Lord Strathnairnsuddenly got an inspiration. He had every single button, brace buttonsand all, cut off the prisoners' trousers. Then the men had perforce,for decency's sake, to hold their trousers together with their hands,and I defy any one similarly situated to run more than a yard or two.The prisoners were all paraded in the Castle yard next day, and Iwalked out amongst them. As they had been up all night in very heavyrain, they all looked very forlorn and miserable. The Castle gates wereshut that day, for the first time in the memory of the oldestinhabitant, and they remained shut for four days. I cannot remember thedate when the prisoners were paraded, but I am absolutely certain as toone point: it was Shrove Tuesday, 1867, the day on which so manymarriages are celebrated amongst country-folk in Ireland. Dublin wasseething with unrest, so on that very afternoon my father and motherdrove very slowly, quite alone, without an Aide-de-Camp or escort, in acarriage-and-four with outriders, through all the poorest quarters inDublin. They were well received, and there was no hostile demonstrationwhatever. The idea of the slow drive through the slums was my mother's.She wished to show that though the Castle gates were closed, she and myfather were not afraid. I saw her on her return, when she was lookingvery pale and drawn, but I was too young to realise what the strainmust have been. My mother's courage was loudly praised, but I thinkthat my friends O'Connor and little Byrne, the postilions, also deservequite a good mark, for they ran the same amount of risk, and they wereno entirely free agents in the matter, as my father and mother were.

Dr. Hatchell, who attended us all, had been physician to countlessViceroys and their families, and was a very well-known figure inDublin. He was a jolly little red-faced man with a terrific brogue.There was a great epidemic of lawlessness in Dublin at that time. Manypeople were waylaid and stripped of their valuables in dark suburbanstreets. Dr. Hatchell was returning from a round of professional visitsin the suburbs one evening, when his carriage was stopped by two men,who seized the horses' heads. One of the men came round to the carriagedoor.

"We know you, Dr. Hatchell, so you had better hand over your watch andmoney quietly." "You know me," answered the merry little doctor, withhis tremendous brogue, "so no doubt you would like me to prescribe foryou. I'll do it with all the pleasure in life. Saltpetre is a granddrug, and I often order it for my patients. Sulphur is the finest thingin the world for the blood, and charcoal is an elegant disinfectant. Bya great piece of luck, I have all these drugs with me in the carriage,but"—and he suddenly covered the man with his revolver—"they are allmixed up together, and there is the least taste in life of lead infront of them, and by God! you'll get it through you if you don't clearout of that." The men decamped immediately. I have heard Dr. Hatchelltell that story at least twenty times. Dr. Hatchell, who was invited toevery single entertainment, both at the Lodge and at the Castle, was awidower. A peculiarly stupid young Aide-de-Camp once asked him why hehad not brought Mrs. Hatchell with him. "Sorr," answered the doctor inhis most impressive tones, "Mrs. Hatchell is an angel in heaven." Afortnight later the same foolish youth asked again why Dr. Hatchell hadcome alone. "Mrs. Hatchell, sorr, is still an angel in heaven,"answered the indignant doctor.

It was said that no mortal eye had ever seen Dr. Hatchell in thedaytime out of his professional frock-coat and high hat. I know thatwhen he stayed with us in Scotland some years later, he went outsalmon-fishing in a frock-coat and high hat (with a stethescope clippedinto the crown of it), an unusual garb for an angler.

In the spring of 1868, King Edward and Queen Alexandra (then, ofcourse, Prince and Princess of Wales) paid us a long visit at theCastle. My father had heard a rumour that recently the Prince of Waleshad introduced the custom of smoking in the dining-room after dinner.He was in a difficult position; nothing would induce him to toleratesuch a practice, but how was he to avoid discourtesy to his Royalguest? My mother rose to the occasion. A little waiting-room near thedining-room was furnished and fitted up in the most attractive manner,and before the Prince had been an hour in the Castle, my mother showedhim the charming little room, and told H. R. H. that it had beenspecially fitted up for him to enjoy his after-dinner cigar in. Thatsaved the situation. Young men of to-day will be surprised to learnthat in my time no one dreamed of smoking before they went to a ball,as to smell of smoke was considered an affront to one's partners. Imyself, though a heavy smoker from an early age, never touched tobaccoin any form before going to a dance, out of respect for my partners.Incredible as it may sound, in those days all gentlemen had a very highrespect for ladies and young ladies, and observed a certain amount ofdeference in their intercourse with them. Never, to the best of myrecollection, did either we or our partners address each other as "oldthing," or "old bean." This, of course, now is hopelessly Victorian,and as defunct as the dodo. Present-day hostesses tell me that allyoung men, and most girls, are kind enough to flick cigarette-ash allover their drawing-rooms, and considerately throw lightedcigarette-ends on to fine old Persian carpets, and burn holes in piecesof valuable old French furniture. Of course it would be too muchtrouble to fetch an ash-tray, or to rise to throw lightedcigarette-ends into the grate. The young generation have never beenbrought up to take trouble, nor to consider other people; we mightperhaps put it that they never think of any one in the world but theirown sweet selves. I am inclined to think that there are distinctadvantages in being a confirmed, unrepentant Victorian.

During the stay of the Prince and Princess there was one unending roundof festivities. The Princess was then at the height of her greatbeauty, and seeing H. R. H. every day, my youthful adoration of herincreased tenfold. The culminating incident of the visit was to be theinstallation of the Prince of Wales as a Knight of St. Patrick in St.Patrick's Cathedral, with immense pomp and ceremonial. The Cathedralhad undergone a complete transformation for the ceremony, and all itsordinary fittings had disappeared. The number of pages had nowincreased to five, and we were constantly being drilled in theCathedral. We had all five of us to walk backwards down some steps,keeping in line and keeping step. For five small boys to do thisneatly, without awkwardness, requires a great deal of practice. Theprocession to the Cathedral was made in full state, the streets beinglined with troops, and the carriages, with their escorts of cavalry,going at a foot's pace through the principal thoroughfares of Dublin. Iremember it chiefly on account of the bitter northeast wind blowing.The five pages drove together in an open carriage, and received quitean ovation from the crowd, but no one had thought of providing themwith overcoats. Silk stockings, satin knee-breeches and lace rufflesare very inadequate protection against an Arctic blast, and we arrivedat the Cathedral stiff and torpid with cold. From the colour of ourfaces, we might have been five little "Blue Noses" from Nova Scotia.The ceremony was very gorgeous and imposing, and I trust that the pageswere not unduly clumsy. Every one was amazed at the beauty of themusic, sung from the triforium by the combined choirs of St. Patrick'sand Christ Church Cathedrals, and of the Chapel Royal, with thatwonderful musician, Sir Robert Stewart, at the organ. I remember wellSir Robert Stewart's novel setting of "God save the Queen." The mensang it first in unison to the music of the massed military bandsoutside the Cathedral, the boys singing a "Faux Bourdon" above it. Thenthe organ took it up, the full choir joining in with quite originalharmonies.

In honour of the Prince's visit, nearly all the Fenian prisoners whowere still detained in jail were released.

Many years after, in 1885, King Edward and Queen Alexandra paid us avisit at Barons' Court. During that visit a little episode occurredwhich is worth recording. On the Sunday, the Princess of Wales, as shestill was, inspected the Sunday School children before Morning Service.At luncheon the Rector of the parish told us that one of the Sundayscholars, a little girl, had been taken ill with congestion of thelungs a few days earlier. The child's disappointment at having missedseeing the Princess was terrible. Desperately ill as she was, she kepton harping on her lost opportunity. After luncheon the Princess drew mysister-in-law, the present Dowager duch*ess of Abercorn, on one side,and inquired where the sick child lived. Upon being told that it wasabout four miles off, the Princess asked whether it would not bepossible to get a pony-cart from the stables and drive there, as shewould like to see the little girl. I myself brought a pony-cart aroundto the door, and the Princess and my sister-in-law having got in, wethree started off alone, the Princess driving. When we reached thecottage where the child lived, H. R. H. went straight up to the littlegirl's room, and stayed talking to her for an hour, to the child'simmense joy. Two days later the little girl died, but she had been madevery happy meanwhile.

A little thing perhaps; but there are not many people in QueenAlexandra's position who would have taken an eight-mile drive in anopen cart on a stormy and rainy April afternoon in order to avoiddisappointing a dying child, of whose very existence she had beenunaware that morning.

It is the kind heart which inspires acts like these which has drawn theBritish people so irresistibly to Queen Alexandra.

CHAPTER IV

Chittenden's—A wonderful teacher—My personal experiences as aschoolmaster—My "boys in blue"—My unfortunate garments—A "braveBelge"—The model boy, and his name—A Spartan regime—"The ThreeSundays"—Novel religious observances—Harrow—"John Smith ofHarrow"—"Tommy" Steele—"Tosher"—An ingenious punishment—JohnFarmer—His methods—The birth of a famous song—Harrow schoolsongs—"Ducker"—The "Curse of Versatility"—Advancing old age—Therace between three brothers—A family failing—My father's race atsixty-four—My own—A most acrimonious dispute at Rome—Harrow afterfifty years.

I was sent to school as soon as I was nine, to Mr. Chittenden's, atHoddesdon, in Hertfordshire. This remarkable man had a very rare gift:he was a born teacher, or, perhaps, more accurately, a bornmind-trainer. Of the very small stock of knowledge which I have beenable to accumulate during my life, I certainly owe at least one-half toMr. Chittenden. There is a certain profusely advertised system foracquiring concentration, and for cultivating an artificial memory, thename of which will be familiar to every one. Instead of the title itactually bears, that system should be known as "Chittendism," for it isprecisely the method adopted by him with his pupils fifty-four yearsago. Mr. Chittenden, probably recognising that peculiar quality ofmental laziness which is such a marked characteristic of the averageEnglish man or woman, set himself to combat and conquer it the momenthe got a pupil into his hands. Think of the extraordinary number ofpersons you know who never do more than half-listen, half-understand,half-attend, and who only read with their eyes, not with their brains.The other half of their brain is off wool-gathering somewhere, sonaturally they forget everything they read, and the little they doremember with half their brain is usually incorrect. It seems to methat this sort of mental limitation is far more marked in the younggeneration, probably because foolish parents seem to think it rather anamusing trait in their offspring. Now, the boy at Chittenden's whoallowed his mind to wander, and did not concentrate, promptly made theacquaintance of the "spatter," a broad leathern strap; and the spatterhurt exceedingly, as I can testify from many personal experiences ofit. On the whole, then, even the most careless boy found it to hisadvantage to concentrate. This clever teacher knew how quickly youngbrains tire, so he never devoted more than a quarter of an hour to eachsubject, but during that quarter of an hour he demanded, and got, thefull attention of his pupils. The result was that everything absorbedremained permanently. If I enlarge at some length on Mr. Chittenden'smethods, it is because the subject of education is of such vitalimportance, and the mere fact that the much-advertised system to whichI have alluded has attained such success, would seem to indicate thatmany people are aware that they share that curious disability in theintellectual equipment of the average Englishman to which I havereferred; for unless they had habitually only half-listened, half-read,half-understood, there could be no need for their undergoing a courseof instruction late in life. Surely it is more sensible to check thispeculiarly English tendency to mental laziness quite early in life, asMr. Chittenden did with his boys. To my mind another strikingcharacteristic of the average English man and woman is their want ofobservation. They don't notice: it is far too much trouble; besides,they are probably thinking of something else. All Chittenden's boyswere taught to observe; otherwise they got into trouble. He insisted,too, on his pupils expressing themselves in correct English, with theresult that Chittenden's boys were more intellectually advanced attwelve than the average Public School boy is at sixteen or seventeen.It is unusual to place such books as Paley's Christian Evidences, orArchbishop Whately's Historic Doubts as to Napoleon Bonaparte, in thehands of little boys of twelve, with any expectation of a satisfactoryresult; yet we read them on Sundays, understood the point of them, andcould explain the why and wherefore of them. Chittenden's one fault washis tendency to "force" a receptive boy, and to develop his intellecttoo quickly. As in the Pelm—(I had very nearly written it) system, hemade great use of memoria technica, and always taught us to link oneidea with another. At the age of ten I got puzzled over Marlborough'scampaigns. "'Brom,' my boy, remember 'Brom,'" said Mr. Chittenden."That will give you Marlborough's victories in their propersequence—Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, Malplaquet, 'Brom'"; and"Brom" I have remembered from that day to this.

Though it is now many years since Mr. Chittenden passed away, I mustpay this belated tribute to the memory of a very skilful teacher, andan exceedingly kind friend, to whom I owe an immense debt of gratitude.

My own experiences as a pedagogue are limited. During the War, I wasasked to give some lessons in elementary history and rudimentary Frenchto convalescent soldiers in a big hospital. No one ever had a morecheery and good-tempered lot of pupils than I had in my blue-clad,red-tied disciples. For remembering the order of the Kings of England,we used Mr. Chittenden's jingle, beginning:

"Billy, Billy, Harry, Ste,
Harry, Dick, Jack, Harry Three."

By repeating it all together, over and over again, the very jangle ofit made it stick in my pupils' memory. Dates proved a great difficulty,yet a few dates, such as that of the Norman Conquest and of the Battleof Waterloo, were essential. "Clarke, can you remember the date of theNorman Conquest?" "Very sorry, sir; clean gone out of my 'ead." "Now,Daniels, how about the date of Waterloo?" "You've got me this time,sir." Then I had an inspiration. Feigning to take up atelephone-receiver, and to speak down it, I begged for "Willconk, One,O, double-six, please." Twenty blithesome wounded Tommies at once wentthrough an elaborate pantomime of unhooking receivers, and askedanxiously for "Willconk—One, O, double-six, miss, please. No, miss, Ididn't say, 'City, six, eight, five, four'; I said 'Willconk, One, O,double-six.' Thank you, miss; now I can let mother know I'm coming totea." This, accompanied by much playful badinage with the imaginaryoperator, proved immensely popular, but "Willconk, One, O, double-six"stuck in the brains of my blue-clothed flock. In the same way theBattle of Waterloo became "Batterloo—One, eight, one, five, please,miss," so both those dates remained in their heads.

We experienced some little trouble in mastering the French numerals,until I tried a new scheme, and called out, "From the right, number, inFrench!" Then my merry convalescents began shouting gleefully, "Oon,""Doo," "Troy," "Catta," "Sink," etc.; but the French numerals stuck intheir heads. Never did any one, I imagine, have such a set of jolly,cheery boys in blue as pupils, and the strong remnant of the child leftin many of them made them the more attractive.

When I first went to school, the selection and purchase of my outfitwas, for some inscrutable reason, left to my sisters' governess, anelderly lady to whom I was quite devoted. This excellent person,though, knew very little about boys, and nothing whatever as to theirrequirements. Her mind harked back to the "thirties" and "forties," andshe endeavoured to reconstitute the dress of little boys at thatperiod. She ordered for me a velvet tunic for Sunday wear, of the sortseen in old prints, and a velvet cap with a peak and tassel, such asyoung England wore in William IV.'s days. She had large, floppy, limpcollars specially made for me, of the pattern worn by boys in heryouth; every single article of my unfortunate equipment had beenobsolete for at least thirty years. In my ignorance, and luckily notknowing what was in store for me, I felt immensely proud of my new kit.

On the first Sunday after my arrival at school, I arrayed myself withgreat satisfaction in a big, floppy collar, and my new velvet tunic,amidst the loud jeers of all the other boys in the dormitory. I was,however, hardly prepared for the yells and howls of derision with whichmy appearance in the school-room was greeted; my unfortunate garmentswere held to be so unspeakably grotesque that boys laughed till thetears ran down their cheeks. As church-time approached the boysproduced their high hats, which I found were worn even by littlefellows of eight; I had nothing but my terrible tasselled velvet cap,the sight of which provoked even louder jeers than the tunic had done.We marched to church two and two, in old-fashioned style in a"crocodile," but not a boy in the school would walk beside me in myabsurd garments, so a very forlorn little fellow trotted to churchalone behind the usher, acutely conscious of the very grotesque figurehe was presenting. I must have been dressed very much as HenryFairchild was when he went to visit his little friend Master Noble. Onreturning from church, I threw my velvet cap into the water-butt,where, for all I know, it probably is still, and nothing would induceme to put on the velvet tunic or the floppy collars a second time. Ibombarded my family with letters until I found myself equipped with ahigh hat and Eton jackets and collars such as the other boys wore.

We were taught French at Chittenden's by a very pleasant old Belgian,M. Vansittart. I could talk French then as easily as English, and afterexchanging a few sentences with M. Vansittart, he cried, "Tiens! maisc'est un petit Francais;" but the other boys laughed so unmercifully atwhat they termed my affected accent, that in self-defence I adopted anultra-British pronunciation, made intentional mistakes, and, in orderto conform to type, punctiliously addressed our venerable instructor as"Moosoo," just as the other boys did. M. Vansittart must have been avery old man, for he had fought as a private in the Belgian army at theBattle of Waterloo. He had once been imprudent enough to admit that heand some Belgian friends of his had...how shall we put it?...absentedthemselves from the battlefield without the permission of theirsuperiors, and had hurriedly returned to Brussels, being doubtlessfatigued by their exertions. His little tormentors never let him forgetthis. When we thought that we had done enough French for the day, ashrill young voice would pipe out, "Now, Moosoo, please tell us how youand all the Belgians ran away from the Battle of Waterloo." It neverfailed to achieve the desired end. "Ah! tas de petit* sacripants! 'Owdare you say dat?" thundered the poor old gentleman, and he would go onto explain that his and his friends' retirement was only actuated bythe desire to be the first bearers to Brussels of the news ofWellington's great victory, and to assuage their families' very naturalanxiety as to their safety. He added, truthfully enough, "Nos jambescourraient malgres nous." Poor M. Vansittart! He was a gentle and akindly old man, with traces of the eighteenth-century courtliness ofmanner, and smothered in snuff.

Mr. Chittenden was never tired of dinning into us the astonishingmerits of a pupil who had been at the school eleven or twelve yearsbefore us. This model boy apparently had the most extraordinary mentalgifts, and had never broken any of the rules. Mr. Chittenden predicteda brilliant future for him, and would not be surprised should heeventually become Prime Minister. The paragon had had a distinguishedcareer at Eton, and was at present at Cambridge, where he was certainto do equally well. From having this Admirable Crichton perpetuallyheld up to us as an example, we grew rather tired of his name, much asthe Athenians wearied at constantly hearing Aristides described as "thejust." At length we heard that the pattern-boy would spend two days atHoddesdon on his way back to Cambridge. We were all very anxious to seehim. As Mr. Chittenden confidently predicted that he would one daybecome Prime Minister, I formed a mental picture of him as being likemy uncle, Lord John Russell, the only Prime Minister I knew. He wouldbe very short, and would have his neck swathed in a high black-satinstock. When the Cambridge undergraduate appeared, he was, on thecontrary, very tall and thin, with a slight stoop, and so far fromwearing a high stock, he had an exceedingly long neck emerging from avery low collar. His name was Arthur James Balfour.

I think Mr. Balfour and the late Mr. George Wyndham were the onlypupils of Chittenden's who made names for themselves. The rest of uswere content to plod along in the rut, though we had been taught toconcentrate, to remember, and to observe.

Compared with the manner in which little boys are now pampered atpreparatory schools, our method of life appears very Spartan. We neverhad fires or any heating whatever in our dormitories, and the windowswere always open. We were never given warm water to wash in, and infrosty weather our jugs were frequently frozen over. Truth compels meto admit that this freak of Nature's was rather welcomed, for littleboys are not as a rule over-enamoured of soap and water, and it was anexcellent excuse for avoiding any ablutions whatever. We rose at six,winter and summer, and were in school by half-past six. The windows ofthe school-room were kept open, whilst the only heating came from amicroscopic stove jealously guarded by a huge iron stockade to preventthe boys from approaching it. For breakfast we were never givenanything but porridge and bread and butter. We had an excellent dinnerat one o'clock, but nothing for tea but bread and butter again, nevercake or jam. It will horrify modern mothers to learn that all the boys,even little fellows of eight, were given two glasses of beer at dinner.And yet none of us were ever ill. I was nearly five years atChittenden's, and I do not remember one single case of illness. We wereall of us in perfect health, nor were we ever afflicted with thoseepidemics which seem to play such havoc with modern schools, from allof which I can only conclude that a regime of beer and cold rooms isexceedingly good for little boys.

The Grange, Mr. Chittenden's house, was one of the most perfectexamples of a real Queen Anne house that I ever saw. Every room in thehouse was wood-panelled, and there was some fine carving on thestaircase. The house, with a splendid avenue of limes leading up to it,stood in a large old-world garden, where vast cedar trees spreadthemselves duskily over shaven lawns round a splashing fountain, andwhere scarlet geraniums blazed. Such a beautiful old place was quitewasted as a school.

We were very well treated by both Mr. and Mrs. Chittenden, and we wereall very happy at the Grange. During my first year there one of myelder brothers died. A child of ten, should death never have touchedhis family, looks upon it as something infinitely remote, affectingother people but not himself. Then when the first gap in the homeoccurs, all the child's little world tumbles to pieces, and he wondershow the birds have the heart to go on singing as usual, and how the suncan keep on shining. A child's grief is very poignant and real. I cannever forget Mr. and Mrs. Chittenden's extreme kindness to a verysorrowful little boy at that time.

There was one curious custom at Chittenden's, and I do not know whetherit obtained in other schools in those days. Some time in the summerterm the head-boy would announce that "The Three Sundays" had arrived,and must be duly observed according to ancient custom. We all obeyedhim implicity. The first Sunday was "co*ck-hat Sunday," the second "RagSunday," and the third (if I may be pardoned) "Spit-in-the-pew Sunday."On the first Sunday we all marched to church with our high hats at anextreme angle over our left ears; on the second Sunday every boy hadhis handkerchief trailing out of his pocket; on the third, I am sorryto say, thirty-one little boys expectorated surreptitiously butsimultaneously in the pews, as the first words of the Litany wererepeated. I think that we were all convinced that these were regularlyappointed festivals of the Church of England. I know that I was, and Ispent hours hunting fruitlessly through my Prayer Book to find someallusion to them. I found Sundays after Epiphany, Sundays in Lent, andSundays after Trinity, but not one word could I discover, to myamazement, either about "co*ck-hat Sunday" or "Spit-in-the-pew Sunday."What can have been the origin of this singular custom I cannot say.When I, in my turn, became head-boy, I fixed "The Three Sundays" earlyin May. It so happened that year that the Thursday after "co*ck-hatSunday" was Ascension Day, when we also went to church, but, it being aweek-day, we wore our school caps in the place of high hats. AscensionDay thus falling, if I may so express myself, within the Octave of"co*ck-hat Sunday," I decreed that the customary ritual must be observedwith the school caps, and my little flock obeyed me implicitly. Soeager were some of the boys to do honour to this religious festival,that their caps were worn at such an impossible angle that they kepttumbling off all the way to church. It is the only time in my life thatI have ever wielded even a semblance of ecclesiastical authority, and Icannot help thinking that the Archbishop of Canterbury would haveenvied the unquestioning obedience with which all my directions werereceived, for I gather that his own experience has not invariably beenequally fortunate.

At thirteen I said good-bye to the pleasant Grange, and went, as myelder brothers, my father, and my grandfather had done before me, toHarrow.

In the Harrow of the "seventies" there was one unique personality, thatof the Rev. John Smith, best-loved of men. This saintly man wascertainly very eccentric. We never knew then that his whole life hadbeen one long fight against the hereditary insanity which finallyconquered him. In appearance he was very tall and gaunt, withsnow-white whiskers and hair, and the kindest eyes I have ever seen ina human face; he was meticulously clean and neat in his dress. "John,"as he was invariably called, on one occasion met a poorly clad beggarshivering in the street on a cold day, and at once stripped off his ownovercoat and insisted on the beggar taking it. John never boughtanother overcoat, but wrapped himself in a plaid in winter-time. Headdressed all boys indiscriminately as "laddie," though he usuallyalluded to the younger ones as "smallest of created things,""infinitesimal scrap of humanity," or "most diminutive of men"; but,wildly eccentric as he was, no one ever thought of laughing at him. Itwas just "old John," and that explained everything.

I was never "up" to John, for he taught a low Form, and I had come fromChittenden's, and all Chittenden's boys took high places; but he took"pupil-room" in my house, and helped my tutor generally, so I saw Johndaily, and, like every one else, I grew very much attached to thissimple, saint-like old clergyman.

He went round every room in the house on Sunday evenings, always firstscrupulously knocking at the door. An untidy room gave him positivepain, and the most slovenly boys would endeavour to get their filthyrooms into some sort of order, "just to please old John." John waspassionately fond of flowers, and one would meet the most unlikely boyswith bunches of roses in their hands. If one inquired what they werefor, they would say half-sheepishly, "Oh, just a few roses I've bought.I thought they would please old John; you know how keen the old chap ison flowers." Now English schoolboys are not as a rule in the habit ofpresenting flowers to their masters. For all his apparent simplicity,John was not easy to "score off." I have known Fifth-form boys bring aparticularly difficult passage of Herodotus to John in "pupil-room,"knowing that he was not a great Greek scholar. John, after glancing atthe passage, would say, "Laddie, you splendid fellows in the UpperFifth know so much; I am but a humble and very ignorant old man. Thispassage is beyond my attainments. Go to your tutor, my child. He willdoubtless make it all clear to you; and pray accept my apologies forbeing unable to help you," and the Fifth-form boy would go away feelingthoroughly ashamed of himself. After his death, it was discovered fromhis diary that John had been in the habit of praying for twenty boys byname, every night of his life. He went right down the school list, andthen he began again. Any lack of personal cleanliness drove himfrantic. I myself have heard him order a boy with dirty nails and handsout of the room, crying, "Out of my sight, unclean wretch! Go andcleanse the hands God gave you, before I allow you to associate withclean gentlemen, and write out for me two hundred times, 'Cleanlinessis next to godliness.'"

John took the First Fourth, and his little boys could always bedetected by their neatness and extreme cleanliness. Neither of thesecan be called a characteristic of little boys in general, but thelittle fellows made an effort to overcome their natural tendencies "toplease old John." When his hereditary enemy triumphed, and his reasonleft him, hundreds of his old pupils wished to subscribe, and tosurround John for the remainder of his life with all the comforts thatcould be given him in his afflicted condition. It was verycharacteristic of John to refuse this offer, and to go of his ownaccord into a pauper asylum, where he combined the duties of chaplainand butler until his death. John was buried at Harrow, and by his ownwish no bell was tolled, and his coffin was covered with scarletgeraniums, as a sign of rejoicing. I know how I should describe John,were I preaching a sermon.

Another mildly eccentric Harrow master was the Rev. T. Steele,invariably known as "Tommy." His peculiarities were limited to his useof the pronoun "we" instead of "I," as though he had been a crownedhead, and to his habit of perpetually carrying, winter and summer, rainor sunshine, a gigantic bright blue umbrella. He had these umbrellasspecially made for him; they were enormous, the sort of umbrellas Mrs.Gamp must have brought with her when her professional services wererequisitioned, and they were of the most blatant blue I have everbeheld. Old Mr. Steele, with his jovial rubicund face, his flowingwhite beard, and his bright blue umbrella, was a species of walkingtricolour flag.

Schoolboys worship a successful athlete. There was a very pleasantmathematical master named Tosswill, always known as "Tosher," who atthat time held the record for a broad jump, he having cleared, whenjumping for Oxford, twenty-two and a half feet. That record has longsince been beaten. Should one be walking with another boy when passing"Tosher," he was almost certain to say, "You know that Tosher holds therecord for broad jumps. Twenty-two and a half feet; he must be anawfully decent chap!" Tosswill had the knack of devising ingeniouspunishments. I was "up" to him for mathematics, and, with my hopelesslynon-mathematical mind, I must have been a great trial to him. At thattime I was playing the euphonium in the school brass band, aninstrument which afforded great joy to its exponents, for in mostmilitary marches the solo in the "trio" falls to the euphonium, thoughI fancy that I evoked the most horrible sounds from my big brassinstrument. To play a brass instrument with any degree of precision, itis first necessary to acquire a "lip"—that is to say, the centre ofthe lip covered by the mouthpiece must harden and thicken before "opennotes" can be sounded accurately. To "get a lip" quickly, I alwayscarried my mouthpiece in my pocket, and blew noiselessly into itperpetually, even in school. Tosher had noticed this. One day myalgebra paper was even worse than usual. With the best intentions inthe world to master this intricate branch of knowledge, algebraconveyed nothing whatever to my brain. To state that A + b = xy, seemedto me the assertion of a palpable and self-evident falsehood. Afterlooking through my paper, Tosher called me up. "Your algebra is quitehopeless, Hamilton. You will write me out a Georgic. No; on secondthoughts, as you seem to like your brass instrument, you shall bring itup to my house every morning for ten days, and as the clock strikesseven, you shall play me "Home, Sweet Home" under my window."Accordingly every morning for ten days I trudged through the HighStreet of Harrow with my big brass instrument under my arm, and asseven rang out from the school clock, I commenced my extremelylugubrious rendering of "Home, Sweet Home," on the euphonium, to ascoffing and entirely unsympathetic audience of errand-boys and earlyloafers, until Tosher's soap-lathered face nodded dismissal from thewindow.

The school songs play a great part in Harrow life. Generation aftergeneration of boys have sung these songs, and they form a most potentbond of union between Harrovians of all ages, for their words and musicare as familiar to the old Harrovian of sixty as to the presentHarrovian of sixteen.

Most of these songs are due to the genius of two men, Edward Bowen andJohn Farmer. Like Gilbert and Sullivan, neither of these would, Ithink, have risen to his full height without the aid of the other.Farmer had an inexhaustible flow of facile melody at his command,always tuneful, sometimes almost inspired. In addition to the publishedsongs, he was continually throwing off musical settings to topicalverse, written for some special occasion. These were invariably brightand catchy, and I am sorry that Farmer considered them of too ephemerala nature to be worth preserving. "Racquets," in particular, had adelightfully ear-tickling refrain. Bowen's words are a little unequalat times, but at his best he is very hard to beat.

I had organ lessons from Farmer, and as I liked him extremely, I wascontinually at his house. I enjoyed seeing him covering sheets of musicpaper with rapid notation, and then humming the newly born product ofhis musical imagination. As I had a fairly good treble voice, and couldread a part easily, Farmer often selected me to try one of his newcompositions at "house-singing," where the boys formed an exceedinglycritical audience. Either the new song was approved of, or it wasreceived in chilling silence. Farmer in moments of excitement perspiredmore than any human being I have ever seen. Going to his house oneafternoon, I found him bathed in perspiration, writing away for dearlife. He motioned me to remain silent, and went on writing. Presentlyhe jumped up, and exclaimed triumphantly, "I have got it! I have got itat last!" He then showed me the words he was setting to music. Theybegan:

"Forty years on, when afar and asunder,
Parted are those who are singing to-day."

"I wrote another tune to it first," explained Farmer, "a bright tune, aregular bell-tinkle" (his invariable expression for a catchy tune),"but Bowen's words are too fine for that. They want somethinghymn-like, something grand, and now I've found it. Listen!" and Farmerplayed me that majestic, stately melody which has since been heard inevery country and in every corner of the globe, wherever two oldHarrovians have come together. Some people may recall how, during theBoer War, "Forty years on" was sung by two mortally wounded Harrovianson the top of Spion Kop just before they died.

To my great regret my voice had broken then, else it is quite possiblethat Farmer might have selected me to sing "Forty years on" for thevery first time. As it was, that honour fell to a boy named A.M.Wilkinson, who had a remarkably sweet voice.

John Farmer's eccentricities were, I think, all assumed. He thoughtthey helped him to manage the boys. I sang in the chapel choir, and hecirculated the quaintest little notes amongst us, telling us how hewished the Psalms sung. "Psalm 136, quite gaily and cheerfully; Psalm137, very slowly and sorrowfully; Psalm 138, real merry bell-tinkle,with plenty of organ.—J. F."

Long after I had left, Farmer continued to pour out a ceaseless flow ofschool songs. Of course they varied in merit, but in some, such as"Raleigh," and "Five Hundred Faces," he managed to touch some subtlechord of sympathy that makes them very dear to those who heard them intheir youth. After Farmer left Harrow for Oxford, his successor, EatonFaning, worthily continued the traditions. All Eaton Failing's songsare melodious, but in two of them, "Here, sir!" and "Pray, charge yourglasses, gentlemen," he reaches far higher levels.

The late E.W. Howson's words to "Here, sir!" seem to strike exactly theright note for boys. They are fine and virile, with underlyingsentiment, yet free from the faintest suspicion of mawkishsentimentality. Two of the verses are worth quoting:

"Is it nought—our long procession,
Father, brother, friend, and son,
As we step in quick succession,
Cap and pass and hurry on?
One and all,
At the call,
Cap and pass and hurry on?
Here, sir! Here, sir!" etc.

"So to-day—and oh! if ever
Duty's voice is ringing clear,
Bidding men to brave endeavour,
Be our answer, 'We are here!'
Come what will,
Good or ill,
We will answer, 'We are here!'
Here, sir! Here, sir!" etc.

The allusion is, of course, to "Bill," the Harrow term for theroll-call. These lines, for me, embody all that is best in theso-called "Public School spirit."

In my time the distant view from the chapel terrace was exceedinglybeautiful, whilst the immediate foreground was uncompromisingly ugly. Avegetable garden then covered the space where now the steps of the"Slopes" run down through lawns and shrubberies, and rows ofutilitarian cabbages and potatoes extended right up to the terracewall. But beyond this prosaic display of kitchen-stuff, in summer-timean unbroken sea of green extended to the horizon, dotted with suchsplendid oaks as only a heavy clay soil can produce. London, instead ofbeing ten miles off, might have been a hundred miles distant. Now, forfifty years London, Cobbett's "monstrous wen," has been throwing hertentative feelers into the green Harrow country. Already pioneertentacles of red-brick houses are creeping over the fields, and beforelong the rural surroundings will have vanished beyond repair.

"Ducker," the Harrow bathing-place, has had scant justice done to it.It is a most attractive spot, standing demurely isolated amidst itsencircling fringe of fine elms, and jealously guarded by a high woodenpalisade, No unauthorised person can penetrate into "Ducker"; insummer-time it is the boys' own domain. The long tiled pool stretchesin sweeping curves for 250 feet under the great elms, a splashingfountain at one end, its far extremity gay with lawns and flower-beds.I can conceive of nothing more typical of the exuberant joie-de-vivreof youth than the sight of Ducker on a warm summer evening when theplace is ringing with the shouts and laughter of some four hundredboys, all naked as when they were born, swimming, diving, ducking eachother, splashing and rollicking in the water, whilst others stretchedout on the grass, puris naturalibus, are basking in the sun, orregaling themselves on buns and cocoa. The whole place is vibrant withthe intense zest the young feel in life, and with the whole-heartedpowers of enjoyment of boyhood. A school-song set to a captivatingwaltz-lilt record the charms of Ducker. One verse of it,

"Oh! the effervescing tingle,
How it rushes in the veins!
Till the water seems to mingle
With the pulses and the brains,"

exactly expresses the reason why, as a boy, I loved Ducker so.

Unfortunately, I never played cricket for Harrow at "Lords," as my twobrothers George and Ernest did. My youngest brother would, I think,have made a great name for himself as a cricketer, had not the fairiesendowed him at his birth with a fatal facility for doing everythingeasily. As the result of this versatility, his ambitions werecontinually changing. He accordingly abandoned cricket for steeplechaseriding, at which he distinguished himself until politics oustedsteeplechase riding. After some years, politics gave place to golf andmusic, which were in their turn supplanted by photography. He thentried writing a few novels, and very successful some of them were,until it finally dawned on him that his real vocation in life was thatof a historian. My brother was naturally frequently rallied by hisfamily on his inconstancy of purpose, but he pleaded in extenuationthat versatility had very marked charms of its own. He produced one daya copy of verses, written in the Gilbertian metre, to illustrate hismental attitude, and they strike me as so neatly worded, that I willreproduce them in full.

"THE CURSE OF VERSATILITY"

"It is possible the student of Political Economy
Might otherwise have cultivated Fame,
And the Scientist whose energies are given to Astronomy
May sacrifice a literary name.
In the Royal Academician may be buried a facility
For prosecuting Chemical Research,
But he knows that if he truckles to the Curse of Versatility,
Competitors will leave him in the lurch.

"If an eminent physician should develop a proclivity
For singing on the operatic stage,
He will find that though his patients may apparently forgive
it, he
Will temporal'ly cease to be the rage,
And the lawyer who depreciates his logical ability
And covets a poetical renown,
Will discover on his Circuit that the Curse of Versatility
Has limited the office of his gown.

"The costermonger yonder, if he had the opportunity,
Might rival the political career
Of the orator who poses as the pride of the community,
The Radical Hereditary Peer.
And the genius who fattens on a chronic inability
To widen the horizon of his brain,
May be stupider than others whom the Curse of Versatility
Has fettered with a mediocre chain.

"Should a Civil Servant woo the panegyrics of Society,
And hanker after posthumous applause,
It MAY happen that possession of a prodigal variety
Of talents will invalidate his cause.
He must learn to put a tether on his cerebral agility,
And focus all his energies of aim
On ONE isolated idol, or the Curse of Versatility
Will drag him from the pinnacle of Fame.

"Though the Curse may be upon us, and condemn us for Eternity
To jostle with the ordinary horde;
Though we grovel at the shrine of the professional fraternity
Who harp upon one solitary chord;
Still...we face the situation with an imperturbability
Of spirit, from the knowledge that we owe
To the witchery that lingers in the Curse of Versatility
The balance of our happiness below."

Of course, to some temperaments variety will appeal; whilst othersrevel in monotony. The latter are like a District Railway train, goingperpetually round and round the same Inner Circle. As far as myexperience goes, the former are the more interesting people to meet.

To persons of my time of life, the last verse of "Forty years on" has atendency to linger in the memory. It runs—

"Forty years on, growing older and older,
Shorter in wind, as in memory long,
Feeble of foot, and rheumatic of shoulder,
What will it help you that once you were strong?"

Although it is now fifty, instead of "forty years on," I indignantlydisclaim the "feeble of foot," whilst reluctantly pleading guilty to"rheumatic of shoulder." It is common to most people, as they advancein life, to note with a sorrowful satisfaction the gradual decay of thephysical powers of their contemporaries, though they always seem toimagine that they themselves have retained all their pristine vigour,and have successfully resisted every assault of Time's battering-ram.The particular sentiment described in German as "Schadenfreude,""pleasure over another's troubles" (how characteristic it is that thereshould be no equivalent in any other language for this peculiarlyTeutonic emotion!), makes but little appeal to the average Britonexcept where questions of age and of failing powers come into play, andobviously this only applies to men: no lady ever grows old for thosewho are really fond of her; one always sees her as one likes best tothink of her.

I have already divulged one family secret, so I will reveal another.Some few years ago my three eldest brothers were dining together. Eachof them professed deep concern at the palpable signs of physical decaywhich he detected in his brethren, whilst congratulating himself onremaining untouched by advancing years. The dispute became acrimoniousto a degree; the grossest personalities were freely bandied about. Atlength it was decided to put the matter to a practical test, and it wasagreed (I tell this in the strictest confidence) that the threebrothers should run a hundred yards race in the street then and there.Accordingly, a nephew of mine paced one hundred yards in MontaguStreet, Portman Square, and stood immovable as winning-post. TheChairman of the British South African Chartered Company, the Chairmanof the Great Eastern Railway Company, and the Secretary of State forIndia took up their positions in the street and started. The Chairmanof the Great Eastern romped home. We are all of us creatures of ourenvironment, and we may become unconsciously coloured by thatenvironment; as the Great Eastern Railway has always adopted a go-aheadpolicy, it is possible that some particle of the momentum which wouldnaturally result from this may have been subconsciously absorbed by theChairman, thus giving him an unfair advantage over his brothers. It isunusual for a Duke, a Chairman of an important Railway Company, and aSecretary of State to run races in a London street at ten o'clock atnight, especially when the three of them were long past their sixtiethyear, but I feel certain that my confidence about this little episodewill be respected.

I fear that this habit of running races late in life may be a familyfailing. During my father's second tenure of office as Lord-Lieutenantof Ireland, he was still an enthusiastic cricketer, and playedregularly in the Viceregal team in spite of his sixty-four years. TheRev. Dr. Mahaffy, Professor of Ancient History at Trinity College,Dublin, also played for the Viceregal Lodge in his capacity of Chaplainto the Viceroy. Dr. Mahaffy, though a fine bowler, was the worst runnerI have ever seen. He waddled and paddled slowly over the ground like aduck, with his feet turned outwards, exactly as that uninteresting fowlmoves. My father frequently rallied Dr. Mahaffy on his defectivelocomotive powers, and finally challenged him to a two hundred yardsrace. My father being sixty-four years old, and Dr. Mahaffy onlythirty-six, it was agreed that the Professor should be handicapped bywearing cricket-pads, and by carrying a cricket bat. I was present atthe race, which came off in the gardens of the Viceregal Lodge, beforequite a number of people. My father won with the utmost ease, to thedelirious joy of the two policemen on duty, who had never before seen aLord-Lieutenant of Ireland racing a Professor of Trinity College.

I myself must plead guilty to having entered for a "Veterans' Race" twoyears ago, at the age of sixty-one, at some Sunday School sports inIreland. I ran against a butler, a gardener, two foremen-mechanics, andfour farmers, but only achieved second place, and that at the price ofa sprained tendon, so possibly the "feeble of foot" of the song reallyis applicable to me after all. The butler, who won, started off withthe lead and kept it, though one would naturally have expected a butlerto run a "waiting" race.

I was at Harrow with the Duke of Aosta, brother of the beautiful QueenMargherita of Italy. H. R. H. sported a full curly yellow beard at theage of sixteen, a somewhat unusual adornment for an English schoolboy.When I accompanied my father's special Mission to Rome in 1878, at aluncheon at the Quirinal Palace, Queen Margherita alluded to herbrother having been at Harrow, and added, "I am told that Harrow is thebest school in England." The Harrovians present, including my father,my brother Claud, myself, the late Lord Bradford, and my brother-in-lawthe late Lord Mount Edgcumbe, welcomed this indisputable propositionwarmly—nay, enthusiastically. The Etonians who were there, SirAugustus Paget, then British Ambassador in Rome, the late LordNorthampton, and others, contravened her Majesty's obviously truestatement with great heat, quite oblivious of the fact that it isopposed to all etiquette to contradict a Crowned Head. The disputeengendered considerable heat on either side; the walls of that hall inthe Quirinal rang with our angered protests, until the Italians presentbecame quite alarmed. Our discussion having taken place in English,they had been unable to follow it, and they felt the gravestapprehensions as to the plot the foreigners were evidently hatching.When told that we were merely discussing the rival merits of twoschools in England, they were more than ever confirmed in their opinionthat all English people were hopelessly mad.

To one like myself, to whom it has fallen to visit almost every countryon the face of the globe, there is always a tinge of melancholy inrevisiting the familiar High Street of Harrow. It is like returning tothe starting-point at the conclusion of a long race. The externalsremain unchanged. Outwardly, the New Schools, the Chapel, the VaughanLibrary, and the Head-Master's House all wear exactly the same aspectthat they bore half a century ago. They have not changed, and theever-renewed stream of young life flows through the place as joyouslyas it did fifty years ago. But....

"Oh, the great days in the distance enchanted,
Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun."

At times the imagination is apt to play tricks and to set back thehands of the clock, until one pictures oneself again in a short jacketand Eton collar, going up to school, with a pile of books hugged underthe left arm, and the intervening half-century wiped out. But, as theywould put it in Ireland, these lucky, fresh-faced youngsters of to-dayhave their futures in front of them, not behind them. Then it is thatHowson's words, wedded to John Farmer's haunting refrain, come back tothe mind—

"Yet the time may come as the years go by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of 'The Hill'
And the day that you came, so strange and shy."

CHAPTER V

Mme. Ducros—A Southern French country town—"Tartarin deTarascon"—His prototypes at Nyons—M. Sisteron the roysterer—TheSouthern French—An octogenarian pesteur—Frenchindustry—"Bone-shakers"—A wonderful"Cordon-bleu"—"Slop-basin"—French legal procedure—Thebons-vivants—The merry French judges—La gaiete francaise—Delightfulexcursions—Some sleepy old towns—Orange and Avignon—M. Thiers'ingenious cousin—Possibilities—French political situation in1874—The Comte de Chambord—Some French characteristics—Highintellectual level—Three days in a Trappist Monastery—Details of lifethere—The Arian heresy—Silkworm culture—Tendencies of French tocomplicate details—Some examples—Cicadas in London.

As it had already been settled that I was to enter the DiplomaticService, my father very wisely determined that I should leave Harrow assoon as I was seventeen to go to France, in order to learn Frenchthoroughly. As he pointed out, it would take three years at least tobecome proficient in French and German, and it would be as well tobegin at once.

The French tutor selected for me enjoyed a great reputation at thattime. Oddly enough, she was a woman, but it will be gathered that shewas quite an exceptional woman, when I say that she had for years ruledfour unruly British cubs, varying in age from seventeen to twenty, withan absolute rod of iron. Mme. Ducros was the wife of a French judge,she spoke English perfectly, and must have been in her youth awonderfully good-looking woman. She was very tall, and still adhered tothe dress and headdress of the "sixties," wearing little bunches ofcurls over each ear—a becoming fashion, even if rather reminiscent ofa spaniel.

The Ducros lived at Nyons in the south of France. Nyons lay twenty-fivemiles east of the main line from Paris to Marseilles, and could only bereached by diligence. I think that I can safely say that no foreigner(with the exception of the Ducros' pupils) had ever set foot in Nyons,for the place was quite unknown, and there was nothing to drawstrangers there. It was an extraordinarily attractive spot, lying in alittle circular cup of a valley of the Dauphine Alps, through which abrawling river had bored its way. Nyons was celebrated for its wine,its olive oil, its silk, and its truffles, all of them superlativelygood. The ancient little walled town, basking in this sun-trap of avalley, stood out ochre-coloured against the silver-grey background ofolive trees, whilst the jagged profiles of the encircling hills werealways mistily blue, with that intense blue of which the Provence hillsseem alone to have the secret. So few English people knew anythingabout the conditions of life in a little out-of-the-way Frenchprovincial town, where no foreigners have ever set foot, that it may beworth while saying something about them. In the first place, it musthave been deadly dull for the inhabitants, for nothing whateverhappened there. Even the familiar "tea and tennis," the stereotypedmild dissipation of little English towns, was quite unknown. There wasno entertaining of any sort, beyond the formal visits the ladies wereperpetually paying each other. The Ducros alone, occasionally, askingtheir legal friends to dinner, invitations accepted with the utmostenthusiasm, for the culinary genius who presided over the Ducros'kitchen (M. Dueros' own sister) deservedly enjoyed an enormous localreputation.

Most people must be familiar with Alphonse Daudet's immortal work,Tartarin de Tarascon, in which the typical "Meridional" of SouthernFrance is portrayed with such unerring exactitude that Daudet himself,after writing the book, was never able to set foot in Tarascon again.

We had a cercle in Nyons, in the Place Napoleon (re-christened Place dela Republique after September 4, 1870), housed in three rather stately,sparsely furnished, eighteenth-century rooms. Here, with the exceptionof Tartarin himself, the counterparts of all Daudet's characters wereto be found. "Le Capitaine Bravida" was represented by Colonel Olivier,a fiercely moustached and imperialled Crimean veteran, who perpetuallybreathed fire and swords on any potential enemy of France. "Costecalde"found his prototype in M. Sichap, who, although he had in allprobability never fired off a gun in his life, could never see a tamepigeon, or even a sparrow flying over him, without instantly puttinghis walking-stick to his shoulder and loudly ejacul*ting, "Pan, pan,"which was intended to counterfeit the firing of both barrels of a gun.I once asked M. Sichap why so excellent a shot as he (with awalking-stick) invariably missed his bird with his first barrel, andonly brought him down with his second. This was quite a new light to M.Sichap, who had hithered considered the double "Pan, pan," anindispensable adjunct to the pantomime of firing a gun; much as myyoung brother and I had once imagined "Ug, ug," an obligatorycommencement to any remark made by a Red Indian "brave."

In so remote a place as Nyons, over four hundred miles from thecapital, the glamour of Paris exercised a magical attraction. The fewinhabitants of Nyons who had ever visited Paris, or even merely passedthrough it, were never quite as other people, some little remnant of anaureole encircled them. The dowdy little wife of M. Pelissier, who hadfirst seen the light in some grubby suburb of Paris, eitherLevallois-Perret or Clichy, held an immense position in Nyons on thestrength of being "une vraie Parisienne," and most questions of tastewere referred to her. M. Sisteron, the collector of taxes, himself anative of Nyons, had twenty years before gone to Paris on business, andspent four days there. There were the darkest rumours current in Nyons,to the effect that M. Sisteron had spent these four days in a whirl ofthe most frantic and abandoned dissipation. It was popularly supposedthat these four days in Paris, twenty years ago, had so completelyunsettled M. Sisteron that life in Nyons had lost all zest for him. Hewas perpetually hungering for the delirious joys of the metropolis;even the collection of taxes no longer afforded him the faintestgratification. Every inhabitant of Nyons was secretly proud of beingable to claim so dare-devil a roysterer as a fellow-townsman. Thememory of those rumored four hectic days in Paris clung round him likea halo; it became almost a pleasure to pay taxes to so celebrated acharacter. M. Sisteron was short, paunchy, bald, and bearded. He was amodel husband and a pattern as a father. I am persuaded that he hadspent those four days in Paris in the most blameless and innocuousfashion, living in the cheapest hotel he could find, and, after themanner of the people of Nyons, never spending one unnecessary franc.Still, the legend of his lurid four days, and of the amount ofchampagne he had consumed during them, persisted. In moments ofexpansion, his intimate friends would dig him in the ribs, rememberingthose four feverish days, with a facetious, "Ah! vieux polisson deSisteron, va! Nous autres, nous n'avons pas fait des farces a Parisdans notre jeunesse!" to M. Sisteron's unbounded delight. It was in thegenuine spirit of Tartarin de Tarascon, with all the mutualmake-believe on both sides. His wife, Mme. Sisteron, was fond ofassuring her friends that she owed her excellent health to the factthat she invariably took a bath twice a year, whether she required itor not.

The other members of the cercle were also mostly short, tubby,black-bearded, and olive-complexioned. When not engaged in playing"manille" for infinitesimal points, they would all shout andgesticulate violently, as only Southern Frenchmen can, relapsing as thediscussion grew more heated into their native Provencal, for thoughNyons is geographically in Dauphine, climatically and racially it is inProvence. In Southern France the "Langue d'Oil," the literary languageof Paris and Northern France, has never succeeded in ousting the"Langue d'Oc," the language of the Troubadours. From hearing so muchProvencal talked round me, I could not help picking up some of it. Itwas years before I could rid myself of the habit of inquiring quezaco?instead of "qu'est ce que c'est?" and of substituting for "Comment celava-t-il?" the Provencal Commoun as? I found, too, that it was unusualelsewhere to address people in our Nyons fashion as "Te, mon bon!"

Those swarthy, amply waistcoated, voluble little men were really verygood fellows in spite of their excitability and torrents of talk.

The Southern Frenchmen divide Europe into the "Nord" and the "Midi."The "Nord" is hardly worth talking about, the sun never really shinesthere, and no garlic or oil is used in cookery in those benightedregions. The town of Lyons is considered to be in the "Nord," althoughwe should consider it well in the south of France. To the curious insuch matters, it may be pointed out that the line of demarcationbetween "Nord" and "Midi" is perfectly well defined. In travelling fromParis to Marseilles, between Valence and Montelimar, the observer willnote that quite abruptly the type of house changes. In place of thehigh-pitched roof of Northern Europe the farm-houses suddenly assumeflat roofs of fluted tiles, with projecting eaves, after the Italianfashion; at the same time the grey-green olive trees put in a firstappearance. Then you are in the "Midi," and any black-bearded,olive-complexioned, stumpy little men in the carriage will give a sighof relief, for now, at last, the sun will begin to shine.

Nyons had been for two hundred years a Huguenot stronghold, so for aFrench town an unusual proportion of its inhabitants were Protestants,and there was, oddly enough, a colony of French Wesleyans there.

M. Ducros' father had been the Protestant pasteur of Nyons forforty-four years. He was eighty-six years old, and on week-days the oldgentleman dozed in the sun all day, and was quite senile and gaga. OnSundays, no sooner had he ascended the pulpit than his faculties seemedto return to him, and he would preach interminable but perfectlycoherent sermons with a vigour astonishing in so old a man, only torelapse into childishness again on returning home, and to remain seniletill the following Sunday.

The Ducros lived in a large farm-house on the outskirts of the town. Itwas a farm without any livestock, for there is no grass whatever inthat part of France, and consequently no pasture for cattle or sheep.Every one in Nyons kept goats for milk, and, quaintly enough, they fedthem on the dried mulberry leaves the silkworms had left over. Forevery one reared silkworms too, a most lucrative industry. The Frenchspeak of "making" silkworms (faire des vers-a-soie). Lucrative as itis, it would never succeed in England even if the white mulberry couldbe induced to grow, for successful silkworm rearing demands suchcontinual watchfulness and meticulous attention as only French peoplecan give; English people "couldn't be bothered" to expend such minutecare on anything they were doing.

Every foot of the Ducros' property was carefully cultivated, withvineyards above on the terraced hillside, olive-yards below, andmulberry trees on the lower levels. Our black mulberry, with itscloying, luscious fruit, is not the sort used for silkworms; it is thewhite mulberry, which does not fruit, that these clever littlealchemists transmute into glossy, profitable cocoons of silk. TheDucros made their own olive-oil, and their own admirable wine.

In that sun-drenched cup amongst the hills, roses bloomed all the yearround. I always see Nyons with my inner eyes from the terrace in frontof the house, the air fragrant with roses, and the soothing gurgle ofthe fountain below in my ears as it splashed melodiously into its stonereservoir, the little town standing out a vivid yellow against thesilver background of olive trees, and the fantastic outlines of thesurrounding hills steeped in that wonderful deep Provencal blue. Inspite of its dullness, I and the three other pupils liked the place. Weall grew very fond of the charming Ducros family, we appreciated thewonderful beauty of the little spot, we climbed all the hills, and,above all, we had each hired a velocipede. Not a bicycle (except thatit certainly had two wheels); not a so-called "ordinary," as thosemachines with one immensely high, shining, nickel-plated wheel and alittle dwarf brother following it, were for some inexplicable reasontermed; but an original antediluvian velocipede, a genuine"bone-shaker": a clumsy contrivance with two high wooden wheels ofequal height, and direct action. Even on the level they required animmense amount of muscle to drive them along, and up the smallest hillevery ounce of available strength had to be brought into play. They didnot steer well, were very difficult to get on and off, and gave us someawful falls; still we got an immense amount of fun out of them, and wescoured all the surrounding country on them, until all four of usdeveloped gigantic calves which would have done credit to anycoal-heaver.

M. Ducros' sister was a brilliant culinary genius such as is only foundin France. We were given truffled omelets, wonderful salads of eggs,anchovies, and tunny-fish, ducks with oranges and olives, and otherdelicacies of the Provencal cuisine prepared by a consummate artist,and those four English cubs termed them all "muck," and clamoured forplain roast mutton and boiled potatoes. It really was a case of castingpearls before swine! Those ignorant hobbledehoys actually turned uptheir noses at the admirable "Cotes du Rhone" wine, and begged forbeer. In justice I must add that we were none of us used to truffles orolives, nor to the oil which replaces butter in Provencal cookery.Mlle. Louise, the sister, was pained, but not surprised. She had neverleft Nyons, and, from her experience of a long string of Englishpupils, was convinced that all Englishmen were savages. They inhabitedan island enveloped in dense fog from year's end to year's end. Theyhad never seen the sun, and habitually lived on half-raw "rosbif." Itwas only natural that such young barbarians should fail to appreciatethe cookery of so celebrated a cordon-bleu, which term, I may add, isonly applicable to a woman-cook, and can never be used of a man. Thistruly admirable woman made us terrines of truffled foie-gras such aseven Strasburg could not surpass, and gave them to us for breakfast. Iblush to own that those four benighted boys asked for eggs and baconinstead.

Although M. Ducros had heard English talked around him for so manyyears, he had all the average Frenchman's difficulty in assimilatingany foreign language. His knowledge of our tongue was confined to oneword only, and that a most curiously chosen word. "Slop-basin" was thebeginning and end of his knowledge of the English language. M. Ducrosused his one word of English only in moments of great elation. Should,for instance, his sister Mlle. Louise have surpassed herself in thekitchen, M. Ducros, after tasting her chef d'oeuvre, would joyouslyejacul*te, "Slop-basin!" several times over. It was understood in hisfamily that "slop-basin" always indicated that the master of the housewas in an extremely contented frame of mind.

The judicial system of France is not as concentrated as ours. EverySous-prefecture in France has its local Civil Court with a PresidingJudge, an Assistant Judge, and a "Substitut." The latter, in smalltowns, is the substitute for the Procureur de la Republique, or PublicProsecutor. The legal profession in France is far more "clannish" thanwith us, for lawyers have always played a great part in the history ofFrance. The so-called "Parlements" (not to be confounded with ourParliament) had had, up to the time of the French Revolution, verylarge powers indeed. They were originally Supreme Courts of Justice,but by the fifteenth century they could not only make, on their ownaccount, regulations having the force of laws, but had acquiredindependent administrative powers. Originally the "Parlement de Paris"stood alone, but as time went on, in addition to this, thirteen orfourteen local "Parlements" administered France. After the Revolution,the term was only applied to Supreme Courts, without administrativepowers. M. Ducros was Assistant Judge of the Nyons Tribunal, and theDucros were rather fond of insisting that they belonged to the oldnoblesse de robe.

As a child I could speak French as easily as English, and even aftereight years of French lessons at school, my French was still tuckedaway in some corner of my head; but I had, of course, only a child'svocabulary, sufficient for a child's simple wants. Under Madame Ducros'skilful tuition I soon began to acquire an adult vocabulary, and itbecame no effort to me whatever to talk.

The French judicial system seems to demand perpetual judicial inquiries(enquetes) in little country places. M. Ducros invited me to accompanyhim, the President, and the "Substitut" on one of these enquetes, andthese three, with their tremendous spirits, their perpetual jokes, andabove all with their delightful gaiete francaise, amused me soenormously, that I jumped at a second invitation. So it came about intime, that I invariably accompanied them, and when we started in theshabby old one-horse cabriolet soon after 7 a.m., "notre ami le petitAngliche" was always perched on the box. My suspicions may beunfounded, but I somehow think that these enquetes were conducted notso much on account of legal exigencies as for the gastronomicpossibilities at the end of the journey, for all our inquiries weremade in little towns celebrated for some local chef. These three merrybons-vivants revelled in the pleasures of the table, and on our arrivalat our destinations, before the day's work was entered upon, there wereanxious and even heated discussions with "Papa Charron," "Pere Vinay,"or whatever the name of the local artist might be, as to thecomparative merits of truffles or olives as an accompaniment to afilet, or the rival claims of mushrooms or tunny-fish as a worthylining of an omelet. The legal business being all disposed of by twoo'clock, we four would approach the great ceremony of the day, themidday dinner, with tense expectancy. The President could never keepout of the kitchen, from which he returned with most assuring reports:"Cette fois ca y est, mes amis," he would jubilantly exclaim, rubbinghis hands, and even "Papa Charron" himself bearing in the first dish,his face scorched scarlet from his cooking-stove, would confidentlyaver that "MM. les juges seront contents aujourd'hui."

The crowning seal of approbation was always put on by M. Ducros, who,after tasting the masterpiece, would cry exultantly, "Bravo!Slop-basin! Slop-basin!" should it fulfil his expectations. I havepreviously explained that M. Ducros' solitary word of English expressedsupreme satisfaction, whilst his friends looked on, with unconcealedadmiration at their colleague's linguistic powers. It sounds like arecord of three gormandising middle-aged men; but it was not quitethat, though, like most French people, they appreciated artisticcookery. It is impossible for me to convey in words the charm of thatdelightful gaiete francaise, especially amongst southern Frenchmen. Itbubbles up as spontaneously as the sparkle of champagne; they were allas merry as children, full of little quips and jokes, and plays uponwords. Our English "pun" is a clumsy thing compared to the finesse of aneatly-turned French calembour. They all three, too, had aninexhaustible supply of those peculiarly French pleasantries known aspetites gauloiseries. I know that I have never laughed so much in mylife. It is only southern Frenchmen who can preserve this unquenchabletorrent of animal spirits into middle life. I was only seventeen; theywere from twenty to thirty years my seniors, yet I do not think that wemutually bored each other the least. They did not need the stimulus ofalcohol to aid this flow of spirits, for, like most Frenchmen of thatclass, they were very abstemious, although the "Patron" always producedfor us "un bon vieux vin de derriere les fa*gots," or "un joli petit vinqui fait rire." It was sheer "joie de-vivre" stimulated by the goodfood and that spontaneous gaiete francaise which appeals soirresistibly to me. The "Substitut" always preserved a ratherdeferential attitude before the President and M. Ducros, for theybelonged to the magistrature assise, whilst he merely formed part ofthe magistrature debout The French word magistrat is not the equivalentof our magistrate, the French term for which is "Juge de Paix." Amagistrat means a Judge or a Public Prosecutor.

From being so much with the judges, I grew quite learned in Frenchlegal terms, talked of the parquet (which means the Bar), andinvariably termed the grubby little Nyons law-court the Palais. Irather fancy that I considered myself a sort of honorary member of theFrench Bar. Strictly speaking, Palais only applies to a Court of Law;old-fashioned Frenchmen always speak of the Chateau de Versailles, orthe Chateau de Fontainbleau, never of the Palais.

There was always plenty to see in these little southern towns whilstthe judges were at work. In one village there was a perfume factory,where essential oils of sweet-scented geranium, verbena, lavender, andthyme were distilled for the wholesale Paris perfumers; a fragrantplace, where every operation was carried on with that minute attentionto detail which the French carry into most things that they do, for,unlike the inhabitants of an adjacent island, they consider that if athing is worth doing at all, it is worth taking trouble over.

In another village there was a wholesale dealer in silkworms' eggs,imported direct from China. Besides the eggs, he had a host of Chinesecurios to dispose of, besides quaint little objects in everyday use inChina.

Above all there was Grignan, with its huge and woefully dilapidatedchateau, the home of Mme. de Sevigne's daughter, the Comtesse deGrignan. It was to Grignan that this queen of letter-writers addressedmuch of her correspondence to her adored daughter, between 1670 and1695, and Mme. de Sevigne herself was frequently a visitor there.

Occasionally the judges, the Substitut, and I made excursions furtherafield by diligence to Orange, Vaucluse, and Avignon, quite outside ourjudicial orbit. Orange, a drowsy little spot, has still a splendidRoman triumphal arch and a Roman theatre in the most perfect state ofpreservation. Orange was once a little independent principality, andgives its name to the Royal Family of Holland, the sister of the lastof the Princes of Orange having married the Count of Nassau, whence theHouse of Orange-Nassau. Indirectly, sleepy little Orange has also givenits name to a widely-spread political and religious organisation ofsome influence.

Vaucluse, most charming of places, in its narrow leafy valley,surrounded by towering cliffs, is celebrated as having been the home ofPetrarch for sixteen years during the thirteen hundreds. We may hopethat his worshipped Laura sometimes brightened his home there with herpresence. The famous Fountain of Vaucluse rushes out from its cave afull-grown river. It wastes no time in infant frivolities, but settlesdown to work at once, turning a mill within two hundred yards of itsbirthplace.

Avignon is another somnolent spot. The gigantic and gloomy Palace ofthe Popes dominates the place, though it is far more like a fortressthan a palace. Here the Popes lived from 1309 to 1377 during theirenforced abandonment of Rome, and Avignon remained part of the Papaldominions until the French Revolution. The President took less interestin the Palace of the Popes than he did in a famous cook at one of theAvignon hotels. He could hardly recall some of the plats of this notedartist without displaying signs of deep emotion. These ancient towns onthe banks of the swift-rushing green Rhone seemed to me to beperpetually dozing in the warm sun, like old men, dreaming of theirhistoric and varied past since the days of the Romans.

My French legal friends were much exercised by a recent decision of theHigh Court. M. Thiers had been President of the Republic from 1870 to1873. A distant cousin of his living in Marseilles, being in pecuniarydifficulties, had applied ineffectually to M. Thiers for assistance.Whereupon the resourceful lady had opened a restaurant in Marseilles,and had had painted over the house-front in gigantic letters,"Restaurant tenu par la cousine de Monsieur Thiers." She was proceededagainst for bringing the Head of the State into contempt, was finedheavily, and made to remove the offending inscription. My Frenchfriends hotly contested the legality of this decision. They declaredthat it was straining the sense of the particular Article of the Codeto make it applicable in such a case, and that it was illogical toapply the law of Lese-majeste to the Head of a Republican State. ThePresident pertinently added that no evidence as to the quality of foodsupplied in the restaurant had been taken. If bad, it mightunquestionably reflect injuriously on the Head of the State; if good,on the other hand, in view of the admitted relationship of theproprietress of the restaurant to him, it could only redound to M.Thiers' credit. This opens up interesting possibilities. Ifrelationship to a prominent politician may be utilised for businesspurposes, we may yet see in English watering-places the facades ofhouses blazoned with huge inscriptions: "This Private Hotel is kept bya fourth cousin of Lord Rose—," whilst facing it, gold letteringproudly proclaims that "The Proprietress of this Establishment is adistant relative of Mr. Ar—Bal—"; or, to impart variety, at the nextturning the public might perhaps be informed in gleaming capitals that"The Cashier in this Hotel is connected by marriage with Mr. As—-."The idea really offers an unlimited field for private enterprise.

The political situation in France was very strained at the beginning of1874. Marshal MacMahon had succeeded M. Thiers as President of theRepublic, and it was well known that the Marshal, as well as theRoyalist majority in the French Chamber, favoured the restoration ofthe Bourbon Monarchy, represented by the Comte de Chambord, as head ofthe elder branch. People of the type of M. Ducros, and of the Presidentof the Nyons Tribunal, viewed the possible return of a LegitimistBourbon Monarchy with the gravest apprehension. Given the character ofthe Comte de Chambord, they felt it would be a purely reactionaryregime. Traditionally, the elder branch of the Bourbons were incapableof learning anything, and equally incapable of forgetting anything.These two shrewd lawyers had both been vigorous opponents of theBonapartist regime, but they pinned their faith on the Orleans branch,inexplicably enough to me, considering the treacherous record of thatfamily. They never could mention the name of a member of the Orleansfamily without adding, "Ah! les braves gens!" the very last epithet inthe world I should have dreamed of applying to them. All thenegotiations with the Comte de Chambord fell through, owing to hisobstinacy (to which I have referred earlier) in refusing to accept theTricolor as the national flag. Possibly pig-headed obstinacy; but inthese days of undisguised opportunism, it is rare to find a man whodeliberately refuses a throne on account of his convictions. I do notthink that the Comte de Chambord would have been a success inpresent-day British politics. A crisis was averted by extending MarshalMacMahon's tenure of the Presidency to seven years, the "Septennat," asit was called. Before two years the Orleanists, who had always a keenappreciation of the side on which their bread was buttered, "rallied"to the Republic. I rather fancy that some question connected with thereturn of the confiscated Orleans fortunes came into play here. Theadherents of the Comte de Chambord always spoke of him as Henri V. Forsome reason (perhaps euphony) they were invariably known as "HenriQuinquists." In the same way, the French people speak of the EmperorCharles V. as "Charles Quint," never as "Charles Cinq."

My friends the Nyons lawyers were fond of alluding to themselves asforming part of the bonne bourgeoisie. It is this bonne bourgeoisie whoform the backbone of France. Frugal, immensely industrious, cultured,and with a very high standard of honour, they are far removed from thefrivolous, irresponsible types of French people to be seen at smartwatering-places, and they are less dominated by that inordinate love ofmoney which is an unpleasant element in the national character, andobscures the good qualities of the hard-working French peasants, makingthem grasping and avaricious.

It must be admitted that this class of the French bourgeoisie surveysthe world from rather a Chinese standpoint. The Celestial, as is wellknown, considers all real civilisation confined to China. Every oneoutside the bounds of the Middle Kingdom is a barbarian. This is ratherthe view of the French bourgeois. He is convinced that all truecivilisation is centred in France, and that other countries are onlycivilised in proportion as French influence has filtered through tothem. He will hardly admit that other countries can have an art andliterature of their own, especially should neither of them conform toFrench standards. This is easily understood, for the average Frenchmanknows no language but his own, has never travelled, and has nocuriosity whatever about countries outside France. When, in addition,it is remembered how paramount French literary and artistic influencewas during the greater portion of the seventeenth and eighteenthcenturies, and how universal the use of the French language was inNorthern Continental Europe amongst educated people, the point of viewbecomes quite intelligible.

In spite of this, I enjoyed my excursions with these delightful Frenchlawyers quite enormously. The other pupils never accompanied us, forthey found it difficult to keep up a conversation in French.

The average intellectual level is unquestionably far higher in Francethan in England, nor is it necessary to give, to a people accustomedfor generations to understand a demi-mot, the elaborate explanationsusually necessary in England when the conversation has got beyond themental standards of a child six years old. The French, too, are notaddicted to perpetual wool-gathering. Nor can I conceive of aFrenchwoman endeavouring to make herself attractive by representingherself as so hopelessly "vague" that she can never be trusted toremember anything, or to avoid losing all her personal possessions.Idiocy, whether genuine or feigned, does not appeal to the Frenchtemperament. The would-be fascinating lady would most certainly bereferred to as "une dinde de premiere classe."

The French are the only thoroughly logical people in the world, andtheir excessive development of the logical faculty leads them at timesinto pitfalls. "Ils ont lesdefauts de leurs qualites." In this countrywe have found out that systems, absolutely indefensible in theory, attimes work admirably well in practice, and give excellent results. NoFrenchman would ever admit that anything unjustifiable in theory couldpossibly succeed in practice—"Ce n'est pas logique," he would object,and there would be the end of it.

The Substitut informed me one day that he was making a "retreat" forthree days at the Monastery of La Trappe d'Aiguebelle, and asked me ifI would care to accompany him. To pass three days in a TrappistMonastery certainly promised a novel experience, but I pointed out thatI was a Protestant, and that I could hardly expect the monks to welcomeme with open arms. He answered that he would explain matters, and thatthe difference of religion would be overlooked. So off we started, andafter an interminable drive reached a huge, gaunt pile of buildings invery arid surroundings. The "Hospice" where visitors were lodged stoodapart from the Monastery proper, the Chapel lying in between. It wasexplained to me that I must observe the rule of absolute silence withinthe building, and that I would be expected to be in bed by 8.15 p.m.and to rise at 5 a.m. like the rest of the guests. It was furtherconveyed to me that they hoped that I would see my way to attend Chapelat 5.30 a.m., afterwards I should be free for the remainder of the day.Talking and smoking were both permitted in the garden. I was given amicroscopic whitewashed cell, most beautifully clean, containing a verysmall bed, one chair, a gas-jet, a prie-Dieu, a real human skull, andnothing else whatever. We went to dinner in a great arched refectory,where a monk, perched up in a high pulpit, read us Thomas a Kempis in adroning monotone. Complete silence was observed. At La Trappe no meator butter is ever used, but we were given a most excellent dinner ofvegetable soup, fish, omelets, and artichokes dressed with oil,accompanied by the monks' admirable home-grown wine. There were quite anumber of visitors making "retreats," and I had hard work keeping themuscles of my face steady, as they made pantomimic signs to thelay-brothers who waited on us, for more omelet or more wine. Afterdinner the "Frere Hospitalier," a jolly, rotund little lay-brother, whowore a black stole over his brown habit as a sign that he was allowedto talk, drew me on one side in the garden. As I was a heretic (he putit more politely) and had the day to myself, would I do him a favour?He was hard put to it to find enough fish for all these guests; would Icatch him some trout in the streams in the forest? I asked for nothingbetter, but I had no trout-rod with me. He produced a rod, SUCH atrout-rod! A long bamboo with a piece of string tied to it! To fish fortrout with a worm was contrary to every tradition in which I had beenreared, but adaptability is a great thing, so with two turns of a spadeI got enough worms for the afternoon, and started off. The Foretd'Aiguebelle is not a forest in our acceptation of the term, but anendless series of little bare rocky hills, dotted with pines, andfragrant with tufts of wild lavender, thyme and rosemary. It wasintersected with two rushing, beautifully clear streams. I cannotconceive where all the water comes from in that arid land. In sun-bakedNyons, water could be got anywhere by driving a tunnel into the parchedhillsides, when sooner or later an abundant spring would be tapped.These French trout were either ridiculously unsophisticated, or elsevery weary of life: they simply asked to be caught. I got quite a heavybasket, to the great joy of the "Frere Hospitalier," and I got far morenext day. Though we had to rise at five, we got no breakfast tilleight, and a very curious breakfast it was. Every guest had a yard ofbread, and two saucers placed in front of him; one containing honey,the other shelled walnuts. We dipped the walnuts in the honey, and atethem with the bread, and excellent they were. In the place of coffee,which was forbidden, we had hot milk boiled with borage to flavour it,quite a pleasant beverage. The washing arrangements being primitive, Iwaited until every one was safely occupied in Chapel for an hour and ahalf, and then had a swim in the reservoir which supplied the monasterywith water, and can only trust that I did not dirty it much. I wasgreatly disappointed with the singing in the severe, unadorned Chapel;it was plainsong, without any organ or instrument. The effect of sogreat a body of voices might have been imposing had not the intonation(as kindly critics say at times of a debutante) been a littleuncertain. As Trappists never speak, one could understand their losingtheir voices, but it seems curious that they should have lost theirears as well, though possibly it was only the visitors who sang soterribly out of tune.

I was taken all over the Monastery next day by the "Pere Hospitalier,"who, like his brown-frocked lay-brother, wore a black stole over hiswhite habit, as a badge of office. With the exception of the finecloisters, there were no architectural features whatever about thesquat, massive pile of buildings. The modern chapel, studiously severein its details, bore the unmistakable imprint of Viollet-le-Duc'ssoulless, mathematically correct Gothic. Personally, I think thatViollet-le-Duc spoiled every ancient building in France which he"restored." I was taken into the refectory to see the monks' dinnersalready laid out for them. They consisted of nothing but bread andsalad, but with such vast quantities of each! Each monk had a yard-longloaf of bread, a bottle of wine and an absolute stable-bucket of salad,liberally dressed with oil and vinegar. The oil supplied the fatnecessary for nutrition, still it was a meagre enough dinner for menwho had been up since 3 a.m. and had done two hours' hard work in thevegetable gardens. The "Pere Hospitalier" told me that not one scrap ofbread or lettuce would be left at the conclusion of the repast. Theimmense austerity of the place impressed me very much. The monks allslept on plank-beds, but they were not allowed to remain on these hardresting-places after 3 a.m. Their "Rule" was certainly a very severeone. I was told that the monks prepared Tincture of Arnica formedicinal purposes in an adjoining factory, arnica growing wildeverywhere in the Forest, and that the sums realised by the sale ofthis drug added materially to their revenues.

Next day both the Substitut and I were to be received by the Abbot. Itstruck me as desirable that we should have our interviews separately,for as the Substitut was making a "retreat," he might wish to say manyprivate things to the Abbot which he would not like me, a heretic, tooverhear. As soon as he had finished, I was ushered in alone to theAbbot's parlour. I found the Abbot very dignified and very friendly,but what possible subject of conversation could a Protestant youth ofseventeen find which would interest the Father Superior of a FrenchMonastery, presumably indifferent to everything that passed outside itswalls? Suddenly I had an inspiration: the Arian Heresy! We had had fourlessons on this interesting topic at Chittenden's five years earlier(surely rather an advanced subject for little boys of twelve!), andsome of the details still stuck in my head. A brilliant idea! Soon wewere at it hammer and tongs; discussing Arius, Alexander, andAthanasius; the Council of Nicaea, Hosius of Cordova, hom*o-ousion andhom*oi-ousion; Eusebius of Nicomedia, and his namesake of Caesarea.

Without intending any disrespect to these two eminent Fathers of theChurch, the two Eusebius' always reminded me irresistibly of the twoAjaxes of Offenbach's opera-bouffe. La Belle Helene, or, later on, ofthe "Two Macs" of the music-hall stage of the "nineties." I blessed Mr.Chittenden for having so thoughtfully provided me with conversationalsmall-change suitable for Abbots. The Abbot was, I think, a littlesurprised at my theological lore. He asked me where I had acquired it,and when I told him that it was at school, he presumed that I had beenat a seminary for youths destined for the priesthood, an idea whichwould have greatly shocked the ultra-Evangelical Mr. Chittenden.

I was very glad that I had passed those three days at La Trappe, for itgave one a glimpse into a wholly unsuspected world. The impression ofthe tremendous severity with which the lives of the monks wereregulated, remained with me. The excellent monks made the most absurdlysmall charges for our board and lodging. Years afterwards I spent anight in an Orthodox Monastery in Russia, when I regretfully recalledthe scrupulous cleanliness of La Trappe. Never have I shared a couchwith so many uninvited guests, and never have I been so ruthlesslydevoured as in that Russian Monastery.

With June at Nyons, silkworm time arrived. Three old women, celebratedfor their skill in rearing silkworms, came down from the mountains, andthe magnanerie, as lofts devoted to silkworm culture are called, wasfilled with huge trays fashioned with reeds. The old women had a verystrenuous fortnight or so, for silkworms demand immense care andattention. The trays have to be perpetually cleaned out, and all stalemulberry leaves removed, for the quality and quantity of the silkdepend on the most scrupulous cleanliness. To preserve an eventemperature, charcoal fires were lighted in the magnanerie, until thelittle black caterpillars, having transformed themselves into repulsiveflabby white worms, these worms became obsessed with the desire toincrease the world's supply of silk, and to gratify them, twigs wereplaced in the trays for them to spin their cocoons on. The cocoonsspun, they were all picked off, and baked in the public ovens of thetown, in order to kill the chrysalis inside. Nothing prettier can beimagined than the streets of Nyons, with white sheets laid in front ofevery house, each sheet heaped high with glittering, shimmering,gleaming piles of silk-cocoons, varying in shade from paleststraw-colour to deep orange. If pleasant to the eye, they were lessgrateful to the nose, for freshly baked cocoons have the most offensiveodour. The silk-buyers from Lyons then made their appearance, and theseshining heaps of gold thread were transformed into a more portable formof gold, which found its way into the pockets of the inhabitants.

The peculiarly French capacity for taking infinite pains, of which agood example is this silkworm culture, has its drawbacks, when carriedinto administrative work. My friend M. David, the post-master of Nyons,showed me his official instructions. They formed a volume as big as afamily Bible. It would have taken years to learn all these regulations.The simplest operations were made enormously complicated. Let any onecompare the time required for registering a letter or a parcel inEngland, with the time a similar operation in France will demand. M.David showed me the lithographed sheet giving the special forms ofnumerals, 1, 2, 3, and so on, which French postal officials arerequired to make. These differ widely from the forms in general use.

I have my own suspicions that similar sheets are issued to the cashiersin French restaurants. Personally, I can never read one single item inthe bill, much less the cost, and I can only gaze in hopelessbewilderment at the long-tailed hieroglyphics, recalling a backwardchild's first attempts at "pot-hooks."

The infinite capacity of the French for taking trouble, and theirminute attention to detail, tend towards unnecessary complications ofsimple matters. Thus, on English railways we find two main types ofsignals sufficient for our wants, whereas on French lines there arefive different main types of signal. On English lines we have twosecondary signals, against eight in France, all differing widely inshape and appearance. Again, on a French locomotive the driver has farmore combinations at his command for efficient working under varyingconditions, than is the case in England. The trend of the national mindis towards complicating details rather than simplifying them.

Delightful as was the winter climate of Nyons, that sun-scorched littlecup amongst the hills became a place of positive torment as the summeradvanced. The heat was absolutely unendurable. Day and night, thousandsof cicades (the cigales of the French) kept up their incessant "dzig,dzig, dzig," a sound very familiar to those who have sojourned in thetropics. Has Nature given this singular insect the power of dispensingwith sleep? What possible object can it hope to attain by keeping upthis incessant din? If a love-song, surely the most optimistic cicadamust realise that his amorous strains can never reach the ears of hislady-love, since hundreds of his brethren are all keeping up the sameperpetual purposeless chirping, which must obviously drown anyindividual effort. Have the cicadas a double dose of gaiete francaisein their composition, and is this their manner of expressing it? Arethey, like some young men we know, always yearning to turn night intoday? All these are, and will remain, unsolved problems?

As I found the summer heat of Nyons unbearable, I went back to Englandfor a holiday, and, on the morning of my departure, climbed some olivetrees and captured fourteen live cicadas, whom I imprisoned in aperforated cardboard box, and took back to London with me. Twelve ofthem survived the journey, and as soon as I had arrived, I carefullyplaced the cicadas on the boughs of the trees in our garden in GreenStreet, Grosvenor Square. Conceive the surprise of these travelledinsects at finding themselves on the soot-laden branches of a grimyLondon tree! The dauntless little creatures at once recommenced their"dzig, dzig, dzig," in their novel environment, and kept it upuninterruptedly for twenty-four hours, in spite of the lack ofappreciation of my family, who complained that their night's rest hadbeen seriously interfered with by the unaccustomed noise. Next eveningthe cicadas were silent. Possibly they had been choked with soot, orhad fallen a prey to London cats; but my own theory is that theysuccumbed to the after-effects of a rough Channel passage, to which, ofcourse, they would not have been accustomed. Anyhow, for the first timein the history of the world, the purlieus of Grosvenor Square rang withthe shrill chirping of cicadas for twenty-four hours on end.

Six months later I regretfully bid farewell to Nyons, and went directfrom there to Germany. After studying the Teutonic tongue for two and ahalf years at Harrow I was master of just two words in it, ja and nein,so unquestionably there were gaps to fill up.

I was excedingly sorry to leave the delightful Ducros family who hadtreated me so kindly, and I owe a deep debt of gratitude to comely Mme.Ducros for the careful way in which she taught me history. In teachinghistory she used what I may call the synoptic method, taking periods offifty years, and explaining contemporaneous events in France, Italy,Germany, and England during that period.

With the exception of one friendly visit to the Ducros, I have neverseen pleasant Nyons again. Of late years I have often meditated apilgrimage to that sunny little cup in the Dauphine hills, but havehesitated owing to one of the sad penalties advancing years bring withthem; every single one of my friends, man or woman, must have passedaway long since. I can see Nyons, with its encircling fringe of bluehills, just as vividly, perhaps, with my inner eyes as I could if itlay actually before me, and now I can still people it with the noisy,gesticulating inhabitants whom I knew and liked so much.

I may add that in Southern French style Nyons is pronounced "Nyonsse,"just as Carpentras is termed "Carpentrasse."

CHAPTER VI

Brunswick—Its beauty—High level of culture—The BrunswickTheatre—Its excellence—Gas vs. electricity—Primitive theatretoilets—Operatic stars in private life—Some operas unknown inLondon—Dramatic incidents in them—Levasseur's parody of"Robert"—Some curious details about operas—Two fiery oldPan-Germans—Influence of the teaching profession on modernGermany—The "French and English Clubs"—A meeting of the "EnglishClub"—Some reflections about English reluctance to learn foreigntongues—Mental attitude of non-Prussians in 1875—Concerning variousbeers—A German sportsman—The silent, quinine-loving youth—The HarzMountains—A "Kettle-drive" for hares—Dialects of German—The odious"Kaffee-Klatsch"—Universal gossip—Hamburg's overpoweringhospitality—Hamburg's attitude towards Britain—The city itself—Tripto British Heligoland—The island—Some peculiarities—Migratingbirds—Sir Fitzhardinge Maxse—Lady Maxse—The HeligolandTheatre—Winter in Heligoland.

BRUNSWICK had been selected for me as a suitable spot in which to learnGerman, and to Brunswick I accordingly went. As I was then eighteenyears old, I did not care to go to a regular tutor's, but wished tolive in a German family, where I was convinced I could pick up thelanguage in far shorter time. I was exceedingly fortunate in thisrespect. A well-to-do Managing Director of some jute-spinning mills hadrecently built himself a large house. Mr. Spiegelberg found not onlythat his new house was unnecessarily big for his family, but he alsodiscovered that it had cost him a great deal more than he hadanticipated. He was quite willing, therefore, to enter into anarrangement for our mutual benefit.

Brunswick is one of the most beautiful old towns in Europe, Its narrow,winding streets are (or, perhaps, were) lined with fifteenth andsixteenth century timbered houses, each storey projecting some two feetfurther over the street than the one immediately below it, and thesewooden house-fronts were one mass of the most beautiful and elaboratecarving. Imagine Staples Inn in Holborn double its present height, andwith every structural detail chiselled with patient care into intricatepatterns of fruit and foliage, and you will get some idea of aBrunswick street. The town contained four or five splendid oldchurches, and their mediaeval builders had taken advantage of thedead-flat, featureless plain in which Brunswick stands, to erect suchlofty towers as only the architects in the Low Countries ever devised;towers which served as landmarks for miles around, their soaring heightsilhouetted against the pale northern sky. The irregular streets andopen places contained one or two gems of Renaissance architecture, suchas the stone-built Town Hall and "Guild House," both very similar incharacter to buildings of the same date in sleepy old Flemish towns.The many gushing fountains of mediaeval bronze and iron-work in thestreets added to the extraordinary picturesqueness of the place. It waslike a scene from an opera in real life. It always puzzled me to thinkhow the water for these fountains can have been provided on thatdead-flat plain in pre-steam days. There must have been pumps of somesort. Before 1914, tens of thousands of tourists visited Nurembergannually, but the guide-books are almost silent about Brunswick, whichis fully as picturesque.

The standard of material comfort appeared far higher in Brunswick thanin a French provincial town. The manner in which the Spiegelbergs'house was fitted up seemed very elaborate after the simple appointmentsof the Ducros' farm-house, though nothing in the world would haveinduced me to own one single object that this Teutonic residencecontained. The Spiegelbergs treated me extremely kindly, and I wasfortunate in being quartered on such agreeable people.

At Nyons there was not one single bookseller, but Brunswick bristledwith book-shops, and, in addition, there were two of those mostexcellent lending libraries to be found in every German town. Herealmost every book ever published in German or English was to be found,as well as a few very cautiously selected French ones, for Germanparents were careful then as to what their daughters read.

The great resource of Brunswick was the theatre, such a theatre as doesnot exist in any French provincial town, and such a theatre as hasnever even been dreamed of in any British town. It was fully as largeas Drury Lane, and was subsidised by the State. I really believe thatevery opera ever written was given here, and given quite admirably. Inthis town of 60,000 inhabitants, in addition to the opera company,there was a fine dramatic company, as well as a light opera company,and a corps de ballet. Sunday, Tuesday and Saturday were devoted togrand opera, Monday to classical drama (Schiller or Shakespeare),Wednesday to modern comedy, Friday to light opera or farce. The billwas constantly changing, and every new piece produced in Berlin orVienna was duly presented to the Brunswick public. There are certainlysome things we can learn from Germany! The mounting of the operas wasmost excellent, and I have never seen better lighting effects than onthe Brunswick stage, and this, too, was all done by gas, incandescentelectric light not then being dreamed of even. I had imagined in mysimplicity that effects were far easier to produce on the modern stagesince the introduction of electric light. Sir JohnstonForbes-Robertson, than whom there can be no greater authority, tells methat this is not so. To my surprise, he declares that electric light istoo crude and white, and that it destroys all illusion. He informs methat it is impossible to obtain a convincing moonlight effect withelectricity, or to give a sense of atmosphere. Gas-light was yellow,and colour-effects were obtained by dropping thin screens of colouredsilk over the gas-battens in the flies. This diffused the light, whicha crude blue or red electric bulb does not do. Sir JohnstonForbes-Robertson astonished me by telling me that Henry Irving alwaysrefused to have electric light on the stage at the Lyceum, though hehad it in the auditorium. All those marvellous and complicated effects,which old playgoers must well recollect in Irving's Lyceum productions,were obtained with gas. I remember the lovely sunset, with itsafter-glow fading slowly into night, in the garden scene of the Lyceumversion of Faust, and this was all done with gas. The factor of safetyis another matter. With rows of flaming gas-battens in the flies,however carefully screened off, and another row of "gas lengths" in thewings, and flaring "ground-rows" in close proximity to highlyinflammable painted canvas, the inevitable destiny of a gas-lit theatreis only a question of time. The London theatres of the "sixties" allhad a smell of mingled gas and orange-peel, which I thought delicious.

Mr. Spiegelberg most sensibly suggested that as I was absolutelyignorant of German, the easiest manner in which I could accustom myears to the sound of the language would be to take an abonnement at thetheatre, and to go there nightly. So for the modest sum of thirtyshillings per month, I found myself entitled to a stall in the secondrow, with the right of seeing thirty performances a month. I went everynight to the theatre, and there was no monotony about it, for the sameperformance was never repeated twice in one month. I have seen, Ithink, every opera ever written, and every single one of Shakespeare'stragedies. A curious trait in the German character is pettyvindictiveness. A certain Herr Behrens had signed a contract asprincipal bass with the Brunswick management. Getting a far morelucrative offer from Vienna, the prudent Behrens had paid a fine, andthrown over the Brunswick theatre. For eighteen months the unfortunateman was pilloried every night on the theatre programmes. Everyplay-bill had printed on it in large letters, "Kontrakt-bruchig HerrBehrens," never allowing the audience to forget that poor Behrens was aconvicted "contract-breaker."

Half Brunswick went to the theatre every night of its life. The ladiesmade no pretence of elaborate toilets, but contented themselves withputting two tacks into the necks of their day gowns so as to make aV-shaped opening. (With present fashions this would not be necessary.)Over this they placed one of those appalling little arrangements ofimitation lace and blue or pink bows, to be seen in the shop windows ofevery German town, and known, I think, as Theater-Garnitures. They thendrew on a pair of dark plum-coloured gloves, and their toilet wascomplete. The contrast between the handsome white-and-gold theatre andthe rows of portly, dowdy matrons, each one with her ample bosomswathed in a piece of antimacassar, was very comical. Every abonne hadhis own peg for hanging his coat and hat on, and this, and the factthat one's neighbours in the stalls were invariably the same, gavequite a family atmosphere to the Brunswick theatre.

The conductor was Franz Abt the composer, and the musical standard ofthe operatic performances was very high indeed. The mounting was alwaysexcellent, but going to the theatre night after night, some of thescenery became very familiar. There was a certain Gothic hall whichseemed to share the mobile facilities of Aladdin's palace. This hallwas ubiquitous, whether the action of the piece lay in Germany, Italy,France, or England, Mary Queen of Scots sobbed in this hall;Wallenstein in Schiller's tragedy ranted in it; Rigoletto reproved hisflighty daughter in it. It seemed curious that personages so widelydifferent should all have selected the same firm of upholsterers to fitup their sanctums.

The Spiegelbergs had many friends in the theatrical world, and I wasimmensely thrilled one evening at learning that after the performanceof Lohengrin, Elsa and the Knight of the Swan were coming home tosupper with us. When Elsa appeared on the balcony in the second act,and the moon most obligingly immediately appeared to light up herethereal white draperies, I was much excited at reflecting that in twohours' time I might be handing this lovely maiden the mustard, and itseemed hardly credible that the resplendent Lohengrin would so soonabandon his swan in favour of the homely goose that was awaiting him atthe Spiegelbergs', although the latter would enjoy the advantage ofbeing roasted.

I was on the tip-toe of expectation until the singers arrived. FrauleinScheuerlein, the soprano, was fat, fair, and forty, all of them perhapson the liberal side. As she burst into the room, the first words Iheard from the romantic Elsa, whom I had last seen sobbing over hermatrimonial difficulties, were: "Dear Frau Spiegelberg, my..." (Elsahere used a blunt dissyllable to indicate her receptacle for food) "ishanging positively crooked with hunger. Quick! For the love of Heaven,some bread and butter and sausage, or I shall faint;" so the firstwords the heroine of the evening addressed to me were somewhat blurredowing to her mouth being full of sausage, which destroyed most of theglamour of the situation. Hedwig Scheuerlein was a big, jolly, cheerySouth-German, and she was a consummate artist in spite of her largeappetite, as was the tenor Schrotter too. Schrotter was a fair-beardedgiant, who was certainly well equipped physically for playing "heroic"parts. He had one of those penetrating virile German tenor voices thatappeal to me. These good-natured artists would sing us anything wewanted, but it was from them that I first got an inkling of those pettyjealousies that are such a disagreeable feature of the theatrical worldin every country. Buxom Scheuerlein was a very good sort, and I used tofeel immensely elated at receiving in my stall a friendly nod over thefootlights from Isolde, Aida, Marguerite, or Lucia, as the case mightbe.

I wonder why none of Meyerbeer's operas are ever given in London. The"books," being by Scribe, are all very dramatic, and lend themselves togreat spectacular display; Meyerbeer's music is always melodious, andhas a certain obvious character about it that would appeal to anaverage London audience. This is particularly true with regard to theProphete. The Coronation scene can be made as gorgeous as a Drury Lanepantomime, and the finale of the opera is thrilling, though the threeAnabaptists are frankly terrible bores. As given at Brunswick, in thelast scene the Prophet, John of Leyden, is discovered at supper withsome boon companions in rather doubtful female society. In the middleof his drinking-song the palace is blown up. There is a loud crash; thestage grows dark; hall, supper-table, and revellers all disappear; andthe curtain comes down slowly on moonlight shining over some ruins, andthe open country beyond. A splendid climax! Again, the third act ofRobert le Diable is magnificently dramatic. Bertram, the Evil One inperson, leads Robert to a deserted convent whose nuns, having brokenthe most important of their vows, have all been put to death. Thecurtain goes up on the dim cloisters of the convent, thecloister-garth, visible through the Gothic arches of the arcade, bathedin bright moonlight beyond. Bertram begins his incantations, recallingthe erring nuns from the dead. Very slowly the tombs in the cloisteropen, and dim grey figures, barely visible in the darkness, creepsilently out from the graves. Bertram waves his arms over thecloister-garth, and there, too, the tombs gape apart, and more shadowyspectres emerge. Soon the stage is full of these faint grey spectralforms. Bertram lifts his arms. The wicked nuns throw off their greywrappers, and appear glittering in scarlet and gold; the stage blazeswith light, and the ballet, the famous "Pas de Fascination," begins.When really well done, this scene is tremendously impressive.

I once heard in Paris, Levasseur, the French counterpart of our ownCorney Grain, giving a skit on Robert le Diable, illustrating variousstage conventions. Levasseur, seated at his piano, and keeping up anincessant ripple of melody, talked something like this, in French, ofcourse:—

"The stage represents Isabelle's bedroom. As is usual with stagebedrooms, Isabelle's bower is about the size of an average cathedral.It is very sparsely furnished, but near the footlights is a large giltcouch, on which Isabelle is lying fast asleep. Robert enters on tip-toevery very gently, so as not to disturb his beloved, and sings in avoice that you could hear two miles off, 'Isa-belle!' dropping a fulloctave on the last note. Isabelle half awakes, and murmurs, 'I dobelieve I heard something. I feel so nervous!' Robert advances a yard,and sings again, if anything rather louder, 'Isa-belle!' Isabelle says:'Really, my nerves do play me such tricks! I can't help fancying thatthere is some one in the room, and I am so terribly afraid of burglars.Perhaps it is only a mouse.' Robert advances right up to Isabelle'sbed, and shouts for the third time in a voice that makes the chandelierring again, 'Isa-belle!' Isabelle says, 'I don't think that I can haveimagined that. There really is some one in the room. I'm terriblyfrightened, and don't quite know what to do,' so she gets out of bed,and anxiously scans the stalls and boxes over the footlights for signsof an intruder. Finding no one there but the audience, she thensearches the gallery fruitlessly, and getting a sudden inspiration, shelooks behind her, and, to her immense astonishment, finds her loverstanding within a foot of her." This, as told with Levasseur'sinimitable drollery, was excruciatingly funny.

Robert is an expensive opera to put on, for, owing to hideousjealousies at the Paris Opera, Meyerbeer was compelled to write twoprima-donna parts which afforded the rival ladies exactly equalopportunities. In the same way Halevy, the composer of La Juive, had tore-arrange and transpose his score, for Adolphe Nourrit, the greatParis tenor, in 1835, when the opera was first produced, was jealous ofthe splendid part the bass had been given, the tenor's role being quiteinsignificant. So it came about that La Juive is the only opera inwhich the grey-bearded old father is played by the principal tenor,whilst the lover is the light tenor. Mehul's Biblical Joseph and hisBrethren is the one opera in which there are no female characters,though "Benjamin" is played by the leading soprano. In both theProphete and Favorita the contralto plays the principal part, thesoprano having a very subsidiary role. Meyerbeer wrote the part of theProphet himself specially for Roger, the great tenor, and that of"Fides" for Mme. Viardot. By the way, the famous skating scene in theProphete was part of the original production in Paris of 1849, and yetwe think roller-skating an invention of yesterday.

I had German lessons from a Professor Hentze. This old man was thefirst example of a militant German that I had come across. He wasalways talking of Germany's inevitable and splendid destiny. Although aHanoverian by birth, he was a passionate admirer of Bismarck andBismarck's policy, and was a furious Pan-German in sentiment. "Wherethe German tongue is heard, there will be the German Fatherland," hewas fond of quoting in the original. As he declared that both Dutch andFlemish were but variants of Low German, he included Holland andBelgium in the Greater Germany of the future, as well as theGerman-speaking Cantons of Switzerland, and Upper and Lower Austria.Mentally, he possibly included a certain island lying between the NorthSea and the Atlantic as well, though, out of regard for my feelings, henever mentioned it. Hentze taught English and French in half a dozenboys' and girls' schools in Brunswick, and his brother taught historyin the "Gymnasium." These two mild-mannered be-spectacled oldbachelors, who in their leisure moments took snuff and played withtheir poodle, were tremendous fire-eaters. They were both enormouslyproud of the exploits of a cousin of theirs who, under the guise of aharmless commercial traveller in wines, had been engaged in spying andmap-making for five years in Eastern France prior to 1870. It was, theyaverred (no doubt truthfully enough), owing to the labours of theircousin and of countless others like him, that the Franco-Prussian Warof 1870-71 had been such an overwhelming success for Germany. WhereGerman interests were concerned, these two old brothers could seenothing under a white light. And remember that they were teachers andtrainers of youth; it was they who had the moulding of the minds of theyoung generation. I think that any one who knows Germany well willagree with me that it is the influence of the teaching class, whetherin school or university, that has transformed the German mentality sogreatly during the last forty years. These two mild-mannered oldHentzes must have infected scores and hundreds of lads with their ownaggressively militant views. By perpetually holding up to them theirown dream of a Germany covering half Europe, they must have transmittedsome of their own enthusiasm to their pupils, and underlying thatenthusiasm was a tacit assumption that the end justified any means;that provided the goal were attained, the manner in which it had beenarrived at was a matter of quite secondary importance. I maintain thatthe damnable spirit of modern Germany is mainly due to the teachingprofession, and to the doctrines it consistently instilled into Germanyouth.

The Hentzes took in eight resident German pupils who attended thevarious schools in the town, mostly sons of wealthy Hamburgbusiness-people. Hentze was always urging me to associate more withthese lads, three of whom were of my own age, but I could discover nocommon ground whatever on which to meet them. The things thatinterested me did not appeal to them, and vice versa. They seemed to medull youths, heavy alike in mind and body. From lack of sufficientfresh air and exercise they had all dull eyes, and flabby, white facesthat quivered like blancmanges when they walked. In addition, theyobstinately refused to talk German with me, looking on me as affordingan excellent opportunity for obtaining a gratuitous lesson in English.One of Hentze's pupils was a great contrast, physically, to the rest,for he was very spare and thin, and seldom opened his mouth. I was tosee a great deal of this silent, slim lad later on.

Mr. Spiegelberg was a prominent member of the so-called English andFrench Club in Brunswick. This was not in the least what its name wouldseem to indicate; the members of the Club were not bursting withoverwhelming love for our language and institutions, nor were theyconsumed with enthusiastic admiration for French art and literature.They were merely some fifteen very practical Brunswick commercial men,who, realising that a good working knowledge of English and Frenchwould prove extremely useful to them in their business relations, metat each other's houses in rotation on one night a week during thewinter months, when the host of the evening provided copious suppliesof wine, beer and cigars. For one hour and a half the members of theClub had to talk English or French as the case might be, under apenalty of a fine of one thaler (three shillings) for every lapse intotheir native German. Mr. Spiegelberg informed me that I had beenelected an honorary member of the English and French Club, whichflattered my vanity enormously at the time. In the light of more matureexperience I quite understand that the presence of a youth to whomknotty points in both languages could be submitted would be aconsiderable asset to the Club, but I then attributed my electionsolely to my engaging personality. These Club evenings amused meenormously, though incidentally they resulted in my acquiring aprecocious love of strong, rank Hamburg cigars. Let us imagine fifteenportly, be-spectacled, middle-aged or elderly men seated around a tablegroaning under a collection of bottles of all shapes and sizes,addressing each other in laboured inverted English. The German love oftitles is a matter of common knowledge. All these business men hadhonorific appellations which they translated into English andintroduced scrupulously into every sentence. The conversation wassomething like this:

"But, Mr. Over-Inspector of Railways, I do not think that youunderstand rightly what Mr. Factory Director Spiegelberg says. Mr.Factory Director also spins jute. To make concurrenz with Dundee inSchottland, he must produce cheaply. To produce cheaply he mustbecome...no, obtain new machinery from Leeds in England. If thatmachinery is duty-payable, Mr. Factory Director cannot produce socheaply. That seems to me clear. Once our German industries establishedare, then we will see. That is another matter."

"I take the liberty to differ, Mr. Councillor of Commerce. How thenshall our German industries flourish, if they not protected be? Whatfor a doctrine is that? Mr. Factory Director Spiegelberg thinks only ofjute. Outside jute, the German world of commerce is greater, and within-the-near-future-to-be-given railways facilities, vast and imposingshortly shall be."

"What Mr. Councillor of Commerce just has said, is true. You, Mr.Over-Inspector of Railways, and also you, Mr. Ducal Supervisor ofForests, are not merchants like us, but much-skilled specialists; so isthe point of view different, Mr. Town Councillor Balhorn, you havegiven us most brilliant beer to-night. This is no beer of here, it mustbe real Munich. It tastes famous. Prosit!"

"I thank you, Mr. Court Councillor. In the place, gentlemen, ofwith-anger-discussing Free Trade, let us all drink some Munich beer.Discussion is good, but beer with content is better."

Now I put it to you—could any one picture fifteen English business menin Manchester, Liverpool, or Leeds doing anything so sensible as tomeet once a week amongst themselves, to acquire proficiency and fluencyin French, Spanish, or German, all of which languages they mustpresumably require at times for the purposes of their business. Everyone knows that it is unthinkable. No Englishman could be bothered totake the trouble. Why is it that English people have this extraordinaryreluctance to learn any foreign language? It is certainly not from wantof natural ability to do so, though this natural aptitude may bediscounted by the difficulty most English people experience in keepingtheir minds concentrated. I venture to assert unhesitatingly that, withthe exception of Dutch and Russian people, English folk learn foreignlanguages with greater ease than any other nationality. This is notablytrue with regard to Russian and Spanish. The English throat is moreflexible than that of the Frenchman or German, and, with the oneexception of French, there are no unwonted sounds in any Europeanlanguage that an Englishman cannot reproduce fairly accurately. We havesomething like the hard Russian "l" in the last syllable of"impossible," and to the Scottish or Irish throat the Dutch hardinitial guttural, and the Spanish soft guttural offer but littledifficulty. "Jorje," which looks like "George" spelt phonetically, butis pronounced so very differently, can easily be mastered, and thatreal teaser "gracht," the Dutch for "canal," with a strong guttural ateither end of it, comes easily out of a Scottish throat. The power toacquire these tongues is there, but the inclination is woefully lacking.

Some ten years ago I went out to Panama to have a look at the canalworks. On board the mail-steamer there were twelve commercialtravellers representing British firms, bound for the West Coast ofSouth America. Ten of these twelve were Germans, all speaking Englishand Spanish fluently in addition to their native German. The other twowere English, not knowing one word of any language but their own. I hada long talk with these two Englishmen, and asked them whether they werefamiliar with the varying monetary standards of the countries they weregoing to visit; for the nominal dollar represents a widely differentvalue in each South American State. No, they knew nothing whateverabout this, and were quite ignorant of Spanish-American weights andmeasures. Now what possible object did the firms sending out theseill-equipped representatives hope to attain? Could they in theirwildest moments have supposed that they would get one single orderthrough their agency? And how came it about that these young men wereso ignorant of the language and customs of the countries they wereproposing to travel? During the voyage I noticed the German travellersconstantly conversing with South Americans from the Pacific Coast, inan endeavour to improve their working knowledge of Spanish; meanwhilethe young Englishmen played deck-quoits and talked English. That initself is quite sufficiently characteristic. In Manchester there is afirm who do a large business in manufacturing brightly colouredhorse-trappings for the South American market. I speak with someconfidence about this, for I have myself watched those trappings beingmade. Most of the "ponchos" used in the Argentine are woven in Glasgow.Why is it that in these two great industrial centres no one seems tohave thought of establishing a special class in any of the numerousschools and colleges for training youths as commercial travellers inforeign countries? They would have, in addition to learning two orthree languages, to get used to making quick calculations in dollarsand cents, and in dollars of very varying values; they would also haveto learn to THINK quickly in weights and measures different to those towhich they had been accustomed. Why should British firms be compelledto use German travellers, owing to the ineptitude of their owncountrymen? The power to learn is there; it is only the will that islacking, and in justice I must add, perhaps the necessary facilities.People who do not mind taking trouble will always in the end get a pullover people who hate all trouble. I think that our present King oncecried, "Buck up, England!" and his Majesty spoke true; very few thingscan be done in this world without taking a little trouble.

To return, after this long digression, to the portly German middle-agedbusiness men who met weekly in Brunswick to improve their workingknowledge of French and English, I must candidly say that I neverdetected the faintest shadow of animosity to Great Britain in them.They were not Prussians—they were Hanoverians and Brunswickers. Theyfelt proud, I think, that the throne of Britain was then occupied by abranch of their own ancient House of Guelph; they remembered thehundred years' connection between Britain and Hanover; as business menthey acknowledged Britain's then unquestioned industrial supremacy, andthey recognised that men of their class enjoyed in England a positionand a power which was not accorded to them in Germany. Certainly theynever lost an opportunity of pointing out that Britain was neither amilitary nor a fighting nation, and would never venture again toconduct a campaign on the Continent. Recent events will show howcorrect they were in their forecasts.

I liked the society of these shrewd, practical men, for from being somuch with the French judges, I had become accustomed to associatingwith men double or treble my own age. There was nothing correspondingto the gaiete francaise about them, though at times a ponderousplayfulness marked their lighter moments, and flashes of elephantinejocularity enlivened the proceedings of the Club. I picked up someuseful items of knowledge from them, for I regret to admit that up tothat time I had no idea what a bill of lading was, or a ship'smanifest; after a while, even such cryptic expressions, too, as f.o.b.and c.i.f. ceased to have any mysteries for me. Let the inexperiencedbeware of "Swedish Punch," a sickly, highly-scented preparation ofarrack. I do not speak from personal experience, for I detest thesweet, cloying stuff; but it occasionally fell to my lot to guidedown-stairs the uncertain footsteps of some ventripotentKommerzien-Rath, or even of Mr. Over-Inspector of Railways himself,both temporarily incapacitated by injudicious indulgence in SwedishPunch. "So, Herr Ober-Inspector, endlich sind wir glucklich heruntergekommen. Jetz konnen Sie nach Hause immer aug gleichem Fusse gehen.Naturlich! Jedermann weisst wie abscheulich kraftig Schwedischer Punschist. Die Strasse ist ganz leer. Gluckliche Heimkehr, HerrOber-Inspector!"

It was difficult to attend the Club without becoming a connoisseur invarious kinds of German beer. Brunswick boasts a special local sweetblack beer, brewed from malted wheat instead of barley, known as"Mumme"—heavy, unpalatable stuff. If any one will take the trouble toconsult Whitaker's Almanac, and turn to "Customs Tariff of the UnitedKingdom," they will find the very first article on the list is "Mum.""Berlin white beer" follows this. One of the few occasions when I haveever known Mr. Gladstone nonplussed for an answer, was in a debate onthe Budget (I think in 1886) on a proposed increase of excise duties.Mr. Gladstone was asked what "Mum" was, and confessed that he had notthe smallest idea. The opportunity for instructing the omniscient Mr.Gladstone seemed such a unique one, that I nearly jumped up in my placeto tell him that it was a sweet black beer brewed from wheat, andpeculiar to Brunswick; but being a very young Member of the House then,I refrained, as it looked too much like self-advertisem*nt; besides,"Mum" was so obviously the word. "White beer" is only made in Berlin;it is not unlike our ginger-beer, and is pleasant enough. The orthodoxway of ordering it in Berlin is to ask the waiter for "eine kuhleBlonde." I do not suppose that one drop of either of these beverageshas been imported into the United Kingdom for a hundred years; equallyI imagine that the first two Georges loved them as recalling theirbeloved Hanover, and indulged freely in them; whence their place in ourCustoms tariff.

One of the members of the English and French Club was a Mr. Vieweg, atthat time, I believe, the largest manufacturer of sulphate of quininein Europe. Mr. Vieweg was that rara avis amongst middle-class Germanbusiness-men, a born sportsman. He had already made two sporting tripsto Central Africa after big game, and rented a large shooting estatenear Brunswick. In common with the other members of the Club, hetreated me very kindly and hospitably, and I often had quaint repastsat his house, beginning with sweet chocolate soup, and continuing witheels stewed in beer, carp with horseradish, "sour-goose," and otherTeutonic delicacies. Mr. Vieweg's son was one of Hentze's pupils, andwas the thin, silent boy I have already noticed. I remember well howyoung Vieweg introduced himself to me in laboured English, "Are you afriend to fishing with the fly?" he asked. "I also fish most gladly,and if you wish, we will together to the Harz Mountains go, and theremany trout catch." As the Harz Mountains are within an hour ofBrunswick by train, off we went, and young Vieweg was certainly a mostexpert fisherman. My respect for him was increased enormously when Ifound that he did not mind in the least how wet he got whilst fishing.Most German boys of his age would have thought standing in cold waterup to their knees a certain forerunner of immediate death.

Vieweg told me, with perfect justice, that he knew every path and everytrack in the Northern Harz, and that he had climbed every single hill.He complained that none of his German friends cared for climbing orwalking, and asked whether I would accompany him on one of hisexpeditions. So a week later we went again to the Harz, and Vieweg ledme an interminable and very rough walk up-hill and down-dale. Heafterwards confessed that he was trying to tire me out, in which hefailed signally, for I have always been, and am still, able to walkvery long distances without fatigue. He had taken four of hisfellow-pupils from Hentze's over the same road, and they had allcollapsed, and had to be driven back to the railway in a hay-cart, inthe last stages of exhaustion. Finding that he could not walk me down,Vieweg developed an odd sort of liking for me, just as I had admiredhim for standing up to his knees in very cold water for a couple ofhours on end whilst fishing. So a queer sort of friendship sprang upbetween me and this taciturn youth. The only subject which moved Viewegto eloquence was quinine, out of which his father had made his fortune.I confess that at that time I knew no more about that admirableprophylactic than the Queen of Sheba knew about dry-fly fishing, andhad not the faintest idea of how quinine was made. Vieweg, warming tohis subject, explained to me that the cinchona bark was treated withlime and alcohol, and informed me that his father now obtained the barkfrom Java instead of from South America as formerly. He did his utmostto endeavour to kindle a little enthusiasm in me on the subject of thisvaluable febrifuge. When not talking of quinine, he kept silence. Thissingular youth was obsessed with a passionate devotion to the lucrativedrug.

The Harz Mountains are pretty without being grand. The far-famedBrocken is not 4000 ft. high, but rising as these hills do out of thedead-flat North German plain, the Harz have been glorified andmagnified by a people accustomed to monotonous levels, and are thesetting for innumerable German legends. The Brocken is, of course, thetraditional scene of the "Witches Sabbath" on Walpurgis-Nacht, and manyof the rock-strewn valleys seem to have pleasant traditions ofbloodthirsty ogres and gnomes associated with them. There is no realclimbing in the Harz, easy tracks lead to all the local lions. As iscustomary in methodical Germany, signposts direct the pedestrian toevery view and every waterfall, and I need hardly add that if one postindicates the Aussichtspunkt, a corresponding one will show the way tothe restaurant without which no view in Germany would be complete.Through rocky defiles and pine-woods, over swelling hills and pastwaterfalls, Vieweg and I trudged once a week in sociable silence,broken only by a few scraps of information from my companion as to theprospects of that year's crop of cinchona bark, and the varyingwholesale price of that interesting commodity. At times, before a fineview, Vieweg would make quite a long speech for him: "Du Fritz! Schonwas?" using, of course, the German diminutive to my Christian name,after which he would gaze on the prospect and relapse into silence, anddreamy meditations on sulphate of quinine and its possibilities.

I think Vieweg enjoyed these excursions, for on returning to Brunswickafter about four hours' un-broken silence, he would always say onparting, "Du Fritz! War nicht so ubel;" or, "Fritz, it wasn't so bad,"very high praise from so sparing a talker.

Mr. Vieweg senior invited me to shoot with him on several occasionsduring the winter months. The "Kettle-drive" (Kessel-Treib) is thelocal manner of shooting hares. Guns and beaters form themselves intoan immense circle, a mile in diameter, over the treeless, hedgelessflats, and all advance slowly towards the centre of the circle. Atfirst, it is perfectly safe to fire into the circle, but as itdiminishes in size, a horn is sounded, the guns face round, back toback, and as the beaters advance alone, hares are only killed as theyrun out of the ring. Hares are very plentiful in North Germany, and"Kettle-drives" usually resulted in a bag of from thirty to forty ofthem. To my surprise, in the patches of oak-scrub on the moor-lands,there were usually some woodco*ck, a bird which I had hithertoassociated only with Ireland. Young Vieweg was an excellent shot; incommon with all his father's other guests, he was arrayed in highboots, and in one of those grey-green suits faced with dark green, dearto the heart of the German sportsman. The guns all looked like thechorus in the Freischutz, and I expected them to break at any momentinto the "Huntsmen's Chorus." Young Vieweg was greatly pained at myunorthodox costume, for I wore ordinary homespun knickerbockers, andsported neither a green Tyrolese hat with a blackco*ck's tail in it, norhigh boots; my gun had no green sling attached to it, nor did I carry agame-bag covered with green tassels, all of which, it appeared, wereabsolutely essential concomitants to a Jagd-Partie.

In these country districts round Brunswick nothing but Low German("Platt-Deutsch") was talked. Low German is curiously like English attimes. The sentence, "the water is deep," is identical in both tongues."Mudder," "brudder," and "sister" have all a familiar ring about them,too. The word "watershed," as applied to the ridge separating two riversystems, had always puzzled me. In High German it is "Wasser-scheide,"i.e. water-parting; in Low German it is "Water-shed," with the samemeaning, thus making our own term perfectly clear. "Low" German, ofcourse, only means the dialect spoken in the low-lying North Germanplains: "High" German, the language spoken in the hilly country southof the Harz Mountains. High German only became the literary language ofthe country owing to Luther having deliberately chosen that dialect forthe translation of the Bible. The Nibelungen-Lied and the poems of thetwelfth and thirteenth centuries were all in Middle-High German(Mittel-Hoch Deutsch).

I remember being told as a boy, when standing on the terrace of WindsorCastle, that in a straight line due east of us there was no suchcorresponding an elevation until the Ural Mountains were reached, onthe boundary between Europe and Asia. This will give some idea of theextreme flatness of Northern Europe, for the terrace at Windsor canhardly be called a commanding eminence.

I am sorry to say that for over forty years I have quite lost sight ofVieweg. My connection with quinine, too, has been usually quiteinvoluntary. I have had two very serious bouts of malarial fever, onein South America, the other in the West Indies, and on both occasions Iowed my life to quinine. Whilst taking this bitter, if beneficent drug,I sometimes wondered whether it had been prepared under the auspices ofthe friend of my youth. So ignorant am I of the quinine world, that Ido not know whether the firm of Buchler & Vieweg still exists. Onething I do know: Vieweg must be now sixty-three years old, should he bestill alive, and I am convinced that he remains an upright andhonourable gentleman. I would also venture a surmise that businesscompetitors find it very hard to overreach him, and that he has escapedthe garrulous tendencies of old age.

One of the curses of German towns is the prevalence of malicious andvenomous gossip. This is almost entirely due to that pestilentinstitution the "Coffee Circle," or Kaffee Klatsch, that standingfeature of German provincial life. Amongst the bourgeoisie, the ladiesform associations, and meet once a week in turn at each others' houses.They bring their work with them, and sit for two hours, eating sweetcakes, drinking coffee, and tearing every reputation in the towns totatters. All males are jealously excluded from these gatherings. Mrs.Spiegelberg was a pretty, fluffy little English woman, without oneounce of malice in her composition. She had lived long enough inGermany, though, to know that she would not be welcomed at her "CoffeeCircle" unless she brought her budget of pungent gossip with her, soshe collected it in the usual way. The instant the cook returned frommarket, Mrs. Spiegelberg would rush into the kitchen with a breathless,"Na, Minna, was gibt's neues?" or "Now, Minna, what is the news?"Minna, the cook, knowing what was expected of her, proceeded to unfoldher items of carefully gathered gossip: Lieutenant von Trinksekt hadlost three hundred marks at cards, and had been unable to pay; it wasrumored that Fraulein Unsittlich's six weeks' retirement from the worldwas not due to an attack of scarlet fever, as was alleged, but to amore interesting cause, and so on, and so on. The same thing washappening, simultaneously, in every kitchen in Brunswick, and at thenext "Coffee Circle" all these rumours would be put into circulationand magnified, and the worst possible interpretation would be giventhem. All German women love spying, as is testified by those littleexternal mirrors fixed outside almost every German window, by which themistress of the house can herself remain unseen, whilst noting everyone who passes down the street, or goes into the houses on either side.I speak with some bitterness of the poisonous tongues of these women,for I cannot forget how a harmless episode, when I happened to meet acharming friend of mine, and volunteered to carry her parcels home, wasdistorted and perverted.

One of Hentze's pupils, a heavy, bovine youth, invited me to Hamburg tohis parents' silver wedding festivities. I was anxious to see Hamburg,so I accepted. Moser's parents inhabited an opulent and unimaginablyhideous villa on the outskirts of Hamburg. They treated me mosthospitably and kindly, but never had I pictured such vast eatings anddrinkings as took place in their house. Moser's other relations wereequally hospitable, until I became stupid and comatose from excessivenourishment. I could not discover the faintest trace of hostility toEngland amongst these wealthy Hamburg merchants. They had nearly alltraditional business connections with England, and most of them hadcommenced their commercial careers in London. They resented, on theother hand, the manner in which they were looked down on by thePrussian Junkers, who, on the ground of their having no "von" beforetheir names, tried to exclude them from every branch of the publicservice. The whole of Germany had not yet become Prussianised.

These Hamburg men were intensely proud of their city. They boasted, andI believe with perfect reason, that the dock and harbour facilities ofHamburg far exceeded anything to be found in the United Kingdom. I wastaken all over the docks, and treated indeed with such lavishhospitality that every seam of my garments strained under the unwontedpressure of these enormous repasts. Hamburg being a Free Port,travellers leaving for any other part of Germany had to undergo aregular Customs examination at the railway station, as though it were afrontier post. Hamburg impressed me as a vastly prosperous, handsome,well-kept town. The attractive feature of the place is the "AlsterBassin," the clear, fresh-water lake running into the very heart of thetown. All the best houses and hotels were built on the stone quays ofthe Alster facing the lake. Geneva, Stockholm, and Copenhagen are theonly other European towns I know of with clear lakes running into themiddle of the city. The Moser family's silver wedding festivities didnot err on the side of nigg*rdliness. The guests all assembled in fullevening dress at three in the afternoon, when there was a conjuring andmagic-lantern performance for the children. This was followed by anexcellent concert, which in its turn was succeeded by a vast andGargantuan dinner. Then came an elaborate display of fireworks, afterwhich dancing continued till 4 a.m., only interrupted by a secondcolossal meal, thus affording, as young Moser proudly pointed out,thirteen hours' uninterrupted amusem*nt.

As I felt certain that I should promptly succumb to apoplexy, had I todevour any more food, I left next day for Heligoland, then, of course,still a British Colony, an island I had always had the greatestcuriosity to see. A longer stay in Hamburg might have broadened mymind, but it would also unquestionably have broadened my waist-belt aswell.

The steamer accomplished the journey from Hamburg in seven hours, thelast three over the angry waters of the open North Sea. To my surprisethe steamer, though island-owned, did not fly the British red ensign,but the Heligoland flag of horizontal bars of white, green, and red.There is a local quatrain explaining these colours, which may beroughly Englished as—

"White is the strand,
But green the land,
Red the rocks stand
Round Heligoland."

Heligoland is the quaintest little spot imaginable, shaped like anisosceles triangle with the apex pointing northwards. The area of thewhole island is only three-fourths of a square mile; it is barely amile long, and at its widest only 500 yards broad. It is divided intoUnderland and Overland; the former a patch of shore on the shelteredside of the island, covered with the neatest little toy streets andhouses. In its neatness and smallness it is rather like a Japanesetown, and has its little theatre and its little Kurhaus complete. Thereare actually a few trees in the Underland. Above it, the red rampartsof rock rise like a wall to the Overland, only to be reached by anendless flight of steps. On the green tableland of the Overland, thehouses nestle and huddle together for shelter on the leeward side ofthe island, the prevailing winds being westerly. The whole populationlet lodgings, simply appointed, but beautifully neat and clean, as onewould expect amongst a seafaring population. There are a few patches ofcabbages and potatoes trying to grow in spite of the gales, and all therest is green turf. There is not one tree on the wind-swept Overland. Iheard nothing but German and Frisian talked around me, and the onlysigns of British occupation were the Union Jack flying in front ofGovernment House (surely the most modest edifice ever dignified withthat title), and a notice-board in front of the powder-magazine on thenorthern point of the island. This notice-board was inscribed, "V.R.Trespassers will be prosecuted," which at once gave a homelike feeling,and made one realise that it was British soil on which one was standing.

The island had only been ceded to us in 1814, and we handed it over toGermany in 1890, so our tenure was too brief for us to have struck rootdeeply into the soil. Heligoland was a splendid recruiting ground forthe Royal Navy, for the islanders were a hardy race of seafarers, andmade ideal material for bluejackets. There was not a horse or cow onthe island, ewes supplying all the milk. As sheep's milk has anunappetising green tinge about it, it took a day or two to get used tothis unfamiliar-looking fluid. There being no fresh water onHeligoland, the rain water from the roofs was all caught and stored intanks. On that rainswept rock I cannot conceive it likely that thewater supply would ever fail. Some-how the idea was prevalent inEngland that Heligoland was undermined by rabbits. There was not onesingle rabbit on the island, for even rabbits find it hard to burrowinto solid rock.

Professor Gatke's books on the migrations of birds are well known.Heligoland lies in the track of migrating birds, and Dr. Gatke hadestablished himself there for some years to observe them, and there wasa really wonderful ornithological museum close to the lighthouse. TheHeligoland lighthouse is a very powerful one, and every single one ofthese stuffed birds had committed suicide against the thick glass ofthe lantern. The lighthouse keepers told me that during the migratoryperiods, they sometimes found as many as a hundred dead birds on theexternal gallery of the light in the morning, all of whom had killedthemselves against the light.

From 1830 to 1871 there were public gaming-tables in Heligoland, andthe Concessionaire paid such a high price for his permit that thecolonial finances were in the most flourishing condition. In 1871,Downing Street stopped this, with disastrous effect on the islandbudget. Fortunately, Germans took to coming over in vast numbers forthe excellent sea-bathing, and so money began to flow in again. Theplace attracted them with its glorious sea air; it had all theadvantages of a ship, without the ship's motion.

I paid a second visit to Heligoland three years later, when I wasAttache at our Berlin Embassy. Sir Fitzhardinge Maxse, the uncle of Mr.Leo Maxse of the National Review, was Governor then. Sir Fitzhardingehad done his utmost to anglicise the island, and the "Konigstrasse" and"Oststrasse" had now become "King Street" and "East Street." He hadinduced, too, some of the shop-keepers to write the signs over theirshops in English, at times with somewhat eccentric spelling; for oneindividual proclaimed himself a "Familie Grozer." How astonished theGovernor and I would have been to know that in twenty years' time hismuch-loved island would be transformed into one solid concreted Germanfortress! Sir Fitzhardinge had a great love for the theatre. He was, Ibelieve, the only person who had ever tried to write plays in twolanguages. His German plays had been very successful, and two one-actplays he wrote in English had been produced on the London stage. Healways managed to engage a good German company to play in the littleHeligoland theatre during the summer months, and having married theleading tragic actress of the Austrian stage, both he and Lady Maxseoccasionally appeared on the boards themselves, playing, of course, inGerman. It looked curious seeing a bill of the "Theatre Royal onHeligoland," announcing Shakespeare's tragedy of Macbeth, with "HisExcellency the Governor as Macbeth, and Lady Maxse as Lady Macbeth."

There is a fine old Lutheran Church on Heligoland. It is the onlyProtestant church in which I have ever seen ex votos. When the islandfishermen had weathered an unusually severe gale, it was their customto make a model of their craft, and to present it as a thank-offeringto the church. There were dozens of these models, all beautifullyfinished, suspended from the roof of the church by wires, and thefronts of the galleries were all hung with fishing nets. The singing inthat church was remarkably good.

It was a pleasant, unsophisticated little island; a place of freshbreezes, and red cliffs with great sweeping surges breaking againstthem; a place of sunshine, and huge expanses of pale dappled sky.

Lady Maxse told me that it was impossible for any one to picture theunutterable dreariness of Heligoland in winter; when little GovernmentHouse rocked ceaselessly under the fierce gales, and the whole islandwas drenched in clouds of spindrift; the rain pounding on thewindow-panes like small-shot, and the howling of the wind drowning allother sounds. She said that they were frequently cut off from themainland for three weeks on end, without either letters, newspapers, orfresh meat, as the steamers were unable to make the passage. There wasnothing to do, nowhere to go, and no one to speak to. It must have beena considerable change for any one accustomed to the life of careless,easy-going, glittering Vienna in the old days. Even Sir Fitzhardingeconfessed that during the winter gales he had frequently to make hisway on all fours from the stairs from the Underland to GovernmentHouse, to avoid being blown over the cliffs. Lady Maxse hung an extrapair of pink muslin curtains over every window in Government House, toshut out the sight of the wintry sea, but the angry, grey and whiterollers of the restless North Sea asserted themselves even through thepink muslin.

I am glad that I saw this wind-swept little rock whilst it was still ascrap of British territory. When my time came for leaving Brunswick, Iwas genuinely sorry to go. I confess that I liked Germany and theGermans; I had been extremely well treated, and had got used to Germanways.

The teaching profession were only then sowing broadcast the seed whichwas to come to maturity thirty years later. They were moulding theminds of the rising generation to the ideals which find their mostcandid exponent in Nietzsche. The seed was sown, but had not yetgerminated; the greater portion of Germany in 1875 was stillun-Prussianised, but effect followed cause, and we all know the rest.

CHAPTER VII

Some London beauties of the "seventies"—Great ladies—The Victoriangirl—Votaries of the Gaiety Theatre—Two witty ladies—Two clevergirls and mock-Shakespeare—The family who talked JohnsonianEnglish—Old-fashioned tricks of pronunciation—Practical jokes—LordCharles Beresford and the old Club-member—The shoe-lesslegislator—Travellers' palms—The tree that spouted wine—Celyon'sspicy breezes—Some reflections—Decline of public interest inParliament—Parliamentary giants—Gladstone, John Bright, andChamberlain—Gladstone's last speech—His resignation—W.H. Smith—TheAssistant Whips—Sir William Hart-Dyke—Weary hours at Westminster—APseudo-Ingoldsbean Lay.

The London of 1876 boasted an extraordinary constellation of lovelywomen. First and foremost came the two peerless Moncreiffe sisters,Georgiana Lady Dudley, and Helen Lady Forbes. Lady Dudley was then aradiant apparition, and her sister, the most perfect example ofclassical beauty I have ever seen, had features as clean-cut as thoseof a cameo. Lady Forbes always wore her hair simply parted in themiddle, a thing that not one woman in a thousand can afford to do, andglorious auburn hair it was, with a natural ripple in it. I have seldomseen a head so perfectly placed on the shoulders as that of LadyForbes. The Dowager Lady Ormonde and the late Lady Ripon were thenstill unmarried; the first, Lady Leila Grosvenor, with the face of aRaphael Madonna, the other, Lady Gladys Herbert, a splendid, slender,Juno-like young goddess. The rather cruelly named "professionalbeauties" had just come into prominence, the three great rivals beingMrs. Langtry, then fresh from Jersey, Mrs. Cornwallis West, and Mrs.Wheeler. Unlike most people, I should myself have given the prize tothe second of these ladies. I do not think that any one now couldoccupy the commanding position in London which Constance duch*ess ofWestminster and the duch*ess of Manchester (afterwards duch*ess ofDevonshire) then held. In fact, with skirts to the knee, and anunending expanse of stocking below them, it would be difficult toassume the dignity with which these great ladies, in their flowingVictorian draperies, swept into a room. The stately Dutchess ofWestminster, in spite of her massive outline, had still a fineclassical head, and the duch*ess of Manchester was one of the handsomestwomen in Europe. London society was so much smaller then, that it was asort of enlarged family party, and I, having six married sisters, foundmyself with unnumbered hosts of relations and connections. I retaindelightful recollections of the mid-Victorian girl. These maidens, intheir airy clouds of white, pink, or green tulle, and their untouchedfaces, had a deliciously fresh, flower-like look which is whollylacking in their sisters of to-day. A young girl's charm is herfreshness, and if she persists in coating her face with powder androuge that freshness vanishes, and one sees merely rows of vapid littledoll-like faces, all absolutely alike, and all equally artificial anddevoid of expression. These present skimpy draperies cause one toreflect that Nature has not lavished broadcast the gift of good feetand neat ankles; possibly some girls might lengthen their skirts ifthey realised this truth.

In the "seventies" there was a wonderful galaxy of talent at the oldGaiety Theatre, Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan, Edward Terry, and Royceforming a matchless quartette. Young men, of course, will always befoolish, up to the end of time. Nellie Farren, Kate Vaughan and EmilyDuncan all had their "colours." Nellie Farren's were dark blue, lightblue, and white; Kate Vaughan's were pink and grey; Emily Duncan'sblack and white; the leading hosiers "stocked" silk scarves of thesecolours, and we foolish young men bought the colours of the lady weespecially admired, and sat in the stalls of the Gaiety flaunting thescarves of our favourite round our necks. As I then thought, and stillthink, that Nellie Farren was one of the daintiest and most gracefullittle creatures ever seen on the stage, with a gaminerie all her own,I, in common with many other youths, sat in the stalls of the Gaietywrapped in a blue-and-white scarf. Each lady showered smiles over thefootlights at her avowed admirers, whilst contemptuously ignoring thosewho sported her rival's colours. One silly youth, to testify to hisadmiration for Emily Duncan, actually had white kid gloves with blackfingers, specially manufactured for him. He was, we hope, repaid forhis outlay by extra smiles from his enchantress.

Traces of the witty early nineteenth century still lingered into the"seventies," "eighties," and "nineties." Lady Constance Leslie, who isstill living, and the late Lady Cork were almost the last descendantsof the brilliant wits of Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook's days. Thehurry of modern life, and the tendency of the age to scratch thesurface of things only, are not favourable to the development of thistype of keen intellect, which was based on a thorough knowledge of theEnglish classics, and on such a high level of culture as moderntrouble-hating women could but seldom hope to attain. Time and timeagain I have asked Lady Cork for the origin of some quotation. Sheinvariably gave it me at once, usually quoting some lines of thecontext at the same time. When I complimented her on her wonderfulknowledge of English literature of the seventeenth and eighteenthcenturies, she answered, "In my young days we studied the 'BellesLettres'; modern women only study 'Belle's Letters,'" an allusion to aweekly summary of social events then appearing in the World under thattitle, a chronicle voraciously devoured by thousands of women. When theearly prejudice against railways was alluded to by some one whor*called the storms of protest that the conveyance of the Duke ofSussex's body by train to Windsor for burial provoked, as beingderogatory to the dignity of a Royal Duke, it was Lady Cork who rappedout, "I presume in those days, a novel apposition of the quick and thedead." A certain peer was remarkable alike for his extreme parsimonyand his unusual plainness of face. His wife shared thesecharacteristics, both facial and temperamental, to the full, and yetthis childless, unprepossessing and eminently economical couple wereabsolutely wrapped up in one another; after his death she only lingeredon for three months. Some one commenting on this, said, "They werecertainly the stingiest and probably the ugliest couple in England, yettheir devotion to each other was very beautiful. They could neither ofthem bear to part with anything, not even with each other. After hisdeath she was like a watch that had lost its mainspring." "Surely,"flashed Lady Constance Leslie, "more like a vessel which had lost herauxiliary screw." The main characteristic of both Lady Cork and LadyConstance Leslie's humour was its lightning speed. It is superfluous toadd, with these quick-witted ladies it was never necessary to EXPLAINanything, as it is to the majority of English people; they understoodbefore you had finished saying it.

Many years after, in the late "eighties," Lady Constance Leslie's twoelder daughters, now Mrs. Crawshay and Lady Hope, developed a singulargift. They could improvise blank verse indefinitely, and with theirfather, Sir John Leslie, they acted little mock Shakespearean dramas intheir ordinary clothes, and without any scenery or accessories. Everyword was impromptu, and yet the even flow of blank verse never ceased.I always thought it a singularly clever performance, for Mrs. Crawshaycan only have been nineteen then, and her sister eighteen. Mrs.Crawshay invariably played the heroine, Lady Hope the confidante, andSir John Leslie any male part requisite. No matter what the subjectgiven them might be, they would start in blank verse at once. Let ussuppose so unpromising a subject as the collection of railway ticketsoutside a London terminus had been selected. Lady Hope, with pleadingeyes, and all the conventional gestures of sympathy of a stageconfidante, would at once start apostrophising her sister in some suchfashion as this:—

"Fair Semolina, dry those radiant orbs; Thy swain doth beg thee but atoken small Of that great love which thou dost bear to him. Prithee,sweet mistress, take now heart of grace, At times we all credentialshave to show, Eftsoons at Willesden halts the panting train, Eachtraveller knows inexorable fate Hath trapped him in her toils; loudrings the tread Of brass-bound despot as he wends his way From door todoor, claiming with gesture rude His pound of flesh, or eke thepasteboard slip, Punched with much care, all travel-worn and stained,For which perchance ten ducats have been paid, Granting full accessfrom some distant spot. Then trembles he, who reckless loves to sip Thejoys of travel free of all expense; Knowing the fate that will pursuehim, when To stern collector he hath naught to show."

To which her sister, Mrs. Crawshay, would reply, without one instant'shesitation, somewhat after this style:—

"Sweet Tapioca, firm and faithful friend,
Thy words have kindled in my guilty breast
Pangs of remorse; to thee I will confess.
Craving a journey to the salt sea waves
Before this moon had waxed her full, I stood
Crouching, and feigning infant's stature small
Before the wicket, whence the precious slips
Are issued, and declared my years but ten.
Thus did I falsely pretext tender age,
And claimed but half the wonted price, and now
Bitter remorse my stricken conscience sears,
And hot tears flow at my duplicity."

The lines would probably have been more neatly worded than this, butthe flow of improvised blank verse from both sisters was inexhaustible.The somewhat unusual names of Semolina and Tapioca had been adopted forthe heroine and confidante on account of their rhythmical advantages,and a certain pleasant Shakespearean ring about them.

I know another family who from long practice have acquired the habit ofaddressing each other in flowing periods of Johnsonian English. Theynever hesitate for an epithet, and manage to round off all theirsentences in Dr. Johnson's best manner. I was following the hounds onfoot one day, with the eldest daughter of this family, when, as westruggled through a particularly sticky and heavy ploughed field, shepanted out, "Pray let us hasten to the summit of yonder commandingeminence, whence we can with greater comfort to ourselves witness thefurther progress of the chase," and all this without the tiniesthesitation; a most enviable gift! A son of this family was once ridingin the same steeplechase as a nephew of mine. The youth had lost hiscap, and turning round in his saddle, he shouted to my nephew in themiddle of the race, between two fences, "You will perceive that I havealready sacrificed my cap, and laid it as a votive offering on thealtar of Diana." One would hardly have anticipated that a youthfulcavalry subaltern, in the middle of a steeplechase, would have beenable to lay his hands on such choice flowers of speech. Unfortunately,owing to the time lost by these well-turned periods, both the speakerand my nephew merely figured as "also ran."

In the "seventies" some of the curious tricks of pronunciation of theeighteenth century still survived. My aunts, who had been born with, orbefore the nineteenth century, invariably pronounced "yellow" as"yaller." "Lilac" and "cucumber" became "laylock" and "cowcumber," anda gold bracelet was referred to as a "goold brasslet." They alwaysspoke of "Proosia" and "Roosia," drank tea out of a "chaney" cup, andthe eldest of them was still "much obleeged" for any little servicerendered to her, played at "cyards," and took a stroll in the"gyarden." My grandfather, who was born in 1766, insisted to the end ofhis life on terming the capital of these islands "Lunnon," ineighteenth-century fashion.

Possibly people were more cultured in those days, or, at all events,more in the habit of using their brains. Imbecility, whether real orsimulated, had not come into fashion. My mother told me that in heryoung days a very favourite amusem*nt in country houses was to writeimitations or parodies of some well-known poet, and every one took partin this. Nowadays no one would have read the originals, much less beable to imitate them. My mother had a commonplace book into which shehad copied the cleverest of these skits, and Landseer illustrated itcharmingly in pen-and-ink for her.

Any one reading the novels of the commencement of the nineteenthcentury must have noticed how wonderfully popular practical jokes,often of the crudest nature, then were. A brutal practical joke alwaysseems to me to indicate a very rudimentary and undeveloped sense ofhumour in its perpetrator. Some people with paleolithic intellects seemto think it exquisitely humorous to see a man fall down and hurthimself. A practical joke which hurts no one is another matter. Allthose privileged to enjoy the friendship of the late Admiral LordCharles Beresford will always treasure the memory of that genial anddelightful personality. About thirty years ago an elderly gentlemannamed Bankes-Stanhope seemed to imagine that he had some proprietaryrights in the Carlton Club. Mr. Bankes-Stanhope had his own chair,lamp, and table there, and was exceedingly zealous in reminding membersof the various rules of the club. Smoking was strictly forbidden in thehall of the Carlton at that time. I was standing in the hall one nightwhen Lord Charles came out of the writing-room, a big bundle of newlywritten letters in his hand, and a large cigar in his mouth. He hadjust received a shilling's-worth of stamps from the waiter, when oldMr. Bankes-Stanhope, who habitually puffed and blew like Mr.Jogglebury-Crowdey of "Sponge's Sporting Tour," noticed the forbiddencigar through a glass door, and came puffing and blowing into the hallin hot indignation. He reproved Lord Charles Beresford for his breachof the club rules in, as I thought, quite unnecessarily severe tones.The genial Admiral kept his temper, but detached one penny stamp fromhis roll, licked it, and placed it on his forefinger. "My dear Mr.Stanhope," he began, "it was a little oversight of mine. I was writingin there, do you see?" (a friendly little tap on Mr. Bankes-Stanhope'sshirt-front, and on went a penny stamp), "and I moved in here, you see"(another friendly tap, and on went a second stamp), "and forgot aboutmy cigar, you see" (a third tap, and a third stamp left adhering). Thebreezy Admiral kept up this conversation, punctuated with little taps,each one of which left its crimson trace on the old gentleman's whiteshirt-front, until the whole shilling's-worth was placed in position.Mr. Bankes-Stanhope was too irate to notice these little manoeuvres; hemaintained his hectoring tone, and never glanced down at hisshirt-front. Finally Lord Charles left, and the old gentleman, stillpuffing and blowing with wrath, struggled into his overcoat, and wentoff to an official party at Sir Michael Hicks-Beach's, where hisappearance with twelve red penny stamps adhering to his shirt-frontmust have created some little astonishment.

In the '86 Parliament there was a certain Member, sitting on theConservative side, who had the objectionable habit of removing hisboots (spring-sided ones, too!) in the House, and of sitting in a pairof very dubious-coloured grey woollen socks, apparently much in want ofthe laundress's attentions. Many Members strongly objected to thispractice, but the delinquent persisted in it, in spite of protests. Onenight a brother of mine, knowing that there would shortly be aDivision, succeeded in purloining the offending boots by covering themwith his "Order paper," and got them safely out of the House. He hidthem behind some books in the Division Lobby, and soon after theDivision was called. The House emptied, but the discalced legislatorretained his seat. "A Division having been called, the honourableMember will now withdraw," ordered Mr. Speaker Peel, most awe-inspiringof men. "Mr. Speaker, I have lost my boots," protested the shoelessone. "The honourable Member will at once withdraw," ordered the Speakerfor the second time, in his sternest tones; so down the floor of theHouse came the unfortunate man—hop, hop, hop, like the "little hare"in Shock-headed Peter. The iron ventilating gratings were apparentlyuncomfortable to shoeless feet, so he went hopping and limping throughthe Division Lobby, affording ample glimpses of his deplorablydiscoloured woollen footwear. Later in the evening an attendant handedhim a paper parcel containing his boots, the attendant having, ofcourse, no idea where the parcel had come from. This incidenteffectually cured the offender of his unpleasant habit. The accusationof neglecting his laundress may have been an unfounded one. In my earlyyouth I was given a book to read about a tiresome little girl namedEllen Montgomery, who apparently divided her time between reading herpocket-Bible and indulging in paroxysms of tears. The only incident inthe book I remember is that this lachrymose child had an aunt, a MissFortune, who objected on principle to clean stockings. She accordinglydyed all Ellen's stockings dirt-colour, to save the washing. It wouldbe charitable to assume that this particular Member of Parliament hadan aunt with the same economical instincts.

I must plead guilty to two episodes where my sole desire was to avoiddisappointment to others, and to prevent the reality falling short ofthe expectation. One was in India. Barrackpore, the Viceroy of India'sofficial country house, is justly celebrated for its beautiful gardens.In these gardens every description of tropical tree, shrub and flowergrows luxuriantly. In a far-off corner there is a splendid group offan-bananas, otherwise known as the "Traveller's Palm." Owing to thehabit of growth of this tree, every drop of rain or dew that falls onits broad, fan-shaped crown of leaves is caught, and runs down thegrooved stalks of the plant into receptacles that cunning Nature hasfashioned just where the stalk meets the trunk. Even in the driestweather, these little natural tanks will, if gashed with a knife, yieldnearly a tumblerful of pure sweet water, whence the popular name forthe tree. A certain dull M.P., on his travels, had come down toBarrackpore for Sunday, and inquired eagerly whether there were anyTravellers' Trees either in the park or the gardens there, as he hadheard of them, but had never yet seen one. We assured him that in thecool of the evening we would show him quite a thicket of Travellers'Trees. It occurred to the Viceroy's son and myself that it would be apity should the globe-trotting M.P.'s expectations not be realised,after the long spell of drought we had had. So the two of us went offand carefully filled up the natural reservoirs of some six fan-bananaswith fresh spring-water till they were brimful. Suddenly we had asimultaneous inspiration, and returning to the house we fetched twobottles of light claret, which we poured carefully into the naturalcisterns of two more trees, which we marked. Late in the afternoon weconducted the M.P. to the grove of Travellers' Trees, handed him aglass, and made him gash the stem of one of them with his pen knife.Thanks to our preparation, it gushed water like one of the TrafalgarSquare fountains, and the touring legislator was able to satisfyhimself that it was good drinking-water. He had previously been makingsome inquiries about so-called "Palm-wine," which is merely thefermented juice of the toddy-palm. We told him that some Travellers'Palms produced this wine, and with a slight exercise of ingenuity weinduced him to tap one of the trees we had doctored with claret.Naturally, a crimson liquid spouted into his glass in response to thethrust of his pen-knife, and after tasting it two or three times, hereluctantly admitted that its flavour was not unlike that of red wine.It ought to have been, considering that we had poured an entire bottleof good sound claret into that tree. The ex-M.P. possibly reflects nowon the difficulties with which any attempts to introduce "puss*foot"legislation into India would be confronted in a land where some treesproduce red wine spontaneously.

On another occasion I was going by sea from Calcutta to Ceylon. Onboard the steamer there were a number of Americans, principally ladies,connected, I think, with some missionary undertaking. When we gotwithin about a hundred miles of Ceylon, these American ladies all beganrepeating to each other the verse of the well-known hymn:

"What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,"

over and over again, until I loathed Bishop Heber for having writtenthe lines. They even asked the captain how far out to sea the spicybreezes would be perceptible. I suddenly got an idea, and, going below,I obtained from the steward half a dozen nutmegs and a handful ofcinnamon. I grated the nutmegs and pounded the cinnamon up, and then,with one hand full of each, I went on deck, and walked slowly up anddown in front of the American tourists. Soon I heard an ecstatic cry,"My dear, I distinctly smelt spice then!" Another turn, and anotherjubilant exclamation: "It's quite true about the spicy breezes. I got adelicious whiff just then. Who would have thought that they would havecarried so far out to sea?" A sceptical elderly gentleman was summonedfrom below, and he, after a while, was reluctantly forced to avow thathe, too, had noticed the spicy fragrance. No wonder! when I had about aquarter of a pound of grated nutmeg in one hand, and as much poundedcinnamon in the other. Now these people will go on declaring to the endof their lives that they smelt the spicy odours of Ceylon a fullhundred miles out at sea, just as the travelling M.P. will assert thata tree in India produces a very good imitation of red wine. It is anice point determining how far one is morally responsible oneself forthe unconscious falsehoods into which these people have been betrayed.I should like to have had the advice of Mrs. Fairchild, of theFairchild Family upon this delicate question. I feel convinced thatthat estimable lady, with her inexhaustible repertory of supplications,would instantly have recited by heart "a prayer against the temptationto lead others into uttering untruths unconsciously," which would havemet the situation adequately, for not once in the book, when appealedto, did she fail to produce a lengthy and elaborately worded petition,adapted to the most unexpected emergencies, and I feel confident thather moral armoury would have included a prayer against tendencies to"leg-pulling."

To return to the London of the "seventies" and "eighties" after thisbrief journey to the East, nothing is more noticeable than the waypublic interest in Parliamentary proceedings has vanished. When I was aboy, all five of the great London dailies, The Times, Morning Post,Standard, Daily Telegraph, and Daily News, published the fullestreports of Parliamentary news, and the big provincial dailies followedtheir example. Every one then seemed to follow the proceedings ofParliament with the utmost interest; even at Harrow the elder boys readthe Parliamentary news and discussed it, and I have heard keen-wittedLancashire artisans eagerly debating the previous night's Parliamentaryencounters. Now the most popular newspapers give the scantiest andbaldest summaries of proceedings in the House of Commons. It is aneditor's business to know the tastes of his readers; if Parliamentaryreports are reduced to a minimum, it must be because they no longerinterest the public. This, again, is quite intelligible. When I firstentered Parliament in 1885 (to which Parliament, by the way, all fourHamilton brothers had been elected), there were commandingpersonalities and great orators in the House: Mr. Gladstone, JohnBright, Joseph Chamberlain, Lord Hartington, Henry James and RandolphChurchill. When any of these rose to speak, the House filled at once,they were listened to with eager attention, and every word they utteredwould be read by hundreds of thousands of people next day. Nowadaysproceedings in Parliament seem to be limited to a very occasional solofrom the one star-performer, the rest of the time being occupied byuninteresting interludes by his understudies, all of which may serve toexplain the decline in public interest. At the time of the Peace ofParis in 1856, on the termination of the Crimean War, there were in theHouse of Commons such outstanding figures as Gladstone, Disraeli, LordJohn Russell, John Bright, and Palmerston; the statesman had not yetdwindled into the lawyer-politician.

I only heard Mr. Gladstone speak in his old age, when his voice hadacquired a slight roughness which detracted, I thought, from hiswonderful gift of oratory. Mr. Gladstone, too, had certainpeculiarities of pronunciation; he always spoke of "constitootional"and of "noos." John Bright was a most impressive speaker; he obtainedhis effects by the simplest means, for he seldom used long words;indeed he was supposed to limit himself to words of Saxon origin, withall their condensed vigour. Is not Newman's hymn, "Lead, Kindly Light,"considered to be a model of English, as it is composed almost entirelyof monosyllables, and, with six exceptions, of words of Saxon origin?John Bright's speaking had the same quality as Cardinal Newman's hymn.In spite of his eloquence, John Bright's prophecies were invariablyfalsified by subsequent events. I have never heard any one speak withsuch facility as Joseph Chamberlain. His utterance was so singularlyclear that, though he habitually spoke in a very low voice, everysyllable penetrated to all parts of the House. When Chamberlain wasreally in a dangerous mood, his voice became ominously bland, and hismanner quieter than ever. Then was the time for his enemies to tremble.I heard him once roll out and demolish a poor facile-tonguedprofessional spouter so completely and remorsely that the unfortunateman never dared to open his mouth in the House of Commons again. Ithink that any old Member of Parliament will agree with me when I placeDavid Plunkett, afterwards Lorth Rathmore, who represented for manyyears Trinity College, Dublin, in the very front rank as an orator.Plunkett was an indolent man, and spoke very rarely indeed. When reallyroused, and on a subject which he had genuinely at heart, he could riseto heights of splendid eloquence. Plunkett had a slight impediment inhis speech; when wound up, this impediment, so far from detractingfrom, added to the effect he produced. I heard Mr. Gladstone's lastspeech in Parliament, on March 1, 1894. It was frankly a greatdisappointment. I sat then on the Opposition side, but we Unionists hadall assembled to cheer the old man who was to make his farewell speechto the Assembly in which he had sat for sixty years, and of which hehad been so dominating and so unique a personality, although we werebitterly opposed to him politically. The tone of his speech made thisdifficult for us. Instead of being a dignified farewell to the House,as we had anticipated, it was querulous and personal, with a peevishand minatory note in it that made anything but perfunctory applausefrom the Opposition side very hard to produce. Two days afterwards, onMarch 3, 1894, Mr. Gladstone resigned. In the light of recentrevelations, we know now that his failing eyesight was but a pretext.Lord Spencer, then First Lord of the Admiralty, had framed his NavalEstimates, and declared that the shipbuilding programme outlined inthose Estimates was absolutely necessary for the national safety. Mr.Gladstone, supported by some of his colleagues, refused to sanctionthese Estimates. Some long-headed Members of the Cabinet saw clearlythat if Lord Spencer insisted on his Estimates, in the then temper ofthe country, the Liberal party would go to certain defeat. Accordingly,Mr. Gladstone was induced to resign, as the easiest way out of thedifficulty. I do not gather, though, that those of his colleagues who,with him, disapproved of the Naval Estimates, thought it their duty tofollow their chief into retirement.

I am amused on seeing on contents bills of news-papers, as a rare itemof news, "All-night sitting of Commons."

In the 1886 Parliament practically every night was an all-nightsitting. Under the old rules of Procedure, as the Session advanced, wewere kept up night after night till 5 a.m. Some Members, notably thelate Henry Labouchere, took a sort of impish delight in keeping theHouse sitting late. Many Front-Bench men had their lives shortened bythe strain these late hours imposed on them, notably Edward Stanhopeand Mr. W. H. Smith. Mr. W. H. Smith occupied a very extraordinaryposition. This plain-faced man, who could hardly string two wordstogether, was regarded by all his friends with deep respect, almostwith affection. My brother George has told me that, were there anydisputes in the Cabinet of which he was a member, the invariable adviceof the older men was to "go and take Smith's advice about it." Mencarried their private, domestic, and even financial troubles to thiswise counsellor, confident that the advice given would be sound. Mr.Smith had none of the more ornamental qualities, but his fund of commonsense was inexhaustible, he never spared himself in his friends'service, and his high sense of honour and strength of character earnedhim the genuine regard of all those who really knew him. He was a veryfine specimen of the unassuming, honourable, high-minded Englishgentleman.

In the 1886 Parliament, Mr. Akers-Douglas, now Lord Chilston, was ChiefConservative Whip and he was singularly fortunate in his AssistantWhips. Sir William Walrond, now Lord Waleran, Sir Herbert Maxwell, andthe late Sidney Herbert, afterwards fourteenth Earl of Pembroke, formeda wonderful trio, for Nature had bestowed on each of them a singularlyengaging personality. The strain put on Members of the Opposition wasvery severe; our constant attendance was demanded, and we spentpractically our whole lives in the precincts of the House. However muchwe longed for a little relaxation and a little change, it was reallyimpossible to resist the blandishments of the Assistant Whips. Theymade it a sort of personal appeal, and a test of personal friendship tothemselves, so grudgingly the contemplated visit to the theatre wasabandoned, and we resigned ourselves to six more hours inside theover-familiar building.

Sir William Hart-Dyke had been Chief Conservative Whip in the 1868-1873Parliament. He married in May 1870, in the middle of the session at avery critical political period. He most unselfishly consented to foregohis honeymoon, or to postpone it, and there were rumours that on thevery evening of his wedding-day, his sense of duty had been so strongthat he had appeared in the House of Commons to "tell" in an importantDivision. When Disraeli was asked if this were true, he shook his head,and said, "I hardly think so. Hart-Dyke was married that day. Hart-Dykeis a gentleman; he would never kiss AND 'tell.'" As a pendant to this,there was another Sir William, a baronet whose name I will suppress.With execrable taste, he was fond of boasting by name of his amatorysuccesses. He was always known as "William Tell."

In 1886 the long hours in the House of Commons hung very heavily on ourhands, once the always voluminous daily correspondence of an M.P. hadbeen disposed of. My youngest brother and I, both then well underthirty, used to hire tricycles from the dining-room attendants, andhave races up and down the long river terrace, much to the interest ofpassers-by on Westminster Bridge. We projected, to pass the time, a"Soulful Song-Cycle," which was frankly to be an attempt at pulling thepublic's leg. Our Song-Cycle never matured, though I did write thefirst one of the series, an imaginative effort entitled "In ListlessFrenzy." It was, and was intended to be, utter nonsense, devoid alikeof grammar and meaning. I quoted my "Listless Frenzy" one night to an"intense" and gushing lady, as an example of the pitiable rubbishdecadent minor poets were then turning out. It began—

"Crimson wreaths of passionless flowers
Down in the golden glen;
Silvery sheen of autumnal showers;
When, my beloved one, when?"

She assured me that the fault lay in myself, not in the lines; that Iwas of too material a temperament to appreciate the subtle beauty ofso-and-so's work. I forget to whom I had attributed the verses, but Ifelt quite depressed at reflecting that I was too material tounderstand the lines I had myself written.

My brother was a great admirer of the Ingoldsby Legends, and couldhimself handle Richard Barham's fascinating metre very effectively. Hewas meditating "A Pseudo-Ingoldsbean Lay," dealing with leadingpersonalities in the then House of Commons. The idea came to nothing,as an "Ingoldsby Legend" must, from its very essence, be cast in anarrative form, and the subject did not lend itself to narrative.Although it has nothing to do with the subject in hand, I must quotesome lines from "The Raid of Carlisle," another "Pseudo-IngoldsbeanLay" of my brother's, to show how easily he could use Barham's metre,with its ear-tickling double rhyme, and how thoroughly he hadassimilated the spirit of the Ingoldsby Legends. The extracts are froman account of an incident which occurred in 1596 when Lord Scroop wasWarden of the Western or English Marches on behalf of Elizabeth, whileBuccleuch, on the Scottish side, was Warden of the Middle Marches onbehalf of James VI.

"Now, I'd better explain, while I'm still in the vein,
That towards the close of Elizabeth's reign,
Though the 'thistle and rose' were no longer at blows,
They'd a way of disturbing each other's repose.
A mode of proceeding most clearly exceeding
The rules of decorum, and palpably needing
Some clear understanding between the two nations,
By which to adjust their unhappy relations.
With this object in view, it occurred to Buccleuch
That a great deal of mutual good would accrue
If they settled that he and Lord Scroop's nominee
Should meet once a year, and between them agree
To arbitrate all controversial cases
And grant an award on an equable basis.
A brilliant idea that promised to be a
Corrective, if not a complete panacea—
For it really appears that for several years,
These fines of 'poll'd Angus' and Galloway steers
Did greatly conduce, during seasons of truce,
To abating traditional forms of abuse,
And to giving the roues of Border society
Some little sense of domestic propriety.

So finding himself, so to speak, up a tree,
And unable to think of a neat repartee,
He wisely concluded (as Brian Boru did,
On seeing his 'illigant counthry' denuded
Of cattle and grain that were swept from the plain
By the barbarous hand of the pillaging Dane)
To bandy no words with a dominant foe,
But to wait for a chance of returning the blow,
And then let him have it in more suo."

These extracts make me regret that the leading personalities in theParliament of 1886 were not commemorated in the same pleasant, jinglingmetre.

CHAPTER VIII

The Foreign Office—The new Private Secretary—A Cabinetkey—Concerning theatricals—Some surnames which have passed intoeveryday use—Theatricals at Petrograd—A mock-opera—The family fromRuncorn—An embarrassing predicament—Administering the oath—SecretService—Popular errors—Legitimate employment of information—ThePhoenix Park murders—I sanction an arrest—The innocent victim—Theexecution of the murderers of Alexander II.—The jarring militaryband—Black Magic—Sir Charles Wyke—Some of his experiences—Theseance at the Pantheon—Sir Charles' experiment on myself—TheAlchemists—The Elixir of Life, and the Philosopher's Stone—Luciddirections for their manufacture—Glamis Castle and itsinhabitants—The tuneful Lyon family—Mr. Gladstone at Glamis—He singsin the glees—The castle and its treasures—Recollections of Glamis.

Having successfully defeated the Civil Service Examiners, I entered theForeign Office in 1876, for the six or eight months' training which allAttaches had to undergo before being sent abroad. The typewriter hadnot then been invented, so everything was copied by hand—a wearisomeand deadening occupation where very lengthy documents were concerned.

The older men in the Foreign Office were great sticklers for observingall the traditional forms. Lord Granville, in obedience to politicalpressure, had appointed the son of a leading politician as one of hisunpaid private secretaries. The youth had been previously in hisfather's office in Leeds. On the day on which he started work in theForeign Office he was given a bundle of letters to acknowledge. "Youknow, of course, the ordinary form of acknowledgment," said his chief."Just acknowledge all these, and say that the matter will be attendedto." When the young man from Leeds brought the letters he had written,for signature that evening, it was currently reported that they wereall worded in the same way: "Dear Sirs:—Your esteemed favour ofyesterday's date duly to hand, and contents noted. Our Lord Granvillehas your matter in hand." The horror-stricken official gasped at such adeparture from established routine.

As was the custom then, after one month in the Foreign Office, myimmediate chief gave me a little lecture on the traditional highstandard of honour of the Foreign Office, which he was sure I wouldobserve, and then handed me a Cabinet key which he made me attach to mywatch-chain in his presence. This Cabinet key unlocked all the boxes inwhich the most confidential papers of the Cabinet were circulated. Asthings were then arranged, this key was essential to our work, but aboy just turned twenty naturally felt immensely proud of such a proofof the confidence reposed in him. I think, too, that the Foreign Officecan feel justifiably proud of the fact that the trust reposed in itsmost junior members was never once betrayed, and that the most weightysecrets were absolutely safe in their keeping.

I have narrated elsewhere my early experiences at Berlin and Petrograd.In every capital the Diplomatists must always be, in a sense,sojourners in a strange land, and many of them who find a difficulty inamalgamating with the people of the country must always be thrown to agreat extent on their own resources. It is probably for this reasonthat theatricals were so popular amongst the Diplomats in Petrograd,the plays being naturally always acted in French.

Here I felt more or less at home. My grandmother, the duch*ess ofBedford, was passionately fond of acting, and in my grandfather's time,one room at Woburn Abbey was permanently fitted up as a theatre. Here,every winter during my mother's girlhood, there was a succession ofperformances in which she, her mother and brothers and sisters all tookpart, the Russell family having a natural gift for acting. Probably thevery name of Charles Matthews is unfamiliar to the present generations,so it is sufficient to say that he was THE light comedian of the earlynineteenth century. The Garrick Club possesses a fine collection ofportraits of Charles Matthews in some of his most popular parts.Charles Matthews acted regularly with the Russell family at Woburn, mymother playing the lead. I have a large collection of Woburn Abbeyplay-bills, from 1831-1839, all printed on white satin, and some of thepieces they put on were quite ambitious ones. My mother had a verysweet singing voice, which she retained till late in life; indeed atiny thread of voice remained until her ninety-third year, with a faintremnant of its old sweetness still clinging to it. After her marriage,her love of theatricals still persisted, so we were often havingperformances at home, as my brothers and sisters shared her tastes. Imade my first appearance on the stage at the age of seven, and I canstill remember most of my lines.

At Petrograd, in the French theatricals, I was always cast for old men,and I must have played countless fathers, uncles, generals, and familylawyers. As unmarried girls took part in these performances, the Frenchpieces had to be considerably "bowdlerized," but they still remained asexcruciatingly funny as only French pieces can be.

If I may be permitted a rather lengthy digression, "bowdlerised"derives its name from Thomas Bowdler, who in 1818 published anexpurgated edition of Shakespeare. It would be rather interesting tomake a list of words which have passed into common parlance but whichwere originally derived from some peculiarity of the person whosesurname they perpetuate. A few occur to me. In addition to"bowdlerise," there is "sandwich." As is well known, this compact formof nourishment derives its name from John, fourth Earl of Sandwich, wholived between 1718-1792. Lord Sandwich was a confirmed gambler, andsuch was his anxiety to lose still more money, and to impoverishfurther himself, his family, and his descendants, that he grudged thetime necessary for meals, and had slices of bread and slices of meatplaced by his side. The inventive faculty being apparently but littledeveloped during the eighteenth century, he was the first person whothought of placing meat between two slices of bread. Owing to theeconomy of time thus effected, he was able to ruin himself verysatisfactorily, and his name is now familiar all over the world, thanksto the condensed form of food he introduced.

Again, Admiral Edward Vernon was Naval Commander-in-Chief in the WestIndies in 1740. The Admiral was known as "Old Grog," from his habit ofalways having his breeches and the linings of his boat-cloaks made ofgrogram, a species of coarse white poplin (from the French grosgrain).It occurred to "Old Grog" that, in view of the ravages of yellow feveramongst the men of the Fleet, it would be advisable, in the burningclimate of the West Indies, to dilute the blue-jackets' rations of rumwith water before serving them out. This was accordingly done, to theimmense dissatisfaction of the men, who probably regarded it as aforerunner of "puss*foot" legislation. They at once christened themixture "grog," after the Admiral's nickname, and "grog" as a term forspirits and water has spread all over the world, and is used just asmuch in French as in English.

The origin of the expression "to burke an inquiry," in the sense ofsuppressing or stifling it, is due to Burke and Hare, two enterprisingmalefactors who supplied the medical schools of Edinburgh with"subjects" for anatomical research, early in the nineteenth century.Their procedure was simple. Creeping behind unsuspecting citizens inlonely streets, they stifled them to death by placing pitch-plastersover their mouths and noses. Burke was hanged for this in Edinburgh in1829.

In our own time, an almost unknown man has enriched the language with anew verb. A Captain Boycott of Lough Mask House, Co. Mayo, was a smallIrish land-agent in 1880. The means that were adopted to try and drivehim out of the country are well known. Since that time the expressionto "boycott" a person, in the sense of combining with others to refuseto have any dealings with him, has become a recognised English term,and is just as widely used in France as with us.

A less familiar term is a "Collins," for the usual letter of thankswhich a grateful visitor addresses to his recent host. This, of course,is derived from the Rev. Mr. Collins of Jane Austen's Pride andPrejudice, who prided himself on the dexterity with which he wordedthese acknowledgments of favours received. As another example, mostbridge-players are but too familiar with the name of a certain defunctEarl of Yarborough, who, whatever his other good qualities may havebeen, scarcely seems to have been a consistently good card-holder.

There must be quite a long list of similar words, and they would makean interesting study.

To return to the Diplomatic Theatricals at Petrograd, Labiche's piece,La Cagnotte, is extraordinarily funny, though written over sixty yearsago. We gave a very successful performance of this, in which I playedthe restaurant waiter—a capital part. La Lettre Chargee and LeSous-Prefet are both most amusing pieces, which can be played, withvery slight "cuts," before any audience, and they both bubble over withthat gaiete francaise which appeals so to me. We were coached atPetrograd by Andrieux, the jeune premier of the Theatre Michel, and weall became very professional indeed, never talking of Au Seconde Acte,but saying Au Deux, in proper French stage style. We also endeavouredto cultivate the long-drawn-out "a's" of the Comedie Francaise, andpronounced "adorahtion" and "imaginahtion" in the traditional manner ofthe "Maison de Moliere."

The British business community in Petrograd were also extremely fond ofgetting up theatricals, in this case, of course, in English. If in theFrench plays I was invariably cast for old men, in the English ones Iwas always allotted the extremely juvenile parts, being still very slimand able to "make up" young. I must confess to having appeared on thestage in an Eton jacket and collar at the age of twenty-four, as theschoolboy in Peril.

Russians are extremely clever at parody. Two brothers Narishkin wrotean intensely amusing mock serious opera, entitled Gargouillada, ou laBelle de Venise. It was written half in French and mock-Italian, andhalf in Russian, and was an excellent skit on an old-fashioned Italianopera. All the ladies fought shy of the part of "Countess Gorganzola,"the heroine's grandmother. This was partly due to the boldness of someof "Gorganzola's" lines, and also to the fact that whoever played therole would have to make-up frankly as an old woman. I was asked to take"Countess Gorganzola" instead of the villain of the piece, which I hadrehearsed, and I did so, turning it into a sort of Charley's Aunt part.Garouillada went with a roar from the opening chorus to the finaltableau, and so persistently enthusiastic were the audience that weagreed to give the opera again four nights in succession.

I was at work in the Chancery of the Embassy next morning when threepeople were ushered in to me. They were a family from either St.Helens, Runcorn, or Widnes, I forget which, all speaking the broadestLancashire. The navigation of the Neva being again opened, they hadcome on a little trip to Russia on a tramp-steamer belonging to afriend of theirs. There was the father, a short, thickset man in shinyblack broadcloth, with a shaven upper lip, and a voluminous red"Newgate-frill" framing his face—exactly the type of face oneassociates with the Deacon of a Calvinistic-Methodist Chapel; there wasthe mother, a very grim-looking female; and the son, a nondescripthobbledehoy with goggle-eyes. It appeared that after their passportshad been inspected on landing, the goggle-eyed boy had laid his downsomewhere and had lost it. No hotel would take him in without apassport, but these people were so obviously genuine, that I had nohesitation in issuing a fresh passport to the lad, after swearing thefather to an affidavit that the protuberant-eyed youth was his lawfulson. After a few kind words as to the grave effects of any carelessnesswith passports in a country like Russia, I let the trio from Runcorn(or St. Helens) depart.

That evening I had just finished dressing and making-up as CountessGorganzola, when I was told that three English people who had come onfrom the Embassy wished to see me. The curtain would be going up in tenminutes, so I got an obliging Russian friend who spoke English to godown and interview them. The strong Lancashire accent defeated him. Allhe could tell me was that it was something about a passport, and thatit was important. I was in a difficulty. It would have taken at leasthalf an hour to change and make-up again, and the curtain was going upalmost at once, so after some little hesitation I decided to go down asI was. I was wearing a white wig with a large black lace cap, and agown of black moire-antique trimmed with flounces and hanging sleevesof an abominable material known as black Chantilly lace. Any one whohas ever had to wear this hateful fabric knows how it catches in everypossible thing it can do. Down I went, and the trio from Widnes (orRuncorn) seemed surprised at seeing an old lady enter the room. Butwhen I spoke, and they recognised in the old lady the frock-coated (andI trust sympathetic) official they had interviewed earlier in the day,their astonishment knew no bounds. The father gazed at mehorror-stricken, as though I were a madman; the mother kept onswallowing, as ladies of her type do when they wish to convey strongdisapprobation; and the prominent-orbed boy's eyes nearly fell out ofhis head. I explained that some theatricals were in progress, but thatdid not mend matters; evidently in the serious circles in which theymoved in St. Helens (or Widnes), theatricals were regarded as one ofthe snares of the Evil One. To make matters worse, one of my Chantillylace sleeves caught in the handle of a drawer, and perhaps excusably,but quite audibly, I condemned all Chantilly lace to eternalpunishment, but in a much shorter form. After that they looked on me asclearly beyond the pale. The difficulty about the passport was easilyadjusted. The police had threatened to arrest the young man, as his newpassport was clearly not the one with which he had entered Russia. TheRussian Minister of the Interior happened to be in the green-room, andon my personal guarantee as to the identity of the Widnes youth, hewrote an order to the police on his visiting-card, bidding them toleave the goggle-eyed boy in peace. I really tremble to think of thereports this family must have circulated upon their return to Widnes(or Runcorn) as to the frivolity of junior members of the BritishDiplomatic Service, who dressed up as old women, and used bad languageabout Chantilly lace.

There is a wearisome formality known as "legalising" which took up muchtime at the Berlin Embassy. Commercial agreements, if they are to bebinding in two countries, say Germany and England, have to be"legalised," and this must be done at the Embassy, not at theConsulate. The individual bringing the document has to make a swornaffidavit that the contents of his papers are true; he then signs it,the dry-seal of the Embassy is embossed on it, and a rubber stampimpressed, declaring that the affidavit has been duly sworn to before amember of the Embassy staff. This is then signed and dated, and theprocess is complete. There were strings of people daily in Berlin withdocuments to be legalised, and on a little shelf in the Chanceryreposed an Authorized Version of the Bible, a German Bible, a Vulgateversion of the Gospels in Latin, and a Pentateuch in Hebrew, for thepurpose of administering the oath, according to the religion professedby the individual. I was duly instructed how to administer the oath inGerman, and was told that my first question must be as to the religionthe applicant professed, and that I was then to choose my Bookaccordingly. My great friend at Berlin was my fellow-attache Maude, amost delightful little fellow, who was universally popular. Poor Maude,who was a near relation of Mr. Cyril Maude the actor's, died four yearsafterwards in China. Most of the applicants for legalisation were ofone particular faith. I admired the way in which little Maude, withoutputting the usual question as to religion, would scan the features ofthe applicant closely and then hand him the Hebrew Pentateuch, andrequest him to put on his hat. (Jews are always sworn covered.) About amonth after my arrival in Berlin, I was alone in the Chancery when aman arrived with a document for legalisation. I was only twenty at thetime, and felt rather "bucked" at administering my first oath. Ithought that I would copy little Maude's methods, and after a good lookat my visitor's prominent features, I handed him the Pentateuch andrequested him to put on his hat. He was perfectly furious, and declaredthat both he and his father had been pillars of the Lutheran Church alltheir lives. I apologised profusely, but all the same I am convincedthat the original family seat had been situated in the valley of theJordan. I avoided, however, guesses as to religions for the future.

Both at Berlin and at Petrograd I kept what are known as the"Extraordinary Accounts" of the Embassies. I am therefore in a positionto give the exact amount spent on Secret Service, but I have not thefaintest intention of doing anything of the sort. Suffice it to saythat it is less than one-twentieth of the sum the average person wouldimagine. Bought information is nearly always unreliable information. Amoment's consideration will show that, should a man be base enough tosell his country's secrets to his country's possible enemy, he wouldalso unhesitatingly cheat, if he could, the man who purchases thatinformation, which, from the very nature of the case, it is almostimpossible to verify. In all probability the so-called informationwould have been carefully prepared at the General Staff for the expresspurpose of fooling the briber. There is a different class ofinformation which, it seems to me, is more legitimate to acquire. TheRussian Ministries of Commerce and Finance always imagined that theycould overrule economic laws by decrees and stratagems. For instance,they were perpetually endeavouring to divert the flow of trade from itsaccustomed channels to some port they wished to stimulate artificiallyinto prosperity, by granting rebates, and by exceptionally favourablerailway rates. Large quantities of jute sacking were imported fromDundee to be made into bags for the shipment of Russian wheat. OneMinister of Commerce elaborated an intricate scheme for supplanting thejute sacking by coarse linen sacking of Russian manufacture, bygranting a bonus to the makers of the latter, and by doubling theimport duties on the Scottish-woven material. I could multiply theseeconomic schemes indefinitely. Now let us suppose that we had somesource of information in the Ministry of Commerce, it was obviously ofadvantage to the British Government and to British traders to be warnedof the pending economic changes some two years in advance, for nothingis ever done quickly in Russia. People in England then knew what toexpect, and could make their arrangements accordingly. I can seenothing repugnant to the most rigid code of honour in obtaininginformation of this kind.

On May 6, 1882, Lord Frederick Cavendish, the newly appointed IrishSecretary, and Mr. Burke, the Permanent Under-Secretary for Ireland,were assassinated in the Phoenix Park, Dublin. I knew Tom Burke verywell indeed. The British Government offered a reward of ten thousandpounds for the apprehension of the murderers, and every policeman inEurope had rosy dreams of securing this great prize, and was constantlyon the alert for the criminals and the reward.

In July 1882, the Ambassador and half the Embassy staff were on leavein England. As matters were very slack just then, the Charge d'Affairesand the Second Secretary had gone to Finland for four days' fishing,leaving me in charge of the Embassy, with an Attache to help me. Myservant came to me early one morning as I was in bed, and told me thatan official of the Higher Police was outside my front door, and beggedfor permission to come into my flat. I have explained elsewhere thatAmbassadors, their families, their staffs, and even all the Embassyservants enjoy what is called exterritoriality; that is, that by apolite fiction the Embassy and the houses or apartments of theSecretaries are supposed to be on the actual soil of the country theyrepresent. Consequently, the police of the country cannot enter themexcept by special permission, and both the Secretaries and theirservants are immune from arrest, and are not subject to the laws of thecountry, though they can, of course, be expelled from it. I gave thepoliceman leave to enter, and he came into my bedroom. "I have caughtone of the Phoenix Park murderers," he told me triumphantly in Russian,visions of the possible ten thousand pounds wreathing his face insmiles. I jumped up incredulously. He went on to inform me that a manhad landed from the Stockholm steamer early that morning. Though hedeclared that he had no arms with him, a revolver and a dagger had beenfound in his trunk. His passport had only been issued at the BritishLegation in Stockholm, and his description tallied exactly with thesignalment issued by Scotland Yard in eight languages. The policiershowed me the description: "height about five feet nine; complexionsallow, with dark eyes. Thickset build; probably with some recent cutson face and hands." The policeman declared that the cuts were there,and that it was unquestionably the man wanted. Then he put the questionpoint-blank, would the Embassy sanction this man's arrest? I was onlytwenty-five at the time. I had to act on "my own," and I had to decidequickly. "Yes, arrest him," I said, "but you are not to take him toprison. Confine him to his room at his hotel, with two or three of yourmen to watch him. I will dress and come there as quickly as I can."

Half an hour later I was in a grubby room of a grubby hotel, where ashort, sallow, thickset man, with three recent cuts on his face, waswalking up and down, smoking cigarettes feverishly, and throwingfrightened glances at three sinister-looking plain-clothes men, whopretended to be quite at ease. I looked again at the description and atthe man. There could be no doubt about it. I asked him for his ownaccount of himself. He told me that he was the Manager of theGothenburg Tramway Company in Sweden, an English concern, and that hehad come to Russia for a little holiday. He accounted for the cuts onhis face and hands by saying that he had slipped and fallen on his facewhilst alighting from a moving tram-car. He declared that he was wellknown in Stockholm, and that his wife, when packing his things, musthave put in the revolver and dagger without his knowledge. It allsounded grotesquely improbable, but I promised to telegraph both toStockholm and Gothenburg, and to return to him as soon as I hadreceived the answers. In the meanwhile I feared that he must considerhimself as under close arrest. He himself was under the impression thatall the trouble was due to the concealed arms; the Phoenix Park murdershad never once been mentioned. I sent off a long telegram in cypher tothe Stockholm Legation, making certain inquiries, and a longer one enclair to the British Consul at Gothenburg. By nagging at the Attache,and by keeping that dapper young gentleman's nose pretty close to thegrindstone, I got the first telegram cyphered and dispatched by 10a.m.; the answers arrived about 4 p.m. The man's story was true inevery particular. He HAD fallen off a moving tram and cut his face; hiswife, terrified at the idea of unknown dangers in Russia, HAD borroweda revolver and dagger from a friend, and had packed them in herhusband's trunk without his knowledge. Mr. D—— (I remember his nameperfectly) was well known in Stockholm, and was a man of the highestrespectability. I drove as fast as I could to the grubby hotel, where Ifound the poor fellow still restlessly pacing the room, and stillsmoking cigarette after cigarette. There was a perfect Mont Blanc ofcigarette stumps on a plate, and the shifty-looking plain-clothes menwere still watching their man like hawks. I told the police that theyhad got hold of the wrong man, that the Embassy was quite satisfiedabout him, and that they must release the gentleman at once. Theyaccordingly did so, and the alluring vision of the ten thousand poundsvanished into thin air! The poor man was quite touchingly grateful tome; he had formed the most terrible ideas about a Russian State prison,and seemed to think that he owed his escape entirely to me. I had notthe moral courage to tell him that I had myself ordered his arrest thatmorning, still less of the awful crime of which he had been suspected.Looking back, I do not see how I could have acted otherwise; the primafacie case against him was so strong; never was circ*mstantial evidenceapparently clearer. Mr. D—— went back to Sweden next day, as he hadhad enough of Russia. Should Mr. D—— still be alive, and should he byany chance read these lines, may I beg of him to accept my humblestapologies for the way I behaved to him thirty-eight years ago.

I happened to see the four assassins of Alexander II. driven throughthe streets of Petrograd on their way to execution. They were seated inchairs on large tumbrils, with their backs to the horses. Each one hada placard on his, or her breast, inscribed "Regicide" ("Tsaryubeeyetz"in Russian). Two military brass bands, playing loudly, followed thetumbrils. This was to make it impossible for the condemned persons toaddress the crowd, but the music might have been selected morecarefully. One band played the well-known march from Fatinitza. Therewas a ghastly incongruity between the merry strains of this captivatingmarch and the terrible fate that awaited the people escorted by theband at the end of their last drive on earth. When the first bandrested, the second replaced it instantly to avoid any possibilities ofa speech. The second band seemed to me to have made an equally unhappyselection of music. "Kaiser Alexander," written as a complimentarytribute to the murdered Emperor by a German composer, is a spirited andtuneful march, but as "Kaiser Alexander" was dead, and had been killedby the very people who were now going to expiate their crime, thefamiliar tune jarred horribly. A jaunty, lively march tune, and deathat the end of it, and in a sense at the beginning of it too. At timeseven now I can conjure up a vision of the broad, sombre Petrogradstreets, with the dull cotton-wool sky pressing down almost on to thehouse-tops; the vast silent crowds thronging the thoroughfares, and thetumbrils rolling slowly forward through the crowded streets to theplace of execution, accompanied by the gay strains of the march fromFatinitza. The hideous incongruity between the tune and the occasionmade one positively shudder.

There is in the Russian temperament a peculiar unbalanced hystericalelement. This, joined to a distinct bent towards the mystic, and to alarge amount of credulity, has made Russia for two hundred years thehappy hunting-ground of charlatans and impostors of various sortsclaiming supernatural powers: clairvoyants, mediums, yogis, and all therest of the tribe who batten on human weaknesses, and the perpetualdesire to tear away the veil from the Unseen. It so happened that mychief at Lisbon had in his youth dabbled in the Black Art. Sir CharlesWyke was a dear old man, who had spent most of his Diplomatic career inMexico and the South American Republics. He spoke Spanish better thanany other Englishman I ever knew, with the one exception of Sir WilliamBarrington. He was unmarried, and was a most distinguished-looking oldgentleman with his snow-white imperial and moustache. He wasunquestionably a little eccentric in his habits. He had rendered somesignal service to the Mexican Government while British Minister there,by settling a dispute between them and the French authorities. TheMexican Government had out of gratitude presented him with a splendidMexican saddle, with pommel, stirrups and bit of solid silver, and withthe leather of the saddle most elaborately embroidered in silver. SirCharles kept this trophy on a saddle-tree in his study at Lisbon, andit was his custom to sit on it daily for an hour or so. He said that ashe was too old to ride, the feel of a saddle under him reminded him ofhis youth. When every morning I brought the old gentleman the day'sdispatches, I always found him seated on his saddle, a cigar in hismouth, a skull-cap on his head, and his feet in the silvershoe-stirrups. Sir Charles had been a great friend of the first LordLytton, the novelist, and they had together dabbled in Black Magic. SirCharles declared that the last chapters in Bulwer-Lytton's wonderfulimaginative work, A STRANGE STORY, describing the preparation of theElixir of Life in the heart of the Australian Bush, were all founded onactual experience, with the notable reservation that all the recordedattempts made to produce this magic fluid had failed from their verystart. He had in his younger days joined a society of Rosicrucians, bywhich I do not mean the Masonic Order of that name, but persons whosought to penetrate into the Forbidden Domain. Some forty years ago avery interesting series of articles appeared in Vanity Fair (the weeklynewspaper, not Thackeray's masterpiece), under the title of "The BlackArt." In one of these there was an account of a seance which took placeat the Pantheon in Oxford Street, in either the "forties" or the"fifties." A number of people had hired the hall, and the Devil wasinvoked in due traditional form, Then something happened, and theentire assemblage rushed terror-stricken into Oxford Street, andnothing would induce a single one of them to re-enter the building. SirCharles owned that he had been present at the seance, but he wouldnever tell me what it was that frightened them all so; he said that hepreferred to forget the whole episode. Sir Charles had an idea that Iwas a "sensitive," so, after getting my leave to try his experiment, hepoured into the palm of my hand a little pool of quicksilver, andplacing me under a powerful shaded lamp, so that a ray of light caughtthe mercury pool, he told me to look at the bright spot for a quarterof an hour, remaining motionless meanwhile. Any one who has shared thisexperience with me, knows how the speck of light flashes and growsuntil that little pool of quicksilver seems to fill the entire horizon,darting out gleaming rays like an Aurora Borealis. I felt myselfgrowing dazed and hypnotised, when Sir Charles emptied the mercury frommy hand, and commenced making passes over me, looking, with his slenderbuild and his white hair and beard, like a real mediaeval magician."Now you can neither speak nor move," he cried at length. "I think Ican do both, Sir Charles," I answered, as I got out of the chair. Hetried me on another occasion, and then gave me up. I was clearly not a"sensitive."

Sir Charles had quite a library of occult books, from which Iendeavoured to glean a little knowledge, and great rubbish most of themwere. Raymond Lully, Basil Valentine, Paracelsus, and Van Helmont; theywere all there, in French, German, Latin, and English. The Alchemistshad two obsessions: one was the discovery of the Elixir of Life, by theaid of which you could live forever; the other that of thePhilosopher's Stone, which had the property of transmuting everythingit touched into gold. Like practical men, they seemed to haveconcentrated their energies more especially on the latter, for amoment's consideration will show the exceedingly awkward predicament inwhich any one would be placed with only the first of these conveniencesat his command. Should he by the aid of the Elixir of Life have managedto attain the age of, say, 300 years, he might find it excessively hardto obtain any remunerative employment at that time of life; whereaswith the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket, he would only have to touchthe door-scraper outside his house to find it immediately transmutedinto the purest gold. In case of pressing need, he could extend theprocess with like result to his area railings, which ought to be enoughto keep the wolf from the door for some little while even at thepresent-day scale of prices.

Basil Valentine, the German Benedictine monk and alchemist, who wrote abook which he quaintly termed The Triumphant Wagon, in praise of thehealing properties of antimony, actually thought that he had discoveredthe Elixir of Life in tartrate of antimony, more generally known astartar emetic. He administered large doses of this turbulent remedy tosome ailing monks of his community, who promptly all died of it.

The main characteristics of the Alchemists is their wonderful clarity.For instance, when they wish to refer to mercury, they call it "thegreen lion," and the "Pontic Sea," which makes it quite obvious toevery one. They attached immense importance to the herb "Lunary," whichno one as yet has ever been able to discover. Should any one happen tosee during their daily walks "a herb with a black root, and a red andviolet stalk, whose leaves wax and wane with the moon," they will atonce know that they have found a specimen of the rare herb "Lunary."The juice of this plant, if boiled with quicksilver, has only to bethrown over one hundred ounces of copper, to change them instantly intofine gold. Paracelsus' directions for making the Philosopher's Stoneare very simple: "Take the rosy-coloured blood of the lion, and glutenfrom the eagle. Mix them together, and the Philosopher's Stone isthine. Seek the lion in the west, and the eagle in the south." Whatcould be clearer? Any child could make sufficient Philosopher's Stonesfrom this simple recipe to pave a street with—a most useful asset, bythe way, to the Chancellor of the Exchequer at the present time, forevery bicycle, omnibus and motor-lorry driving over the PhilosopherStone-paved street would instantly be changed automatically into puregold, and the National Debt could be satisfactorily liquidated in thisfashion in no time.

Whenever I returned home on leave, whether from Berlin, Petrograd,Lisbon, or Buenos Ayres, I invariably spent a portion of my leave atGlamis Castle. This venerable pile, "whose birth tradition notes not,"though the lower portions were undoubtedly standing in 1016, rears itsforest of conical turrets in the broad valley lying between theGrampians and the Sidlaws, in the fertile plains of Forfarshire. Apartfrom the prestige of its immense age, Glamis is one of the mostbeautiful buildings in the Three Kingdoms. The exquisitely weatheredtints of grey-pink and orange that its ancient red sandstone walls havetaken on with the centuries, its many gables and towers rising insummer-time out of a sea of greenery, the richness of its architecturaldetails, make Glamis a thing apart. There is nothing else quite likeit. No more charming family can possibly be imagined than that of thelate Lord Strathmore, forty years ago. The seven sons and threedaughters of the family were all born musicians. I have never heardsuch perfect and finished part-singing as that of the Lyon family, andthey were always singing: on the way to a cricket-match; on the roadhome from shooting; in the middle of dinner, even, this irrepressiblefamily could not help bursting into harmony, and such exquisiteharmony, too! Until their sisters grew up, the younger boys sang thetreble and alto parts, but finally they were able to manage amale-voice quartet, a trio of ladies' voices, and a combined familyoctette. The dining-room at Glamis is a very lofty hall, oak-panelled,with a great Jacobean chimney-piece rising to the roof. After dinner itwas the custom for the two family pipers to make the circuit of thetable three times, and then to walk slowly off, still playing, throughthe tortuous stone passages of the ancient building until the lastfaint echoes of the music had died away. Then all the lights in thedining-room were extinguished except the candles on the table, and outcame a tuning-fork, and one note was sounded—"Madrigal," "Spring isCome, third beat," said the conducting brother, and off they went,singing exquisitely; glees, madrigals, part-songs, anything andeverything, the acoustic properties of the lofty room adding to theeffect. All visitors to Glamis were charmed with this most finishedsinging—always, of course, without accompaniment. They sang equallywell in the private chapel, giving admirable renderings of the mostintricate "Services," and, from long practice together, their voicesblended perfectly. This gifted family were equally good at acting. Theyhad a permanent stage during the winter months at Glamis, and as everynew Gilbert and Sullivan opera was produced in London, the concertedportions were all duly repeated at Glamis, and given most excellently.I have never heard the duet and minuet between "Sir Marmaduke" and"Lady Sangazure" from The Sorcerer better done than at Glamis, althoughSir Marmaduke was only nineteen, and Lady Sangazure, under her whitewig, was a boy of twelve. The same boy sang "Mabel" in the Pirates ofPenzance most admirably.

In 1884 it was conveyed to Lord Strathmore that Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone,whom he did not know personally, were most anxious to see Glamis. Ofcourse an invitation was at once dispatched, and in spite of therigorously Tory atmosphere of the house, we were all quite charmed withMr. Gladstone's personality. Lord Strathmore wished to stop thepart-singing after dinner, but I felt sure that Mr. Gladstone wouldlike it, so it took place as usual. The old gentleman was perfectlyenchanted with it, and complimented this tuneful familyenthusiastically on the perfect finish of their singing. Next eveningMr. Gladstone asked for a part-song in the middle of dinner, and as thesinging was continued in the drawing-room afterwards, he went and, witha deferential courtesy charming to see in a man of his age andposition, asked whether the young people would allow an old man to singbass in the glees with them. Mr. Gladstone still had a very fineresonant bass, and he read quite admirably. It was curious to see thePrime Minister reading off the same copy as an Eton boy of sixteen, whowas singing alto. Being Sunday night, they went on singing hymns andanthems till nearly midnight; there was no getting Mr. Gladstone away.Mrs. Gladstone told me next day that he had not enjoyed himself so muchfor many months.

There was a blend of simplicity, dignity, and kindliness in Mrs.Gladstone's character that made her very attractive. My family wereexceedingly fond of her, and though two of my brothers were alwaysattacking Mr. Gladstone in the most violent terms, this never strainedtheir friendly relations with Mrs. Gladstone herself. I always conjureup visions of Mrs. Gladstone in her sapphire-blue velvet, herinvariable dress of ceremony. Though a little careless as to herappearance, she always looked a "great lady," and her tall figure, andthe kindly old face with its crown of silvery hair, were alwayswelcomed in the houses of those privileged to know her.

The Lyon family could do other things besides singing and acting. Thesons were all excellent shots, and were very good at games. One brotherwas lawn-tennis champion of Scotland, whilst another, with his partner,won the Doubles Championship of England.

Glamis is the oldest inhabited house in Great Britain. As Shakespearetells us in Macbeth,

"This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetlyrecommends itself Unto our gentle senses."

The vaulted crypt was built before 1016, and another ancientstone-flagged, stone-vaulted hall leading out of it is the traditionalscene of the murder of Duncan by Macbeth, the "Thane of Glamis." In aroom above it King Malcolm II. of Scotland was murdered in 1034. Thecastle positively teems with these agreeable traditions. The staircasesand their passages are stone-walled, stone-roofed, and stone-floored,and their flags are worn into hollows by the feet which have troddenthem for so many centuries. Unusual features are the secret windingstaircases debouching in the most unexpected places, and a well in thefront hall, which doubtless played a very useful part during the manysieges the castle sustained in the old days. The private chapel is abeautiful little place of worship, with eighty painted panels ofScriptural subjects by De Witt, the seventeenth-century Dutch artist,and admirable stained glass. The Castle, too, is full of interestinghistorical relics. It boasts the only remaining Fool's dress of motleyin the kingdom; Prince Charlie's watch and clothes are still preservedthere, for the Prince, surprised by the Hanoverian troops at Glamis,had only time to jump on a horse and escape, leaving all his belongingsbehind him. There is a wonderful collection of old family dresses ofthe seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and above all there is thevery ancient silver-gilt cup, "The Lion of Glamis," which holds anentire bottle of wine, and on great family occasions is still producedand used as a loving-cup, circulating from hand to hand round thetable. Walter Scott in a note to Waverly states that it was the "Lionof Glamis" cup which gave him the idea of the "Blessed Bear ofBradwardine." In fact, there is no end to the objects of interest thiswonderful old castle contains, and the Lyon family have inhabited itfor six hundred years in direct line from father to son.

It is difficult for me to write impartially about Glamis, for it is asfamiliar to me as my own home. I have been so much there, and havereceived such kindness within its venerable walls, that it can never beto me quite as other places are. I can see vast swelling stretches ofpurple heather, with the dainty little harebells all a-quiver in thestrong breeze sweeping over the grouse-butts, as a brown mass ofwhirling wings rushes past at the pace of an express train, causing oneprobably to reflect how well-nigh impossible it is to "allow" too muchfor driven grouse flying down-wind. I can picture equally vividly thecurling-pond in winter-time, tuneful with the merry chirrup of thecurling-stones as they skim over the ice, whilst cries of "Soop her up,man, soop! Soop!" from the anxious "skip" fill the keen air. I likebest, though, to think of the Glamis of my young days, when the ancientstone-built passages and halls, that have seen so many generations passthrough them and disappear, rang with perpetual youthful laughter, orechoed beautifully finished part-singing; when nimble young feettwinkled, and kilts whirled to the skirl of the pipes under the vaultedroof of the nine-hundred-year-old crypt; when the whole place wasvibrant with joyous young life, and the stately, grey-bearded owner ofthe historic castle, and of many broad acres in Strathmore besides,found his greatest pleasure in seeing how happy his children and hisguests could be under his roof.

CHAPTER IX

Canada—The beginnings of the C.P.R.—Attitude of British Columbia—TheC.P.R. completed—Quebec—A swim at Niagara—Other mightywaterfalls—Ottawa and Rideau Hall—Effects of dry climate—Personalelectricity—Every man his own dynamo—Attraction ofOttawa—Curling—The "roaring game"—Skating—An ice-palace—A ball onskates—Difficulties of translating the Bible into Eskimo—The buildingof the snow hut—The snow hut in use—Sir John Macdonald—Some personaltraits—The Canadian Parliament buildings—Monsieur l'Orateur—A quaintoration—The "Pages' Parliament"—An all-night sitting—The "ArcticCremorne"—A curious Lisbon custom—The Balkan"souvenir-hunters"—Personal inspection of Canadian convents—Someincidents—The unwelcome novice—The Montreal Carnival—TheIce-castle—The Skating Carnival—A stupendous toboggan slide—Thepioneer of "ski" in Canada—The old-fashioned raquettes—A CanadianSpring—Wonder of the Dominion.

When I was in Canada for the first time in 1884, the Canadian PacificRailway was not completed, and there was no through railway connectionbetween the Maritime Provinces, "Upper" and "Lower" Canada, and thePacific Coast, though, of course, in 1884 those old-fashioned terms forthe Provinces of Ontario and Quebec had been obsolete for some time.Since the Federation of the Dominion in 1867, the opening of theTrans-Continental railway has been the most potent factor in theknitting together of Canada, and has developed the resources of theDominion to an extent which even the most enthusiastic of the originalpromoters of the C.P.R. never anticipated. When British Columbia threwin its lot with the Dominion in 1871, one of the terms upon which thePacific Province insisted was a guarantee that the Trans-Continentalrailway should be completed in ten years—that is, in 1881. Two rivalCompanies received in 1872 charters for building the railway; theresult was continual political intrigue, and very little constructionwork. British Columbia grew extremely restive under the continualdelays, and threatened to retire from the Dominion. Lord Dufferin toldme himself, when I was his Private Secretary in Petrograd, that on theoccasion of his official visit to British Columbia (of course by sea),in either 1876 or 1877, as Governor-General, he was expected to driveunder a triumphal arch which had been erected at Victoria, VancouverIsland. This arch was inscribed on both sides with the word"Separation." I remember perfectly Lord Dufferin's actual words indescribing the incident: "I sent for the Mayor of Victoria, and toldhim that I must have a small—a very small—alteration made in theinscription, before I could consent to drive under it; an alteration ofone letter only. The initial 'S' must be replaced with an 'R' and thenI would pledge my word that I would do my best to see that 'Reparation'was made to the Province." This is so eminently characteristic of LordDufferin's methods that it is worth recording. The suggested alterationin the inscription was duly made, and Lord Dufferin drove under thearch. In spite of continued efforts the Governor-General was unable toexpedite the construction of the railway under the MackenzieAdministration, and it needed all his consummate tact to quiet theever-growing demand for separation from the Dominion on the part ofBritish Columbia, owing to the non-fulfilment of the terms of union. Itwas not until 1881, under Sir John Macdonald's Premiership, that acontract was signed with a new Company to complete the Canadian Pacificwithin ten years, but so rapid was the progress made, that the lastspike was actually driven on November 7, 1886, five years before thestipulated time. The names of three Scotsmen will always be associatedwith this gigantic undertaking: those of the late Donald Smith,afterwards Lord Strathcona; George Stephen, now Lord Mount-stephen; andMr. R. B. Angus of Montreal. The last spike, which was driven in at aplace called Craigellachie, by Mrs. Mackenzie, widow of the Premierunder whom the C.P.R. had been commenced, was of an unusual character,for it was of eighteen-carat gold. In the course of an hour it wasreplaced by a more serviceable spike of steel. I have often seen Mrs.Mackenzie wearing the original gold spike, with "Craigellachie" on itin diamonds.

There are few finer views in the world than that from the terrace ofthe Citadel of Quebec over the mighty expanse of the St. Lawrence, withocean-going steamers lying so close below that it would be possible todrop a stone from the Citadel on to their decks; and the view from theDufferin Terrace, two hundred feet lower down, is just as fine. Mybrother-in-law, Lord Lansdowne, had been appointed Governor-General in1883, and I well remember my first arrival in Quebec. We had beenliving for five weeks in the backwoods of the Cascapedia, the famoussalmon-river, under the most primitive conditions imaginable. I hadcome there straight from the Argentine Republic on a tramp steamer, andwe lived on the Cascapedia coatless and flannel-shirted, with our legsencased in "beef moccasins" as a protection against the hordes ofvoracious flies that battened ravenously on us from morning to night.It was a considerable change from a tent on the banks of the rushing,foaming Cascapedia to the Citadel of Quebec, which was then appointedlike a comfortable English country house, and gave one a thoroughlyhome-like feeling at once. After my prolonged stay in South America Iwas pleased, too, to recognise familiar pictures, furniture and chinawhich I had last met in their English Wiltshire home, all of them withthe stolid impassiveness of inanimate objects unaware that they hadbeen spirited across the Atlantic, three thousand miles from theiraccustomed abiding-place.

In September 1884, at a point immediately below the Falls, I swamNiagara with Mr. Cecil Baring, now a partner in Baring Brothers, thenan Oxford undergraduate. We were standing at the foot of the AmericanFalls, when we noticed a little board inscribed, "William Grenfell ofTaplow Court, England" (the present Lord Desborough), "swam Niagara atthis spot." I looked at Baring, Baring looked at me. "I don't see whywe shouldn't do it too," he observed, to which I replied, "We mighthave a try," so we stripped, sent our clothes over to the Canadianside, and entered the water. It was a far longer swim than either of ushad anticipated, the current was very strong, and the eddies botheredus. When we landed on the Canadian shore, I was utterly exhausted,though Baring, being eight years younger than me, did not feel theeffects of the exertion so much. I remember that the Falls, seen fromonly six inches above the surface of the water, looked like a splendidrange of snow-clad hills tumbling about in mad confusion, and that theroar of waters was deafening. As we both lay panting and gasping, purisnaturalibus, on the Canadian bank, I need hardly say, as we were on theAmerican continent, that a reporter made his appearance from nowhere,armed with notebook and pencil. This young newspaper-man was nottroubled with false delicacy. He asked us point-blank what we had madeout of our swim. On learning that we had had no money on it, but hadmerely done it for the fun of the thing, he mentioned the name of aplace of eternal punishment, shut up his notebook in disgust, andwalked off: there was evidently no "story" to be made out of us. Aftersome luncheon and a bottle of Burgundy, neither Baring nor I felt anythe worse for our swim, nor were we the least tired during theremainder of the day. I have seen Niagara in summer, spring and inmid-winter, and each time the fascination of these vast masses oftumbling waters has grown on me. I have never, to my regret, seen theVictoria Falls of the Zambesi, as on two separate occasions whenstarting for them unforeseen circ*mstances detained me in Cape Town.The Victoria Falls are more than double the height of Niagara, Niagarafalling 160 feet, and the Zambesi 330 feet, and the Falls are over onemile broad, but I fancy that except in March and April, the volume ofwater hurling itself over them into the great chasm below is smallerthan at Niagara. I have heard that the width of the Victoria Falls isto within a few yards exactly the distance between the Marble Arch andOxford Circus. When I was in the Argentine Republic, the great Falls ofthe River Iguazu, a tributary of the Parana, were absolutelyinaccessible. To reach them vast tracts of dense primeval forest had tobe traversed, where every inch of the track would have to belaboriously hacked through the jungle. Their very existence wasquestioned, for it depended on the testimony of wandering Indians, andof one solitary white man, a Jesuit missionary. Now, since the railwayto Paraguay has been completed, the Iguazu Falls can be reached, thoughthe journey is still a difficult one. The Falls are 200 feet high, andnearly a mile wide. In the very heart of the City of Ottawa there arethe fine Chaudiere Falls, where the entire River Ottawa drops fiftyfeet over a rocky ledge. The boiling whirl of angry waters has wellearned its name of cauldron, or "Chaudiere," but so much of the waterhas now been drawn off to supply electricity and power to the city,that the volume of the falls has become sensibly diminished. I know ofno place in Europe where the irresistible might of falling waters ismore fully brought home to one than at Trollhattan in Sweden. Here theGotha River whirls itself down 120 feet in seven cataracts. They arerapids rather than falls, but it is the immense volume of water whichmakes them so impressive. Every year Trolhattan grows more and moredisfigured by saw-mills, carbide of calcium works, and other industrialbuildings sprouting up like unsightly mushrooms along the river-banks.The last time that I was there it was almost impossible to see thefalls in their entirety from any point, owing to this congestion ofsqualid factories.

Rideau Hall, the Government House at Ottawa, stands about two miles outof the town, and is a long, low, unpretentious building, exceedinglycomfortable as a dwelling-house, if somewhat inadequate as an officialresidence for the Governor-General of Canada. Lord Dufferin added alarge and very handsome ball-room, fitted with a stage at one end ofit, and a full-sized tennis-court. This tennis-court, by an ingeniousarrangement, can be converted in a few hours into a splendidsupper-room. A red and white tent is lowered bodily from the roof; acarpet is spread over the floor; great white-and-gold electricstandards bearing the arms of the different Provinces are placed inposition, and the thing is done. The intense dryness of the Canadianwinter climate, especially in houses where furnace-heat intensifies thedryness, produces some unexpected results. My brother-in-law hadbrought out a number of old pieces of French inlaid furniture. Theexcessive dryness forced out some of the inlaid marqueterie of thesepieces, and upon their return to Europe they had to undergo a long andexpensive course of treatment. Some fine Romneys and Gainesboroughsalso required the picture-restorer's attentions before they couldreturn to their Wiltshire home after a five years' sojourn in the dryair of Canada. The ivory handles of razors shrink in the dryatmosphere; as the steel frame cannot shrink correspondingly the ivorysplits in two. The thing most surprising to strangers was that it waspossible in winter-time to light the gas with one's finger. All thatwas necessary was to shuffle over the carpet in thin shoes, and then ontouching any metal object, an electric spark half an inch long wouldcrack out of your finger. The size and power of the spark depended agreat deal on the temperament of the experimenter. A high-strung personcould produce quite a large spark; a stolid, bovine individual couldnot obtain a glimmer of one. The late Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, whilststaying at Government House, was told of this, but was inclined to besceptical. My sister, Lady Lansdowne, made him shuffle over the carpet,and then and there touch a gas-burner from which she had removed theglobe. Mr. Chamberlain, with his nervous temperament, produced a sparkan inch long out of himself, and of course the gas flared upimmediately. I do not think that I had ever seen any one moresurprised. This power of generating static electricity from their ownbodies was naturally a source of immense delight to the Lansdownechildren. They loved, after shuffling their feet on the carpet, tocreep up to any adult relation and touch them lightly on the ear, amost sensitive spot. There would be a little spark, a little shock, anda little exclamation of surprise. Outside the children's schoolroomthere was a lobby warmed by a stove, and the air there was peculiarlydry. The young people, with a dozen or so of their youthful friends,would join hands, taking, however, care not to complete the circle, andthen shuffle their feet vigorously. On completing the circuit, theycould produce a combined spark over two inches long, with acorrespondingly sharp shock. In my bedroom at Ottawa there was anold-fashioned high brass fender. Had I put on slippers, and haveattempted to warm myself at the fire previous to turning-in. I shouldbe reminded, by a sharp discharge from my protesting calves into themetal fender, that I was in dry Canada. (At that date the dryness ofCanada was atmospherical only.) Curiously enough, a spark leaving thebody produces the same shock as one entering it, and no electricitywhatever can be generated with bare feet. One of the footmen at Ottawamust have been an abnormally high-strung young man, for should oneinadvertently touch silver dinner-plate he handed one, a sharp electricshock resulted. The children delighted in one very pretty experiment.Many books for the young have their bindings plentifully adorned withgold, notably the French series, the "Bibliotheque Rose." Should one ofthese highly-gilt volumes be taken into a warm and dry place, and thelights extinguished, the INNER side of the binding had only to berubbed briskly with a fur-cap for all the gilding to begin to sparkleand coruscate, and to send out little flashes of light. The childrentook the utmost pleasure in this example of the curious properties ofelectricity.

The Ottawa of the "eighties" was an attractive little place, and OttawaSociety was very pleasant. There was then a note of unaffectedsimplicity about everything that was most engaging, and the people wereperfectly natural and free from pretence. The majority of them wereCivil servants of limited means, and as everybody knew what theirneighbours' incomes were, there was no occasion for make-believe. Thesame note of simplicity ran through all amusem*nts and entertaining,and I think that it constituted the charm of the place. I called oneafternoon on the very agreeable wife of a high official, and was toldat the door that Lady R—was not at home. Recognizing my voice, a crycame up from the kitchen-stairs. "Oh, yes! I am at home to you. Comeright down into the kitchen," where I found my friend, with her sleevesrolled up, making with her own hands the sweets for the dinner-partyshe was giving that night, as she mistrusted her cook's capabilities.The Ottawa people had then that gift of being absolutely unaffected,which makes the majority of Australians so attractive. Now everythinghas changed; Ottawa has trebled in size since I first knew it, and onrevisiting it twenty-five years later, I found that it had become very"smart" indeed, with elaborate houses and gorgeous raiment.

Rideau Hall had two open-air skating-rinks in its own grounds, twoimposing toboggan-slides, and a covered curling-rink. The "roaringgame" is played in Canada with very heavy straight-sided iron "stones,"weighing from 50 to 60 lbs. As the ice in a covered rink can beconstantly flooded, it can be kept in the most perfect order, and withthe heavy stones far greater accuracy can be attained than with thegranite stones used in Scotland. The game becomes a sort of billiardson ice. The Rideau Hall team consisted of Lord Lansdowne himself,General Sir Henry Streatfield, a nephew of mine, and one of thefootmen, who seemed to have a natural gift as a curler. Our team wereinvincible in 1888. At a curling-match against Montreal in 1887, along-distance telephone was used for the first time in Canada. Ottawais 120 miles distant from Montreal, and a telephone was speciallyinstalled, and each "end" telephoned from Rideau Hall to Montreal,where the result was shown on a board, excitement over the matchrunning high. Montreal proved the victors. On great occasions such asthis, the ice of the curling-rink was elaborately decorated in colours.It was very easily done. Ready-prepared stencils, such as are used forwall-decoration, were laid on the ice, and various coloured inks mixedwith water were poured through the stencil holes, and froze almostimmediately on to the ice below. In this fashion complicated designs ofroses, thistles and maple-leaves, all in their proper colours, could bemade in a very short time, and most effective they were until destroyedby the first six "ends." When the Governor-General's time in Canadaexpired and he was transferred to India, the curlers of Canadapresented him with a farewell address. Lord Lansdowne made, I thought,a very happy reply. Speaking of the regret he felt at leaving Ottawa,and at severing his many links of connection with Canada, he addedthat, bearing in view the climate of Bengal, he did not anticipate muchcurling in India, and that he would miss the "roaring game"; in fact,the only "roaring game" he was likely to come in contact with wouldprobably take the unpleasant form of a Bengal tiger springing out athim. Lord Lansdowne went on to say, "Let us hope that it will nothappen that your ex-Governor-General will be found, not pursuing theroaring game, but being pursued by it."

From skating daily, most of the Government House party became veryexpert, and could perform every kind of trick upon skates. Lord andLady Lansdowne and their two daughters, now duch*ess of Devonshire andLady Osborne Beauclerk, could execute the most complicated Quadrillesand Lancers on skates, and could do the most elaborate figures.

Once a week all Ottawa turned up at Rideau Hall to skate to the musicof a good military band. Every year in December a so-called ice-palacewas built for the band, of clear blocks of ice. Once given a design,ice-architecture is most fascinating and very easy. Instead of mortar,all that is required is a stream of water from a hose to freeze theice-blocks together, and as ice can be easily chipped into any shape,the most fantastic pinnacles and ornaments can be contrived. Ourice-palace was usually built in what I may call a free adaptation ofthe Canado-Moresque style. A very necessary feature in the ice-palacewas the large stove for thawing the brass instruments of the band. Amoment's consideration will show that in the intense cold of a Canadianwinter, the moisture that accumulates in a brass instrument wouldfreeze solid, rendering the instrument useless. The bandsmen had alwaysto handle the brass with woollen gloves on, to prevent getting burnt.How curious it is that the sensation of touching very hot or very coldmetal is identical, and that it produces the same effect on the humanskin! With thirty or more degrees of frost, great caution must be usedin handling skate-blades with bare fingers if burns are to be avoided.The coldest day I have ever known was New Year's Day 1888, when thethermometer at Ottawa registered 41 degrees below, or 73 degrees offrost. The air was quite still, as it invariably is with great cold,but every breath taken gave one a sensation of being pinched on thenose, as the moisture in the nostrils froze together.

The weekly club-dances of the Ottawa Skating Club were a pretty sight.They were held in a covered public rink, gay with many flags, withgarlands of artificial flowers and foliage, and blazing with sizzlingarc-lights. These people, accustomed to skates from their earliestchildhood, could dance as easily and as gracefully on them as on theirfeet, whilst fur-muffled mothers sat on benches round the rink,drinking tea and coffee as unconcernedly as though they were at agarden-party in mid-July instead of in a temperature of zero. An"Ottawa March" was a great institution. Couples formed up as though fora country dance, the band struck up some rollicking tune, the leadershouted his directions, and fifty couples whirled and twirled, andskated backwards or forwards as he ordered, going through the mostcomplicated evolutions, in pairs or fours or singly, joining here,parting there, but all in perfect time. Woe betide the leader should helose his head! A hundred people would get tangled up in a hideousconfusion, and there was nothing for it but to begin all over again.

It is curious that in countries like England and Prance, where from theclimatic conditions skating must be a very occasional amusem*nt, thereis a special word for the pastime, and that in Germany and Russia,where every winter brings its skating as a matter of course, thereshould be no word for it. "Skate" in English, and patiner in French,mean propelling oneself on iron runners over ice, and nothing else;whereas in German there is only the clumsy compound-wordSchlittschuh-laufen, which means "to run on sledge shoes," and inRussian it is called in equally roundabout fashion Katatsa-na-konkach,or literally "to roll on little horses," hardly a felicitousexpression. As a rule people have no word for expressing a thing whichdoes not come within their own range of experience; for instance, noone would expect that Arabs, or Somalis, or the inhabitants of theSahara would have any equivalent for either skating or tobogganing, nordo I imagine that the Eskimo have any expression for "sunstroke" or"heat-apoplexy," but one would have thought that Russians and Germansmight have evolved a word for skating.

Apropos of Eskimo, I once heard a missionary describe the extraordinarydifficulty he had found in translating the Bible into Eskimo. It wasuseless to talk of corn or wine to a people who did not know even whatthey meant, so he had to use equivalents within their powers ofcomprehension. Thus in the Eskimo version of the Scriptures the miracleof Cana of Galilee is described as turning the water into BLUBBER; the8th verse of the 5th chapter of the First Epistle of St. Peter ran:"Your adversary the devil, as a roaring Polar BEAR walketh about,seeking whom he may devour." In the same way "A land flowing with milkand honey" became "A land flowing with whale's blubber," and throughoutthe New Testament the words "Lamb of God" had to be translated "littleSeal of God," as the nearest possible equivalent. The missionary addedthat his converts had the lowest opinion of Jonah for not havingutilised his exceptional opportunities by killing and eating the whale.

Fired by the example of the builders of the ice-palace on the rink atRideau Hall, I offered to build for the Lansdowne children an ice-hutfor their very own, a chilly domicile which they had ardently longedfor. As it is my solitary achievement as an architect, I must dwellrather lovingly on the building of this hut. The professionalice-cutters were bringing up daily a large supply of great gleamingtransparent blocks from the river, both for the building of theband-house and for the summer supply of Rideau Hall, so there was nolack of material. On the American continent one is being told soconstantly that this-and-that "will cut no ice," that it issatisfactory to be able to report that those French-Canadians cut icein the most efficient fashion. My sole building implement was a kettleof boiling water. I placed ice-blocks in a circle, pouring boilingwater between each two blocks to melt the points of contact, and inhalf an hour they had frozen into one solid lump. I and a friendproceeded like this till the ice-walls were about four feet high,spaces being left for the door and windows. As the blocks became tooheavy to lift, we used great wads of snow in their stead, melting themwith cold water and kneading them into shape with thick woollen gloves,and so the walls rose. I wanted a snow roof; had we been mediaevalcathedral builders we might possibly have fashioned a groined andvaulted snow roof, with ice ribs, but being amateurs, our roofperpetually collapsed, so we finally roofed the hut withgrooved-and-tongued boards, cutting a hole through them for thechimney. We then built a brick fire-place, with mantelpiece complete,ending in an iron chimney. The windows were our great triumph. I filledlarge japanned tea-trays two inches deep with water and left them outto freeze. Then we placed the trays in a hot bath and floated thesheets of ice off. They broke time and time again, but after about thetwentieth try we succeeded in producing two great sheets of transparentice which were fitted into the window-spaces, and firmly cemented inplace with wet snow. Then the completed hut had to be furnished. Acarpenter in Ottawa made me a little dresser, a little table, andlittle chairs of plain deal; I bought some cooking utensils, someenamelled-iron tea-things and plates, and found in Ottawa some crudeoleographs printed on oil-cloth and impervious to damp. These were dulyhung on the snow walls of the hut, and the little girls worked some redTurkey-twill curtains for the ice windows, and a frill for themantelpiece in orthodox south of England cottage style. The boys made awinding tunnel through the snow-drifts up to the door of the hut, andNature did the rest, burying the hut in snow until its very existencewas unsuspected by strangers, though it may be unusual to see clouds ofwood-smoke issuing from an apparent snow-drift. That little house stoodfor over three months; it afforded the utmost joy to its youthfuloccupiers, and I confess that I took a great paternal pride in itmyself. Really at night, with the red curtains drawn over the icewindows, with the pictures on its snow walls, a lamp alight and aroaring log fire blazing on the brick hearth, it was the mostinvitingly cosy little place. It is true that with the heat the snowwalls perspired freely, and the roof was apt to drip like a fat man inAugust, but it was considered tactful to ignore these details. Here thechildren entertained their friends at tea-parties, and made hideousjuvenile experiments in cookery; here, too, "Jerusalem the Golden" wasprepared. It was a simple operation; milk and honey were thoroughlymixed in a bowl, the bowl was put out to freeze, and the frozen massdipped into hot water to loosen it; "Jerusalem the Golden" was thenbroken up small, and the toothsome chips eagerly devoured. Thosefamiliar with the hymn will at once understand the allusion.

Sir John Macdonald, the Prime Minister, was very often at GovernmentHouse, and dined there perpetually. When at the Petrograd Embassy, Iwas constantly hearing of Sir John from my chief, Lord Dufferin, whohad an immense admiration for him, and considered him the maker of theDominion, and a really great statesman. I was naturally anxious to meeta man of whom I had heard so much. "John A.," as he was universallyknown in Canada, had a very engaging personality, and conveyed animpression of having an enormous reserve of latent force behind hisgenial manner. Facially he was reminiscent of Lord Beaconsfield, butthere was nothing very striking about him as an orator: his style wasdirect and straightforward.

The Houses of Parliament at Ottawa are a splendid pile of buildings,and though they may owe a great deal to the wonderful site they occupyon a semicircular wooded bluff projecting into the river, I shouldconsider them one of the most successful group of buildings erectedanywhere during the nineteenth century. All the details might not bearclose examination, but the general effect was admirable, especiallythat of the great circular library, with its conical roof. In additionto the Legislative Chambers proper, two flanking buildings in the samestyle housed various Administrative departments. Seen from Rideau Hallin dark silhouette against the sunset sky, the bold outline of theconical roof of the library and the three tall towers flanking it gavea sort of picturesque Nuremberg effect to the distant view of Ottawa,The Parliament buildings proper were destroyed by an incendiary duringthe war, but the library and wings escaped.

Everything in the House of Commons was modelled accurately onWestminster. The Canadian Parliament being bi-lingual, French membersaddressed the Speaker as "Monsieur l'Orateur," and the Usher of theBlack Rod of the Senate became "l'Huissier de la Verge Noire." To mymind there was something intensely comical in addressing a man whoseldom opened his mouth except to cry, "Order, order," as "Monsieurl'Orateur." A Frenchman from the Province of Quebec seems always to bechosen as Canadian Speaker. In my time he was a M. Ouiment, theTWENTY-FIRST child of the same parents, so French Canadians areapparently not threatened with extinction. I heard in the House ofCommons at Ottawa the most curious peroration I have ever listened to.It came from the late Nicholas Flood Davin, a member of Irishextraction who sat for a Far-Western constituency. The House wasdebating a dull Bill relating to the lumber industry, when Davin, whomay possibly have been under the influence of temporary excitement,insisted on speaking. He made a long and absolutely irrelevant speechin a voice of thunder, and finished with these words, every one ofwhich I remember: "There are some who declare that Canada's trade isdeclining; there are some who maintain that the rich glow of healthwhich at present mantles o'er Canada's virgin cheek will soon bereplaced by the pallid hues of the corpse. To such pusillanimouspropagandists of a preposterous pessimism, I answer, Mr. Speaker withall confidence, never! never!" As a rhetorical effort this is striking,though there seems a lack of lucidity about it.

In the Canadian House of Commons there are a number of little pages whorun errands for members, and fetch them books and papers. These boyssit on the steps of the Speaker's chair, and when the House adjournsfor dinner the pages hold a "Pages' Parliament." One boy, elected bythe others as Speaker, puts on a gown and seats himself in theSpeaker's chair; the "Prime Minister" and the members of the Governmentsit on the Government benches, the Leader of the Opposition with hissupporters take their places opposite and the boys hold regulardebates. Many of the members took great interest in the "Pages'Parliament," and coached the boys for their debates. I have seen SirJohn Macdonald giving the fourteen-year-old "Premier" points for hisspeech that evening.

All-night sittings were far rarer at Ottawa than with us, andconstituted quite an event. Some of us went into the gallery at 5 a.m.after a dance, to see the end of a long and stormy sitting. The Housewas very uproarious. Some member had brought in a cricket-ball, andthey were throwing each other catches across the House. To the creditof Canadian M.P.'s, I must say that we never saw a single catch missed.When Sir John rose to close the debate, there were loud cries of, "Youhave talked enough, John A. Give us a song instead." "All right," criedSir John, "I will give you 'God save the Queen.'" And he forthwithstarted it in a lusty voice, all the members joining in. Theintroduction of a cricket-ball might brighten all-night sittings in ourown Parliament, though somehow I cannot quite picture to myself Mr.Asquith throwing catches to Sir Frederick Banbury across the floor ofthe House of Commons.

I was once in the gallery of the South African Parliament at Capetown,after the House had been sitting continuously for twenty hours. TheSpeaker had had a stool brought him to rest his legs on, and was fastasleep in his chair, with his wig all awry. Dutch farmer members fromthe Back-Veld were stretched out at full length on the benches in thelobbies, snoring loudly; in fact, the whole place was a sort ofParliamentary Pullman Sleeping-car. That splendid man, the late GeneralBotha, told me that late hours in Parliament upset him terribly, as hehad been used all his life to going early to bed. Though the exteriorof the Capetown Parliament buildings is nothing very wonderfularchitecturally, the interior is very handsome, and quite surprisinglyspacious.

The Governor-General gave two evening skating and tobaggoning partiesat Rideau Hall every winter. He termed these gatherings his "ArcticCremornes," after the then recently defunct gardens in London, and theparties were wonderfully picturesque. In those days, though the fashionnow has quite disappeared, all members of snow-shoe and tobogganingclubs, men and women alike, wore coloured blanket-suits consisting ofknickerbockers and long coats, with bright-coloured stockings, sash,and knitted toque (invariably pronounced "tuke"). The club colours ofcourse varied. Rideau Hall was white with purple stockings and "tuke,"and red sash. Others were sky-blue, with scarlet stockings and "tuke,"or crimson and black, or brown and green. A collection of three hundredpeople in blanket-suits gave the effect of a peripatetic rainbowagainst the white snow. For the "Arctic Cremorne" the rinks were allfringed with coloured fairy-lamps; the curling-rink and the tea-roomabove it were also outlined with innumerable coloured electric bulbs,and festoons of Japanese lanterns were stretched between the fir treesin all directions. At the top of the toboggan slides powerful arc-lampsblazed, and a stupendous bonfire roared on a little eminence. Theeffect was indescribably pretty, and it was pleasant to reflect how manhad triumphed over Nature in being able to give an outdoor eveningparty in mid-winter with the thermometer below zero. The gleamingcrystals of snow reflecting the coloured lamps; the Bengal lightsstaining the white expanse crimson and green, and silhouetting theoutlines of the fir trees in dead black against the burnished steel ofthe sky; the crowd of guests in their many-coloured blanket-suits, madea singularly attractive picture, with a note of absolute novelty in it;and the crash of the military band, the merry whirr of the skates, andthe roar of the descending toboggans had something extraordinarilyexhilarating about them in the keen, pure air. The supper-room alwaysstruck me as being pleasingly unconventional. Supper was served in thelong, covered curling-rink, where the temperature was the same as thatof the open air outside, so there was a long table elaborately set outwith silver-branched candlesticks and all the Governor-General's finecollection of plate, but the servants waited in heavy fur-coats andcaps. Of course no flowers could be used in that temperature, so thesilver vases held branches of spruce, hemlock, and other Canadian firs.The French cook had to be very careful as to what dishes he prepared,for anything with moisture in it would freeze at once; meringues, forinstance, would be frozen into uneatable cricket-balls, and tea,coffee, and soup had to simmer perpetually over lamps. One so seldomhas a ball-supper with North Pole surroundings. We had a serioustoboggan accident one night owing to the stupidity of an old Senator,who insisted on standing in the middle of the track, and theAides-de-Camps' room was converted into an operating theatre, andreeked with the fumes of chloroform. The young man had bad concussion,and was obliged to remain a week at Rideau Hall, whilst the poor girlwas disfigured for life.

Whilst on the subject of ball-suppers, there was a curious customprevailing in Lisbon. Most Portuguese having very limited means, it wasnot usual to offer any refreshments whatever to guests at dances; butwhen it was done, it took the form of a "tooth-pick-supper" (souper auxcuredents). Small pieces of chicken, tongue, or beef were piled onplates, each piece skewered with a wooden toothpick. The guests pickedthese off the plate by the toothpick, and nibbled the meat away fromit, eating it with slices of bread. This obviated the use of plates,knives and forks, most Portuguese families having neither sufficientsilver table-plate for an entertainment nor the means to hire any.There was another reason for this quaint custom. Some Portugueseare—how shall we put it?—inveterate souvenir-hunters. The Duke ofPalmella, one of the few rich men in Portugal, gave a ball whilst I wasin Lisbon at which the supper was served in the ordinary fashion, withplates, spoons, knives and forks. It was a matter of common knowledgein Lisbon that 50 per cent. of the ducal silver spoons and forks hadleft the house in the pockets of his Grace's guests, who doubtlesswished to preserve a slight memento of so pleasant an evening.

In a certain Balkan State which I will refrain from naming, theinhabitants are also confirmed souvenir-hunters. At a dinner-party atthe British Legation in this nameless State, one of the Diplomaticladies was wearing a very fine necklace of pearls and enamel. A nativeof the State admired this necklace immensely, and begged for permissionto examine it closer. The Diplomat's wife very unwisely unfastened herpearl necklace, and it was passed around from hand to hand, amidst loudexpressions of admiration at its beautiful workmanship. At the end ofdinner the Diplomatic lady requested that her necklace might bereturned to her, but it was not forthcoming; no one knew anything aboutit. The British Minister, who thought that he understood the people ofthe country, rose to the occasion. Getting up from his chair, he saidwith a smile, "We have just witnessed a very clever and very amusingpiece of legerdemain. Now we are going to see another little piece ofconjuring." The Minister walked quietly to both doors of the room,locked them, and put the keys in his pocket. He then placed a smallsilver bowl from the side-board in the centre of the dinner-table, andcontinued: "I am now going to switch off all the lights, and to countten slowly. When I have reached ten, I shall turn on the lights again,and hey presto! Madame de—'s necklace will be found lying in thatsilver bowl!" The room became plunged in darkness, and the Ministercounted slowly up to ten. The electric light blazed out again, therewas no necklace, but the silver bowl had vanished!

I have enjoyed the exceptional experience of having inspected manyconvents in Canada, even those of the most strictly cloistered Orders.By long-established custom, the Governor-General's wife has the rightto inspect any convent in Canada on giving twenty-four hours' notice,and she may take with her any two persons she chooses, of either sex.My sister was fond of visiting convents, and she often took me with heras I could speak French. We have thus been in convents of Ursulines,Poor Clares, Grey Sisters, and in some of those of the more strictlycloistered Orders. The procedure was always the same. We were usheredinto a beautifully clean, bare, whitewashed parloir, with a highlypolished floor redolent of beeswax. There would be hard benches runninground the parloir, raised on a platform, much after the fashion ofraised benches in a billiard-room. In the centre would be a chair forthe Reverend Mother. We then made polite conversation for a fewminutes, after which coffee (usually compounded of scorched beans, withno relation whatever to "Coffea Arabica") was handed to us, and we wentover the convent. It was extremely difficult for two Protestants tofind any subject of conversation which could interest a Mother Superiorwho knew nothing of the world outside her convent walls, nor was iteasy to find any common ground on which to meet her, all religioustopics being necessarily excluded, I had noticed that the nuns madefrequent allusions to a certain Marie Alacoque. Misled by thesimilarity of the sound in French, I, in my ignorance, thought thatthis referred to a method of cooking eggs. I learnt later that MarieAlacoque was a French nun who lived in the seventeenth century, and Idiscovered why her memory was so revered by her co-religionists. It waseasy to get a book from the Ottawa Library and to read her up, andafter that conversation became less difficult, for a few remarks aboutMarie Alacoque were always appreciated in conventual circles. Theconvents were invariably neat and clean, but I was perpetually struckby the wax-like pallor of the inmates. The elder nuns in the strictlycloistered Orders were as excited as children over this unexpectedirruption into their convent of two strangers from the world outside,which they had left for so long. They struck me as most excellent,earnest women, and they delighted in exhibiting all their treasures,including the ecclesiastical vestments and their Church plate. Theyalways made a point of showing us, as an object of great interest, theflat candlestick of bougie that the Cardinal-Archbishop had used whenhe had last celebrated Pontifical High Mass in their chapel. In onestrictly cloistered convent there was a high wooden trellis across thechapel, so that though the nuns could see the priest at the altarthrough the trellis-work, he was unable to see them. In the Convent ofthe Grey Sisters at Ottawa we found an old English nun who, in spite ofhaving spent thirty-five years in a French-Canadian convent, stillretained the strong co*ckney accent of her native London. She was acheery old soul, and, with another old English nun, had charge of thewardrobe, which they insisted on showing me. I was gazing at piles ofclothing neatly arranged on shelves, when the old co*ckney nun clappedher hands. "We will dress you up as a Sister," she cried, and theypromptly proceeded to do so. They put me on a habit (largest size) overmy other clothes, chuckling with glee meanwhile, and I was duly drapedin the guimpe, the piece of linen which covers a nun's head andshoulders and frames her face, called, I believe, in English a"wimple," and my toilet was complete except for my veil, when, by apiece of real bad luck, the Reverend Mother and my sister came into theroom. We had no time to hide, so we were caught. Having no moustache, Iflattered myself that I made rather a saintly-looking novice, and I hidmy hands in the orthodox way in my sleeves, but the Mother Superior wasevidently very much put out. The clothes that had come in contact withmy heretical person were ordered to be placed on one side, I presume tobe morally disinfected, and I can only trust that the two old nuns didnot get into serious trouble over their little joke. I am sorry that mytoilet was not completed; I should like to have felt that just for oncein my life I had taken the veil, if for five minutes only.

In the "eighties" the city of Montreal spent large sums over theirWinter Carnival. It attracted crowds of strangers, principally from theUnited States, and it certainly stimulated the retail trade of thecity. The Governor-General was in the habit of taking a house inMontreal for the Carnival, and my brother-in-law was lent the home of ahospitable sugar magnate. The dining-room of this house, in which itsowner had allowed full play to his Oriental imagination and love ofcolour, was so singular that it merits a few words of description. Theroom was square, with a domed ceiling. It was panelled in polishedsatinwood to a height of about five feet. Above the panelling wereplaced twelve owls in carved and silvered wood, each one about two feethigh, supporting gas-standards. Rose-coloured silk was stretched fromthe panelling up to the heavy frieze, consisting of "swags" of fruitand foliage modelled in high relief, and brilliantly coloured in theirnatural hues. The domed ceiling was painted sky-blue, covered withgolden stars, gold and silver suns and moons, and the signs of theZodiac. I may add that the effect of this curious apartment was notsuch as to warrant any one trying to reproduce it. The house alsocontained a white marble swimming bath; an unnecessary adjunct, Ishould have thought, to a dwelling built for winter occupation inMontreal.

The Ice-Castle erected by the Municipality was really a joy to the eye.It was rather larger than, say, the Westminster Guildhall, and had atower eighty feet high. It was an admirable reproduction of a Gothiccastle, designed and built by a competent architect, with barbican,battlements, and machiocolaions all complete, the whole of gleaming,transparent ice-blocks, a genuine thing of beauty. One of the principalevents of the Carnival was the storming of the Ice-Castle by thesnow-shoe clubs of Montreal. Hundreds of snow-sho*rs, in theirrainbow-hued blanket suits, advanced in line on the castle and firedthousands of Roman candles at their objective, which returned the firewith rockets innumerable, and an elaborate display of fireworks,burning continually Bengal lights of various colours within itstranslucent walls, and spouting gold and silver rain on its assailants.It really was a gorgeous feast of colour for the eye, a most entrancingspectacle, with all this polychrome glow seen against the dead-whitefield of snow which covered Dominion Square, in the crystal clearnessof a Canadian winter night, with the thermometer down anywhere.

Another annual feature of the Carnival was the great fancy-dressskating fete in the covered rink. The Victoria Rink at Montreal is ahuge building, and was profusely decorated for the occasion with theusual flags, wreaths of artificial foliage, and coloured lamps. AnAmerican sculptor had modelled six colossal groups of statuary out ofwet snow, and these were ranged down either side of the rink. As theyfroze, they took on the appearance and texture of white marble, andwere very effective. Round a cluster of arc-lights in the roof therewas a sort of revolving cage of different coloured panes of glass;these threw variegated beams of light over the brilliant kaleidoscopiccrowd below. Previous Governors-General had, in opening the feteshuffled shamefacedly down the centre of the rink in overshoes and furcoats to the dais, but Lord and Lady Lansdowne, being both expertskaters, determined to do the thing in proper Carnival style, andarrived in fancy dress, he in black as a Duke of Brunswick, she as MaryQueen of Scots, attended by her two boys, then twelve and fourteenyears old, as pages, resplendent in crimson tights and crimson velvet.The band struck up "God Save the Queen," and down the cleared space inthe centre skimmed, hand-in-hand, the Duke of Brunswick and Mary Queenof Scots, with the two pages carrying her train, all four executing a"Dutch roll" in the most workman-like manner. It was really a veryeffective entrance, and was immensely appreciated by the crowd ofskaters present. I represented a Shakespearean character, and hadoccasion to note what very inadequate protection is afforded by bluesilk tights, with nothing under them, against the cold of a CanadianFebruary. One of the Aides-de-Camp had arrayed himself in white silk asRomeo; being only just out from England, he was anything but firm onhis skates. Some malicious young Montrealers of tender age, noticingthis, deliberately bumped into him again and again, sending hisconspicuous white figure spinning each time. Poor Romeo's experienceswere no more fortunate on the rink than in the tragedy associated withhis name; by the end of the evening, after his many tumbles, hisdraggled white silk dress suggested irresistibly the plumage of asoiled dove.

A hill (locally known as "The Mountain") rises immediately behindMontreal, the original Mont Real, or Mount Royal, from which the cityderives its name. This naturally lends itself to the formation oftoboggan slides, and one of them, the "Montreal Club Slide," was reallyterrifically steep. The start was precipitous enough, in allconscience, but soon came a steep drop of sixty feet, at which pointall the working parts of one's anatomy seemed to leave one, to replacethemselves at the finish only. The pace was so tremendous that it wasdifficult to breathe, but it was immensely exciting. The Montreal slidewas just one-third of a mile long, and the time occupied in the descenton good ice was about twenty seconds, working out at sixty miles anhour. Every precaution was taken against accidents; there was atelephone from the far end, and no toboggan was allowed to start until"track clear" had been signalled. Everything in this world is relative.We had thought our Ottawa slides very fast, though the greatest speedwe ever attained was about thirty miles an hour, whilst at home we hadbeen delighted if we could coax fifteen miles an hour out of our roughmachines. The Lansdowne boys were very expert on toboggans, and couldgo down the Ottawa slides standing erect, a thing no adult couldpossibly manage. They had fitted their machines with gong-bells and redand green lanterns, and the "Ottawa River Express" would come whizzingdown at night with bells clanging and lights gleaming.

I can claim to be the absolute pioneer of ski on the Americancontinent, for in January, 1887, I brought my Russian ski to Ottawa,the very first pair that had ever been seen in the New World. I coasteddown hills on them amidst universal jeers; every one declared that theywere quite unsuited to Canadian conditions. The old-fashioned raquetteshad their advantages, for one could walk over the softest snow in them.Here, again, I fancy that it was the sense of man triumphant overNature that made snow-shoeing so attractive. The Canadian snow-shoebrings certain unaccustomed muscles into play, and these muscles showtheir resentment by aching furiously. The French habitants term thispain mal de raquettes. In my time snow-shoe tramps at night,across-country into the woods, were one of the standard winteramusem*nts of Ottawa, and the girls showed great dexterity in vaultingfences with their snow-shoes on.

A Canadian winter is bathed in sunshine. In the dry, crisp atmospheredistant objects are as clear-cut and hard as though they were carvedout of wood; the air is like wine, and with every breath human beingsseem to enter on a new lease of life.

It is not so in the lower world. There is not a bird to be seen, for nobird could secure a living with three feet of snow on the ground.Nature is very dead, and I understood the glee with which the childrenused to announce the return of the crows, for these wise birds are theunfailing harbingers of Spring. With us Spring is undecided, fickle,and coy. She is not sure of herself, and after making timid, tentativeadvances, retreats again, uncertain as to her ability to cope with grimWinter. In Canada, Spring comes with an all-conquering rush. In oneshort fortnight she clothes the trees in green, and carpets the groundwith blue and white hepaticas. She is also, unfortunately, accompaniedby myriads of self-appointed official maids-of-honour in the shape ofmosquitoes, anxious to make up for their long winter fast. As thefierce suns of April melt the surface snow, the water percolatesthrough to the ground, where it freezes again, forming a sheet of whatCanadians term "glare-ice." I have seen at Rideau Hall this ice splitin all directions over the flower-beds by the first tender shoots ofthe crocuses. How these fragile little spears of green have the powerto penetrate an inch of ice is one of the mysteries of Nature.

Would space admit of it, and were paper not such an unreasonablyexpensive commodity just now, I would like to speak of the glories of aCanadian wood in May, with the ground flecked with red and whitetrilliums; of the fields in British Columbia, gorgeous in spring-timewith blue lilies and drifts of rose-coloured cyclamens; of the autumnwoods in their sumptuous dress of scarlet, crimson, orange, and yellow,the sugar-maples blazing like torches against the dark firs; of themarvels of the three ranges of the Rockies, Selkirks, and Cascades, andof the other wonders of the great Dominion.

As boys, I and my youngest brother knew "Hiawatha's Fishing" almost byheart, so I had an intense desire to see "Gitche Gumee, the Big-SeaWater," which we more prosaically call Lake Superior, the home of thesturgeon "Nahma," of "Ugudwash" the sun-fish, of the pike the"Maskenozha," and the actual scene of Hiawatha's fishing. To others,without this sentimental interest, the Great Lakes might appear vastbut uninteresting expanses of water, chiefly remarkable for the hideousform of vessel which has been evolved to navigate their clear depths.

One thing I can say with confidence. No one who makes a winter journeyto that land of sunshine and snow, with its energetic, pleasant, andhospitable inhabitants, will ever regret it, and the wayfarer willreturn home with the consciousness of having been in contact with anintensely virile race, only now beginning to realise its own strength.

CHAPTER X

Calcutta—Hooghly pilots—Government House—A Durbar—The sulkyRajah—The customary formalities—An ingenious interpreter—The sailingclippers in the Hooghly-Calcutta Cathedral—A succulent banquet—Themistaken Ministre—The "Gordons"—Barrackpore—A Swiss Family Robinsonaerial house—The child and the elephants—The merry midshipmen—Someof their escapades—A huge haul of fishes—Queen Victoria andHindustani—The Hills—The Manipur outbreak—A riding tour—A wise oldAnglo-Indian—Incidents—The fidelity of native servants—A novelprinting-press—Lucknow—The loss of an illusion.

Lord Lansdowne had in 1888 been transferred from Canada to India, andin May of that year he left Ottawa for Calcutta, taking on the way athree months' well-earned holiday in England. Two of his staffaccompanied him from the vigorous young West to the immemorially oldEast.

He succeeded as Viceroy Lord Dufferin, who had also held theappointment of Governor-General of Canada up to 1878, after which hehad served as British Ambassador both at Petrograd and atConstantinople, before proceeding to India in 1884.

Lord Minto, too, in later years filled both positions, serving inCanada from 1898 to 1904, and in India from 1905 to 1910.

Whether in 1690 Job Charnock made a wise selection in fixing histrading-station where Calcutta now stands, may be open to doubt. Hecertainly had the broad Hooghly at his doors, affording plenty of waternot only for trading-vessels, but also for men-of-war in cases ofemergency. Still, from the swampy nature of the soil, and its proximityto the great marshes of the Sunderbunds, Calcutta could never be areally healthy place. An arrival by water up the Hooghly unquestionablygives the most favourable impression of the Indian ex-capital, thoughthe river banks are flat and uninteresting. The Hooghly is one of themost difficult rivers in the world to navigate, for the shoals andsand-banks change almost daily with the strong tides, and the whiteHooghly pilots are men at the very top of their profession, and earnsome L2000 a year apiece. They are tremendous swells, and are perfectlyconscious of the fact, coming on board with their native servants andtheir white "cub" or pupil. There is one shoal in particular, known asthe "James and Mary," on which a ship, touching ever so lightly, is asgood as lost. Calcutta, since I first knew it, has become a greatmanufacturing centre. Lines of factories stand for over twenty milesthick on the left bank of the river; the great pall of black smokehanging over the city is visible for miles, and the atmosphere isbeginning to rival that of Manchester. Long use has accustomed us tothe smoke-blackened elms and limes of London, but there is somethingpeculiarly pathetic in the sight of a grimy, sooty palm tree.

The outward aspect of the stately Government House at Calcutta isfamiliar to most people. It is a huge and imposing edifice, but when Ifirst knew it, its interior was very plain, and rather bare. Lady Mintochanged all this during her husband's Vice-royalty, and, with herwonderful taste, transformed it into a sort of Italian palace at a verysmall cost. She bought in Europe a few fine specimens of old Italiangilt furniture, and had them copied in Calcutta by native workmen. Inthe East, the Oriental point of view must be studied, and Easternsattach immense importance to external splendour. The throne-room atCalcutta, under Lady Minto's skilful treatment, became gorgeous enoughfor the most exacting Asiatic, with its black marble floor, itsrose-coloured silk walls where great silver sconces alternated withfull-length portraits of British sovereigns, its white "chunam" columnsand its gilt Italian furniture. "Chunam" has been used in India fromtime immemorial for decorative purposes. It is as white as snow andharder than any stone, and is, I believe, made from calcined shells.Let us suppose a Durbar held in this renovated throne-room for theofficial reception of a native Indian Prince. The particular occasion Ihave in mind was long after Lord Lansdowne's time, when a certainRajah, notoriously ill-disposed towards the British Raj, had been giventhe strongest of hints that unless he mended his ways, he might findanother ruler placed on the throne of his State. He was alsorecommended to come to Calcutta and to pay his respects to the Viceroythere, when, of course, he would be received with the number of guns towhich he was entitled. The Indian Princes attach the utmost importanceto the number of guns they are given as a salute, a number which variesfrom twenty-one in the case of the Nizam of Hyderabad, who alone ranksas a Sovereign, to nine for the smaller princes. Should the BritishGovernment wish to mark its strong displeasure with any native ruler,it sometimes does so by reducing the number of guns of his salute, andcorrespondingly, to have the number increased is a high honour. Sulkilyand unwillingly the Rajah of whom I am thinking journeyed to Calcutta,and sulkily and unwillingly did he attend the Durbar. On occasions suchas these, visiting native Princes are the guests of the Government ofIndia at Hastings House (Warren Hastings' old country house in thesuburbs of Calcutta, specially renovated and fitted up for thepurpose), and the Viceroy's state carriages are sent to convey them toGovernment House. Everything in the way of ceremonial in India is donestrictly by rule. The precise number of steps the Viceroy will advanceto greet visiting Rajahs is all laid down in a little book. The Nizamof Hyderabad is met by the Viceroy with all his staff at the stateentrance of Government House, and he is accompanied through all therooms, both on his arrival and on his departure; but, as I said before,the Nizam ranks as a Sovereign. In the case of lesser lights theViceroy advances anything from three to twenty steps. These points mayappear very trivial to Europeans, but to Orientals they assume greatimportance, and, after all, India is a part of Asia. At right angles tothe Calcutta throne-room is the fine Marble Hall, with marble floor andcolumns and an entirely gilt ceiling; empty except for six colossalbusts of Roman Emperors, which, together with a number of splendidcut-glass chandeliers of the best French Louis XV. period, and afull-length portrait of Louis XV. himself, fell into our hands throughthe fortunes of war at a time when our relations with our present filmally, France, were possibly less cordial than at present. For a Durbara long line of red carpet was laid from the throne-room, through theMarble Hall and the White Hall beyond it, right down the great flightof exterior steps, at the foot of which a white Guard of Honour of onehundred men from a British regiment was drawn up, Aligned through theouter hall, the Marble Hall and the throne-room were one hundred men ofthe Viceroy's Bodyguard, splendid fellows chosen for their height andappearance, and all from Northern India. They wore the white leatherbreeches and jack-boots of our own Life Guards, with scarlet tunics andhuge turbans of blue and gold, standing with their lances as motionlessas so many bronze statues. For a Durbar, many precious things wereunearthed from the "Tosha-Khana," or Treasury: the Viceroy'ssilver-gilt throne; an arm-chair of solid silver for the visitingRajah; great silver-gilt maces bearing & crown and "V.R.I."; and, aboveall, the beautiful Durbar carpets of woven gold wire. The making ofthese carpets is, I believe, an hereditary trade in a Benares family;they are woven of real gold wire, heavily embroidered in goldafterwards, and are immensely expensive. The visiting Rajah announcesbeforehand the number of the suite he is bringing with him, and theViceroy has a precisely similar number, so two corresponding rows ofcane arm-chairs are placed opposite each other, at right angles to thethrone. Behind the chairs twelve resplendent red-and-gold-coatedservants with blue-and-silver turbans, hold the gilt maces aloft,whilst behind the throne eight more gorgeously apparelled natives holdtwo long-handled fans of peaco*ck's feathers, two silver-mounted yak'stails, and two massive sheaves of peaco*ck's feathers, all these beingthe Eastern emblems of sovereignty.

We will suppose this particular Rajah to be a "nine-gun" and a"three-step" man. Bang go the cannon from Fort William nine times, andthe Viceroy, in full uniform with decorations, duly advances threesteps on the gold carpet to greet his visitor. The Viceroy seatshimself on his silver-gilt throne at the top of the three steps, thevisiting Rajah in his silver chair being one step lower. The two suitesseat themselves facing each other in dead silence; the Europeansassuming an absolutely Oriental impassivity of countenance. Theill-conditioned Rajah, though he spoke English perfectly, had insistedon bringing his own interpreter with him. A long pause in conformitywith Oriental etiquette follows, then the Viceroy puts the firstinvariable question: "I trust that your Highness is in the enjoyment ofgood health?" which is duly repeated in Urdu by the official whiteinterpreter. The sulky Rajah grunts something that sounds like "BhirrrWhirrr," which the native interpreter renders, in clipped staccatoEnglish, as "His Highness declares that by your Excellency's favour hishealth is excellent. Lately, owing to attack of fever, it was with HisHighness what Immortal Bard has termed a case of 'to be or not to be!'Now, danger happily averted, His Highness has seldom reposed under thecanopy of a sounder brain than at present." Another long pause, and thesecond invariable question: "I trust that your Highness' Army is in itsusual efficient state?" The surly Rajah, "Khirr Virr." The nativeinterpreter, "Without doubt His Highness' Army has never yet been soefficient. Should troubles arise, or a pretty kettle of fishunfortunately occur, His Highness places his entire Army at yourExcellency's disposal; as Swan of Avon says, 'Come the three corners ofthe world in arms, and we shall shock them.'" A third question, "Itrust that the crops in your Highness' dominion are satisfactory?" TheRajah, "Ghirrr Firrr." The interpreter, "Stimulated without doubt byyour Excellency's auspicious visit to neighbouring State, the soil inHis Highness' dominions has determined to beat record and to go regularmucker. Crops tenfold ordinary capacity are springing from the groundeverywhere." One has seen a conjurer produce half a roomful of paperflowers from a hat, or even from an even less promising receptacle, butno conjurer was in it with that interpreter, who from two sulkymonosyllabic grunts evolved a perfect garland of choice Orientalflowers of speech. It reminded me of the process known in newspaperoffices as "expanding" a telegram. When the customary number of formalquestions have been put, the Viceroy makes a sign to his MilitarySecretary, who brings him a gold tray on which stand a little goldflask and a small box; the traditional "Attar and pan." The Viceroysprinkles a few drops of attar of roses on the Rajah's clothing fromthe gold flask, and hands him a piece of betel-nut wrapped in goldpaper, known as "pan." This is the courteous Eastern fashion of saying"Now I bid you good-bye." The Military Secretary performs a like officeto the members of the Rajah's suite, who, however, have to contentthemselves with attar sprinkled from a silver bottle and "pans" wrappedin silver paper. Then all the traditional requirements of Orientalpoliteness have been fulfilled, and the Rajah takes his leave with thesame ceremonies as attended his arrival. At the beginning of a Durbar"tribute" is presented—that is to say that a folded napkin supposed tocontain one thousand gold mohurs is handed to the Viceroy, who "touchesit and remits it." I have often wondered what that folded napkin reallycontained.

When I first knew Calcutta, most of the grain, jute, hemp and indigoexported was carried to its various destinations in sailing-ships, andthere were rows and rows of splendid full-rigged ships and barqueslying moored in the Hooghly along the whole length of the Maidan. Theline must have extended for two miles, and I never tired of looking atthese beautiful vessels with their graceful lines and huge spars, allclean and spick and span with green and white paint, the ubiquitousCalcutta crows perched in serried ranks on their yards. To my mind afull-rigged ship is the most beautiful object man has ever devised, andwhen the dusk was falling, with every spar and rope outlined in blackagainst the vivid crimson of the short-lived Indian sunset, the longline of shipping made a glorious picture. Nineteen years later everysailing-ship had disappeared from the Hooghly, and in their place wererows of unsightly, rusty-sided iron tanks, with squat polemasts andugly funnels vomiting black smoke. A tramp-steamer has its uses, nodoubt, but it is hardly a thing of beauty. Ichabod! Ichabod!

Calcutta is fortunate in having so fine a lung as the great stretch ofthe Maidan. It has been admirably planted and laid out, with every palmof tree of aggressively Indian appearance carefully excluded from itsgreen expanse, so it wears a curiously home-like appearance. The Maidanis very reminiscent of Hyde Park, though almost double its size. Thereis one spot, where the Gothic spire of the cathedral emerges from amass of greenery, with a large sheet of water in the foreground, whichrecalls exactly the view over Bayswater from the bridge spanning theSerpentine.

Considering that Calcutta Cathedral was built in 1840; that it wasdesigned by an Engineer officer, and not by an architect; that its"Gothic" is composed of cast-iron and stucco instead of stone, it isreally not such a bad building. The great size of its interior gives ita certain dignity, and owing to the generosity of the Europeancommunity, it is most lavishly adorned with marbles, mosaics, andstained glass. It possesses the finest organ in Asia, and a reallyexcellent choir, the men Europeans, the boys being Eurasians. Thesesmall half-castes have very sweet voices, with a curious and notunpleasing metallic timbre about them. At evening service in thecathedral, should one ignore such details as the rows of electricpunkahs, the temperature, and the dingy complexions of the choir-boys,it was almost impossible to realise that one was not in England. I hadbeen used to singing in a church choir, and it was pleasant to hearsuch familiar cathedral services as Garrett in D, Smart in F, Walmisleyin D minor, and Hopkins in F, so perfectly rendered seven thousandmiles away from home, thanks to that excellent musician, Dr. Slater,the cathedral organist.

St. Andrew's Scottish Presbyterian Church stands in its own woodedgrounds in which there are two large ponds, or, as Anglo-Indians wouldput it, it stands in a compound with large tanks. The church isconsequently infested with mosquitoes. The last time that I was inCalcutta, the Gordon Highlanders had just relieved an English regimentin the fort, and on the first Sunday after their arrival, four hundredGordons were marched to a parade service at St. Andrew's. The mostoptimistic mosquito had never in his wildest dreams imagined such asucculent banquet as that afforded by four hundred bare-kneed, kiltedHighlanders, and the mosquitoes made the fullest use of their uniqueopportunity. Soon the church resounded with the vigorous slapping ofhands on bare knees and thighs, as the men endeavoured to kill a few oftheir little tormentors. The minister, hearing the loud clapping, butentirely misapprehending its purport, paused in his sermon, and said,"My brethren, it is varra gratifying to a minister of the Word to learnthat his remarks meet with the approbation of his hearers, but I'd haveyou remember that all applause is strictly oot of place in the Hoose ofGod."

The Gordon Highlanders were originally raised by my great-grandfather,the fourth Duke of Gordon, in 1794, or perhaps more accurately, by mygreat-grandmother, Jean, the beautiful duch*ess of Gordon. duch*ess Jean,then in the height of her beauty, attended every market in the townsround Gordon Castle, and kissed every recruit who took the guinea sheoffered. The French Republic had declared war on Great Britain in 1793,and the Government had made an urgent appeal for fresh levies oftroops. duch*ess Jean, by her novel osculatory methods, raised theGordons in four months. My father and mother were married at GordonCastle in 1832, and the wedding guests grew so excessively convivialthat they carried everything on the tables at the wedding breakfast,silver plate, glass, china, and all, down to the bridge at Fochabers,and threw them into the Spey. We may congratulate ourselves on the factthat it is no longer incumbent on wedding guests to drink the health ofthe newly married couple so fervently, and that a proportional savingin table fittings can thus be effected.

Barrackpore, the Viceroy's country place, is unquestionably a pleasantspot, with its fine park and famous gardens. Like the Maidan inCalcutta Barrackpore is a very fairly successful attempt at reproducingEngland in Asia. With a little make-believe and a determined attempt toignore the grotesque outlines of a Hindoo temple standing on theconfines of the park, and the large humps on the backs of the grazingcattle like the steam domes on railway engines, it might be possible toimagine oneself at home, until the illusion is shattered in quiteanother fashion. There is an excellent eighteen-hole golf course inBarrackpore park, but when you hear people talking of the second"brown" there can be no doubt but that you are in Asia. A "green" wouldbe a palpable misnomer for the parched grass of an Indian dry season,still a "brown" comes as a shock at first. The gardens merit theirreputation. There are innumerable ponds, or "tanks," of lotus andwater-lilies of every hue: scarlet, crimson, white, and pure sky-blue,the latter an importation from Australia. When these are in flower theyare a lovely sight, and perhaps compensate for the myriads ofmosquitoes who find in these ponds an ideal breeding-place, and asserttheir presence day and night most successfully. There are great driftsof Eucharis lilies growing under the protecting shadows of the treesalong shady walks, and the blaze of colour in the formal gardensurrounding the white marble fountain in front of the house ispositively dazzling. The house was built especially as a hot-weatherresidence, and as such is not particularly successful, for it is one ofthe hottest buildings in the whole of India. The dining-room is in thecentre of the house, and has no windows whatever; an arrangement which,though it may shut out the sun, also excludes all fresh air as well.The bedrooms extend up through two storeys, and are so extremely loftythat one has the sensation of sleeping in a lift-shaft. Apart from itsheat, the house has a dignified old-world air about it, with vaguehints of Adam decoration in its details.

The establishment of Government House consisted of five hundred andtwenty servants, all natives, so it could not be termed short-handed.With so many men, the apparently impossible could be undertaken. LordLansdowne left Calcutta for Barrackpore every Saturday afternoon. Assoon as we had gone into luncheon at Calcutta on the Saturday, perfectarmies of men descended on the private part of the house and packed upall the little things about the rooms into big cases. An hour laterthey were on their way up the river by steamer, and when we arrived atBarrackpore for tea, the house looked as though it had been lived infor weeks, with every object reposing on the tables in precisely thesame position it had occupied earlier in the day in Calcutta. Late onSunday night this process was reversed for the return journey at sevenon Monday morning. The Viceroy had a completely fitted-up office in hissmart little white-and-gold yacht, and was able to get through a greatdeal of work on his voyage down the Hooghly before breakfast on Mondaymornings. A conscientious Viceroy of India is one of the hardest-workedmen in the world, for he frequently has ten hours of office work in theday, irrespective of his other duties.

An enormous banyan tree stands on the lawn at Barrackpore. I should beafraid to say how much ground it covers; perhaps nearly an acre, forthese trees throw down aerial suckers which form into fresh trunks, andso spread indefinitely. Lady Lansdowne thought she would have a bamboohouse built in this great banyan tree for her little daughter, the samelittle girl for whom I had built the snow-hut at Ottawa, for shehappens to be my god-daughter. It was to be a sort of "Swiss FamilyRobinson" tree-house, infinitely superior to the house on the tree-topsof Kensington Gardens, which Wendy destined for Peter Pan. The housewas duly built, with bamboo staircases, and little fenced-off bambooplatforms fitted with seats and tables, at different levels up thetree. The Swiss Family Robinson would have gone mad with jealousy atseeing such a desirable aerial abode, so immeasurably preferable totheir own, and even Wendy might have felt a mild pang of envy. When thehouse was completed, one of the Aides-de-Camp inspected it and found asnake hanging by its tail from a branch right over one of the littleaerial platforms. He reported that the tree was full of snakes. Therisk was too great to run, so prompt orders were given to demolish thehouse, and the little girl never enjoyed her tree-top playground.

The Viceroy's State elephants were all kept at Barrackpore, and theelephant-lines had a great attraction for children, especially for asmall great-nephew of mine, now a Lieut.-Colonel, and the father of afamily, then aged six. The child was very fearless, but the onlyelephant he was allowed to approach was a venerable tusker named"Warren Hastings," the very identical elephant on which Warren Hastingsmade his first entry into Calcutta. "Warren" was supposed to be nearly200 years old, and his temper could be absolutely relied on. It iscurious that natives, in speaking of a quiet, good-tempered animal,always speak of him as "poor" (gharib). The little boy was perpetuallyfeeding Warren Hastings with oranges and bananas, and the two becamegreat friends. It was a pretty sight seeing the fearless small boy inhis white suit, bare legs, and little sun-helmet, standing in front ofthe great beast who could have crushed him to a wafer in one second,and ordering him in the vernacular, with his shrill child's voice, tokneel. It was a more curious sight seeing the huge animal at once obeyhis little mentor, and, struggling with the infirmities and rheumaticjoints of old age (to which, alas! others besides elephants aresubject), lower himself painfully on to his knees. "Salaam karo"("Salute me"), piped the white child, and the great pachyderm instantlyobeyed, lifting his trunk high in salute; which, if you think it out,may have a certain symbolism about it.

It was the same small boy who on returning to England at the age ofseven, after five years in India, looked out of the windows of thecarriage with immense interest, as they drove through London fromCharing Cross station. "Mother," he piped at length, "this is a veryodd country! All the natives seem to be white here."

My little great-nephew was immensely petted by the native servants, andas he could speak the vernacular with greater ease than English, hepicked up from the servants the most appalling language, which heinnocently repeated, entailing his frequent chastisem*nt.

I can sympathise with the child there, for at the age of nine, inDublin, I became seized with an intense but short-lived desire toenlist as a trumpeter in a Lancer regiment. Seeing one day a real live,if diminutive, Lancer trumpeter listening to the band playing in theCastle yard, I ran down and consulted him as to the best means ofattaining my desire. The small trumpeter was not particularlyintelligent, and was unable to help me. Though of tender years, he wasregrettably lacking in refinement, for his conversation consistedchiefly of an endless repetition of three or four words, not one ofwhich I had ever heard before. Carefully treasuring these up, as havinga fine martial smack about them suitable to the military career I thenproposed embracing, I, in all innocence, fired off one of thetrumpeter's full-flavoured expressions at my horror-stricken familyduring luncheon, to be at once ordered out of the room, and severelypunished afterwards. We all know that "what the soldier said" is notlegal evidence; in this painful fashion I also learnt that "what thetrumpeter said" is not held to be a valid excuse for the use of badlanguage by a small boy.

In the late autumn of 1890 Admiral Sir Edmund Fremantle brought hisflagship, the Boadicea, right up the Hooghly, and moored her alongsidethe Maidan. The ship remained there for six weeks, the Admiral takingup his quarters at Government House. My sister Lady Lansdowne had amistaken weakness for midshipmen, whom she most inappropriately termed"those dear little fellows." At that time midshipmen went to sea atfifteen years of age, so they were much younger than at present. Asthese boys were constantly at Government House, four of us thought thatwe would lend the midshipmen our ponies for an early morning ride. Theboys all started off at a gallop, and every one of them was bolted withas soon as he reached the Maidan. As they had no riding-breeches, theirtrousers soon rucked up, exhibiting ample expanses of bare legs; theyhad no notion of riding, but managed to stick on somehow by clinging topommel and mane, banging here into a sedate Judge of the High Court,with an apologetic "Sorry, sir, but this swine of a pony won't steer;"barging there into a pompous Anglo-Indian official, as they yelled totheir ponies, "Easy now, dogs-body, or you'll unship us both;"galloping as hard as their ponies could lay legs to the ground,cannoning into half the white inhabitants of Calcutta, but always withimperturbable good-humour. When their panting ponies tried to pull upto recover their wind a little, these rising hopes of the British Navykicked them with their heels into a gallop again, shouting strangenautical oaths, and grinning from ear to ear with delight, untilfinally four ponies lathered in sweat, in the last stages ofexhaustion, returned to Government House, and four dripping boysalighted, declaring that they had had the time of their lives in spiteof a considerable loss of cuticle. It was the same at the dances atGovernment House. The smart young subalterns simply weren't in it; themidshipmen got all the best partners, and, to do them justice, theycould dance very well. They started with the music and whirled theirpartners round the room at the top of their speed, in the furnacetemperature of Calcutta, without drawing rein for one second until theband stopped, when a dishevelled and utterly exhausted damsel collapsedlimply into a chair, whilst a deliquescent brass-buttoned youth, with asodden wisp of white linen and black silk round his neck to indicatethe spot where he had once possessed a collar and tie, endeavoured tofan his partner into some semblance of coolness again.

Lady Lansdowne having invited eight midshipmen to spend a Sunday atBarrackpore, they arrived there by launch with a drag net, which theViceroy had given them leave to use on the largest of the ponds. Mysister at once set them down to play lawn-tennis, hoping to work offsome of their superfluous energy in this way. In honour of theoccasion, the midshipmen had extracted their best white flannels fromtheir chests, and they proceeded to array themselves in these. TheBoadicea, however, had been two years in commission, the flannels weretwo years old, and the lads were just at the age when they were growingmost rapidly. They squeezed themselves with great difficulty into theirshrunken garments, which looked more like tights than trousers, everybutton and seam obviously strained to the bursting point, and set towork playing tennis with their accustomed vigour. Soon there was asound of rending cloth, and the senior midshipman, a portly youth ofTeutonic amplitude of outline, lay down flat on his back on the lawn. Aminute later there was a similar sound, and another boy lay down on hisback and remained there, and a third lad quickly followed theirexample. A charming lady had noticed this from the verandah above, andran down in some alarm, fearing that these young Nelsons had gotsunstrokes. Somewhat confusedly they assured her that they were quitewell, but might they, please, have three rugs brought them. Otherwiseit was impossible for them to move. With some difficulty three rugswere procured, and, enveloped in them, they waddled off to theirbungalow to assume more decent apparel. A few minutes later there weretwo more similar catastrophes (these garments all seemed to split inprecisely the same spot), and the supply of rugs being exhausted, theseboys had to retreat to their bungalow walking backwards likechamberlains at a Court function. After luncheon, in the burning heatof Bengal, most sensible people keep quiet in the shade, but themidshipmen went off to inspect the great tank, and to decide how theyshould drag it.

Soon we heard loud shoutings from the direction of the tank, and saw along string of native servants carrying brown chatties of hot watertowards the pond. We found that the courteous House-Baboo had informedthe midshipmen that the holes in the banks of the tank were the winterrest-places of cobras. It then occurred to the boys that it would becapital fun to pour hot water down the holes, and to kill the cobraswith sticks as they emerged from them. It was a horribly dangerousamusem*nt, for, one bad shot, and the Royal Navy would unquestionablyhave had to mourn the loss of a promising midshipman in two hours'time. When we arrived the snake-killing was over, and the boys were allrefreshing themselves with large cheroots purloined from thedining-room on their behalf by a friendly kitmutgar. The dragging ofthe tank was really a wonderful sight. As the net reached the far endit was one solid mass of great shining, blue-grey fish, of about thirtypounds weight each. The most imaginative artist in depicting the"Miraculous Draught of Fishes" never approached the reality ofBarrackpore, or pictured such vast quantities of writhing, silveryfinny creatures. They were a fish called cattla by the natives, aspecies of carp, with a few eels and smaller fish of a bright redcolour thrown in amongst them. I could never have believed that onepond could have held such incredible quantities of fish. The Viceroy,an intrepid pioneer in gastronomic matters, had a great cattla boiledfor his dinner. The first mouthful defeated him; he declared that theconsistency of the fish was that of an old flannel shirt, and the tastea compound of mud and of the smell of a covered racquet-court. A ladyinsisted on presenting the midshipmen with two dozen bottles of a verygood champagne for the Gun-room Mess. In the innocence of her heart shethought that the champagne would last them for a year, but on NewYear's Eve the little lambs had a great celebration on board, and drankthe whole two dozen at one sitting. As there were exactly eighteen ofthem, this made a fair allowance apiece; they all got exceedinglydrunk, and the Admiral stopped their leave for two months, so we saw nomore of them. They were quite good boys really though, like all theirkind, rather over-full of high spirits.

As is well known, Queen Victoria celebrated her seventieth birthday bycommencing the study of Hindustani under the tuition of a skilledMoonshee. At the farewell audience the Queen gave my sister, HerMajesty, on learning that Lady Lansdowne intended to begin learningHindustani as soon as she reached India, proposed that they shouldcorrespond occasionally in Urdu, to test the relative progress theywere making. Every six months or so a letter from the Queen,beautifully written in Persian characters, reached Calcutta, to whichmy sister duly replied. In strict confidence, I may say that I stronglysuspect that Lady Lansdowne's letters were written by her Moonshee, andthat she merely copied the Persian characters, which she could do veryneatly. The Arabic alphabet is used in writing Persian, with three orfour extra letters added to express sounds which do not exist inArabic; it is, of course, written from right to left. I had an hour anda half's daily lesson in Urdu from an efficient, if immensely pompous,Moonshee, but I never attempted to learn to read or write the Persiancharacters.

I do not think that any one who has not traversed the plains ofNorthern Indian can have any idea of their deadly monotony. Hour afterhour of level, sun-baked wheat-fields, interspersed with arid tracts ofdesert, hardly conforms to the traditional idea of Indian scenery, norwhen once Bengal is left behind is there any of that luxuriantvegetation which one instinctively associates with hot countries. Inbars in the United States, any one wishing for whisky and water was (Iadvisedly use the past tense) accustomed to drain a small tumbler ofneat whisky, and then to swallow a glass of water. In India everythingis arranged on this principle; the whisky and the water are kept quiteseparate. The dead-flat expanse of the Northern plains is unbroken bythe most insignificant of mounds; on the other hand, in the hills it isalmost impossible to find ten yards of level ground. In the same wayduring the dry season you know with absolute certainty that there willbe no rain; whilst during the rains you can predict, without thefaintest shadow of doubt, that the downpour will continue day by day.Personally, I prefer whisky and water mixed.

In 1891 the Viceroy had selected the Kumaon district for his usualofficial spring tour, and all arrangements had been made for this. Asmy sister was feeling the heat of Calcutta a great deal, she and Ipreceded the Viceroy to Naini Tal in the Kumaon district, as it standsat an altitude of 6500 feet. The narrow-gauge railway ends atKathgodam, fifteen miles from Naini Tal, and the last four miles to thehill-station have to be ridden up, I should imagine, the steepest roadin the world. It is like the side of a house. People have before nowslipped over their horses' tails going up that terrific ascent, and Icannot conceive how the horses' girths manage to hold. Naini Tal is adelightful spot, with bungalows peeping out of dense greenery thatfringes a clear lake. As in most hill-stations, the narrow ridingtracks are scooped out of the hillsides with a perpendicular drop of,say, 500 feet on one side. These khudd paths, in addition to being verynarrow, are so precipitous that it takes some while getting used toriding along them. A rather tiresome elderly spinster had come up toNaini Tal on a visit to a relative, and was continually bewailing thedangers of these khudd paths. She had hoped, she declared, to put on alittle flesh in the hills, but her constant anxiety about the khuddswas making her thinner than ever. A humorous subaltern, rather bored atthese continual laments, observed to her: "At all events, Miss Smith,you'll have one consolation. If by any piece of bad luck you shouldfall over the khudd, you'll go over thin, but you'll fall down plump—athousand feet."

The very evening that Lord Lansdowne arrived for his projected tour,the news of a serious outbreak in Manipur was telegraphed. The Viceroyat once decided to abandon his tour and to proceed straight to Simla,to which the Government offices had already moved, and where hispresence would be urgently required. Lord William Beresford, theMilitary Secretary, a prince of organisers, at once took possession ofthe telegraph wires, and in two hours his arrangements werecomplete—or as an Anglo-Indian would put it, "he had made hisbundobust." The Viceroy and my sister were to leave next morning at 6a.m., and Lord William undertook to get them to Simla by special trainsbefore midnight. He actually landed them there by 11 p.m.—quite arecord journey, for Naini Tal is 407 miles from Simla, of which 75miles have to be ridden or driven by road and 66 are by narrow-gaugerailway, on which high speeds are impossible. There were 6500 feet todescend from Naini, and 6000 feet to ascend to Simla, but in India agood organiser can accomplish miracles.

The Viceroy's tour being abandoned, Colonel Erskine, the Commissionerfor the Kumaon district, invited me to accompany him on his ownofficial tour. It was through very difficult country where no wheeledtraffic could pass, so we were to ride, with all our belongings carriedby coolies. I bought two hill-ponies the size of Newfoundland dogs formyself and my "bearer," and we started. The little animals being usedto carrying packs, have a disconcerting trick of keeping close to thevery edge of the khudd, for experience has taught them that to bumptheir load against the rock wall on the inner side gives them anunpleasant jar. These little hill-ponies are wonderfully sure-footed,and can climb like cats over dry water-courses piled with rocks andgreat boulders, which a man on foot would find difficult to negotiate.The rhododendrons were then in full flower, and the hills were oneblaze of colour. We were always going up and up, and as we ascended,the deep crimson rhododendron flowers of Naini Tal gradually faded torose-colour, from rose-colour to pale pink, and from pink to purewhite. It was a perfect education travelling with Colonel Erskine, forthat shrewd and kindly old Scotsman had spent half his life in India,and knew the Oriental inside out. The French have an expression, "sefourrer dans la peau d'autrui," "to shove yourself into anotherperson's skin," and therefore to be able to see things as they wouldpresent themselves to the mind of a man of a different race and of adifferent mentality, and from his point of view. All young diplomatsare enjoined to cultivate this art, and some few succeed in doing so.Colonel Erskine had it to perfection. On arriving in a village he wouldcall for a carpet, and a dirty cotton dhuree would be laid on theround. He would then order a charpoy, or native bed, to be placed onthe carpet, and he would seat himself on it, and call out in thevernacular, "Now, my children, what have you to tell me?" All this wasstrictly in accordance with immemorial Eastern custom. Then the longline of suppliants would approach, each one with a present of anorange, or a bunch of rhododendron flowers in his hand. This, again,from the very beginning of things has been the custom in the East (cf.2 Kings, chap. viii, vers. 8, 9: "And the King said unto Hazael, Take apresent in thine hand, and go, meet the man of God.... So Hazael wentto meet him, and took a present with him"). Colonel Erskine was a greatstickler for these presents, and as they could be picked off thenearest rhododendron bush, they cost the donor nothing.

The outpouring of grievences and complaints then began, each applicantalways ending with the two-thousand-year-old cry of India, "Dohai,Huzoor!" ("Justice, my lord!") The old Commissioner meanwhile listenedintently, dictating copious notes to his Brahmin clerk, and at theconclusion of the audience he would cry, "Go, my children. Justiceshall be done to all of you," and we moved on to another village. Itwas very pleasant seeing the patriarchal relations between theCommissioner and the villagers. He understood them and their customsthoroughly; they trusted him and loved him as their official father. Ifancy that this type of Indian Civil servant, knowing the people he hasto deal with down to the very marrow of their bones, has become rarerof late years. The Brahmin clerk was a very intelligent man, and spokeEnglish admirably, but I took a great dislike to him, noting the abjectway in which the natives fawned on him. Colonel Erskine had todischarge him soon afterwards, as he found that he had been exploitingthe villagers mercilessly for years, taking bribes right and left. Frommuch experience Colonel Erskine was an adept at travelling with what hetermed "a light camp." He took with him a portable office-desk, abookcase with a small reference library, and two portable arm-chairs.All these were carried in addition to our baggage and bedding oncoolies' heads, for our sleeping-places were seldom more than fifteenmiles apart.

The Commissioner's old Khansama had very strict ideas as to how a"Sahib's" dinner should be served. He insisted on decorating the tablewith rhododendron flowers, and placing on it every night four dishes ofMoradabad metal work containing respectively six figs, six Frenchplums, six dates, and six biscuits, all reposing on the orthodoxlace-paper mats, and the moment dinner was over he carefully replacedthese in pickle-jars for use next evening. We would have broken hisheart had we spoiled the symmetry of his dishes by eating any of these.It takes a little practice to master bills of fare written in "KitmutarEnglish," and for "Irishishtew" and "Anchoto" to be resolved intoIrish-stew and Anchovy-toast. Once when a Viceroy was on tour there wasa roast gosling for dinner. This duly appeared on the bill-of-fare as"Roasted goose's pup." In justice, however, we must own that we wouldmake far greater blunders in trying to write a menu in Urdu.

The Kumaon district is beautiful, not unlike an enlarged Scotland, withdeep ravines scooped out by clear, rushing rivers, their precipitoussides clothed with dense growths of deodaras. In the early morning theview of the long range of the snowy pinnacles of the Himalayas wassplendid. I learnt a great deal from wise old Colonel Erskine with hisintimate knowledge of the workings of the native mind, and of thepsychology of the Oriental.

There is something very touching in the fidelity of Indian nativeservants to their employers. Lady Lansdowne returned to India eighteenyears after leaving it, for the marriage of her son (who was killed inthe first three months of the war) to Lord Minto's daughter, and Iaccompanied her. One afternoon all the pensioned Government Houseservants who had been in Lord Lansdowne's employment arrived in a bodyto offer their "salaams" to my sister. They presented a very differentappearance to the resplendent beings in scarlet and gold whom I hadformerly known, for on taking their pension they had ceased troublingto dye their beards, and they were merely dressed in plain whitecotton. These grey-bearded, toothless old men with their high, aquilinefeatures (they were nearly all Mohammedans), flowing white garments andturbans, might have stepped bodily out of stained-glass windows. Theyhad brought with them all the little presents (principally watches)which my sister had given them; they remembered all the berths she hadsecured for their sons, and the letters she had written on theirbehalf. An Oriental has a very long memory for a kindness as well asfor an injury done him. Lady Lansdowne, whose Hindustani had becomerather rusty, began feverishly turning over the pages of a dictionaryin an endeavour to express her feelings and the pleasure sheexperienced in seeing these faithful retainers again: she wept, and theold men wept, and we all agreed, as elderly people will, that in formerdays the sun was brighter and life altogether rosier than in thesedegenerate times. Before leaving, the old servants simultaneouslylifted their arms in the Mahommedan gesture of blessing, with all theinnate dignity of the Oriental; it was really a very touching sight,nor do I think that the very substantial memento of their visit whicheach of them received had anything to do with their attitude: they onlywished to show that they were "faithful to their salt."

It is difficult to determine the age of a native, as wrinkles and linesdo not show on a dark skin. Dark skins have other advantages. One ofthe European Examiners of Calcutta University told me that there hadbeen great trouble about the examination-papers. By some means thenative students always managed to obtain what we may term "advance"copies of these papers. My informant devised a scheme to stop thisleakage. Instead of having the papers printed in the usual fashion, hecalled in the services of a single white printer on whom he couldabsolutely rely. The white printer had the papers handed to him earlyon the morning of the examination day, and he duly set them up on ahand-press in the building itself. The printer had one assistant, acoolie clad only in loin-cloth and turban, and every time the coolieleft the room he was made to remove both his loin-cloth and turban, sothat by no possibility could he have any papers concealed about him. Inspite of these precautions, it was clear from internal evidence thatsome of the students had had a previous knowledge of the questions. Howhad it been managed? It eventually appeared that the coolie, takingadvantage of the momentary absence of the white printer, had whippedoff his loin-cloth, SAT DOWN ON THE "FORM," and then replaced hissolitary garment. When made to strip on going out, the printing-ink didnot show on his dark skin: he had only to sit down elsewhere on a largesheet of white paper for the questions to be printed off on it, andthey could then easily be read in a mirror. The Oriental mind is verysubtle.

This is no place to speak of the marvels of Mogul architecture in Agraand Delhi. I do not believe that there exists in the world a moreexquisitely beautiful hall than the Diwan-i-Khas in Delhi palace. Thishall, open on one side to a garden, is entirely built of transparentwhite marble inlaid with precious stones, and with its intricate gildedceilings, and wonderful pierced-marble screens it justifies the famousPersian inscription that runs round it:

"If heaven can be on the face of the earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this."

I always regret that Shah Jehan did not carry out his originalintention of erecting a second Taj of black marble for himself at Agra,opposite the wonderful tomb he built for his beloved Muntaz-i-Mahal;probably the money ran out. Few people take in that the dome of theTaj, that great airy white soap-bubble, is actually higher than thedome of St. Paul's. The play of fancy and invention of Shah Jehan'sarchitects seems inexhaustible. All the exquisite white marblepavilions of Agra palace differ absolutely both in design anddecoration, and Akbar's massive red sandstone buildings make the mostperfect foil to them that could be conceived.

Lucknow is one of the pleasantest stations in India, with its ring ofencircling parks, and the broad, tree-shaded roads of its cantonments,but the pretentious monuments with which the city is studded will notbear examination after the wonders of Agra and Delhi. The King of Oudewished to surpass the Mogul Emperors by the magnificence of hisbuildings, but he wished, too, to do it on the cheap. So in Lucknowstucco, with very debased details, replaces the stately red sandstoneand marble of the older cities.

In 1890 after a long day's sight-seeing in Lucknow, in the course ofwhich we ascended the long exterior flight of steps of the greatImambarah on an elephant (who proved himself as nimble as a Germanwaiter in going upstairs), Lady Lansdowne and I were taken to theHusainabad just as the short-lived Indian twilight was falling. Onpassing through its great gateway I thought that I had never in my lifeseen anything so beautiful. At the end of a long white marble-pavedcourt, a stately black-and-white marble tomb with a gilded dome rosefrom a flight of steps. Down the centre of the court ran a long pool ofclear water, surrounded by a gilded railing. On either side of thecourt stood great clumps of flowering shrubs, also enclosed in gildedrailings. At the far end, a group of palms were outlined in jet blackagainst that vivid lemon-coloured afterglow only seen in hot countries;peaco*cks, perched on the walls of the court, stood out duskily purpleagainst the glowing expanse of saffron sky, and the sleeping waters ofthe long pool reflected the golden glory of the flaming vault abovethem.

In the hush of the evening, and the half-light, the scene was lovelybeyond description, and for eighteen years I treasured in my mind thememory of the Husainabad at sunset as the vision of my life.

On returning to Lucknow in 1906, I insisted on going at once to revisitthe Husainabad, though I was warned that there was nothing to seethere. Alas! in broad daylight and in the glare of the fierce sun thewhole place looked abominably tawdry. What I had taken forblack-and-white marble was only painted stucco, and coarsely daubed atthat; the details of the decoration were deplorable, and the Husainabadwas just a piece of showy, meretricious tinsel. The gathering dusk andthe golden expanse of the Indian sunset sky had by some subtle wizardrythrown a veil of glamour over this poor travesty of the marvels ofDelhi and Agra. So a long-cherished ideal was hopelessly shattered,which is always a melancholy thing.

We are all slaves to the economic conditions under which we live, andthe present exorbitant price of paper is a very potent factor in themaking of books. I am warned by my heartless publishers that I havealready exceeded my limits. There are many things in India of which Iwould speak: of big-game hunts in Assam; of near views of the mightysnows of the Himalayas; of jugglers and their tricks, and of certainunfamiliar aspects of native life. The telling of these must bereserved for another occasion, for it is impossible in the briefcompass of a single chapter to do more than touch the surface of thingsin the vast Empire, the origin of whose history is lost in the mists oftime.

CHAPTER XI

Matters left untold—The results of improved communications—Myfather's journey to Naples—Modern stereotyped uniformity—Changes incustoms—The faithful family retainer Some details—Samuel Pepys'stupendous banquets—Persistence of idea—Ceremonialincense—Patriarchal family life—The barn dances—My father'shabits—My mother—A son's tribute—Autumn days—Conclusion.

I had hoped to tell of reef-fishing in the West Indies; of surf-ridingon planks at Muizenberg in South Africa; of the extreme inconvenienceto which the inhabitants of Southern China are subjected owing to theinconsiderate habits of their local devils; of sapphire seas wherecoco-nut palms toss their fronds in the Trade wind over gleaming-whitecoral beaches; of vast frozen tracts in the Far North where all animatelife seems suspended; of Japanese villages clinging to green hill-sideswhere boiling springs gush out of the cliffs in clouds of steam, and ofmany other things besides, for it has been my good fortune to have seenmost of the surface of this globe. But all these must wait until thepresent preposterous price of paper has descended to more normal levels.

I consider myself exceptionally fortunate in having lived at a timewhen modern conveniences of transport were already in existence, buthad not yet produced their inevitable results. It is quite sufficientlyobvious that national customs and national peculiarities are beingsmoothed out of existence by facilities of travel. My father andmother, early in their married life, drove from London to Naples intheir own carriage, the journey occupying over a month. They left theirown front door in London, had their carriage placed on the deck of theChannel steamer, sat in it during the passage (what a singularlyuncomfortable resting-place it must have been should they haveencountered bad weather!), and continued their journey on the otherside. During their leisurely progress through France and Italy, theymust have enjoyed opportunities of studying the real life of thesecountries which are denied the passengers in a rapide, jammed inamongst a cosmopolitan crew in the prosaic atmosphere of dining andsleeping cars, and scarcely bestowing a passing glance on the countrythrough which they are being whirled. Even in my time I have seenmarked changes, and have witnessed the gradual disappearance ofnational costumes, and of national types of architecture. Every capitalin Europe seems to adopt in its modern buildings a standardised type ofarchitecture. No sojourner in any of the big modern hotels, which bearsuch a wearisome family likeness to each other, could tell in whichparticular country he might happen to find himself, were it not for thescraps of conversation which reach his ears, for the externals all lookalike, and even the cooking has, with a greater or less degree ofsuccess, been standardised to the requisite note of monotony.Travellers may be divided into two categories: those who wish to findon foreign soil the identical conditions to which they have beenaccustomed at home, and those searching for novelty of outlook andnovelty of surroundings. The former will welcome the process of planingdown national idiosyncrasies into one dead level of uniformity of type,the latter will deplore it; but this, like many other things, is amatter of individual taste.

The ousting of the splendid full-rigged ships by stumpy, unlovelytramp-steamers in the Hooghly River, to which I have already referred,is only one example of the universal disappearance of the picturesque.In twenty-five years' time, every one will be living in adrab-coloured, utilitarian world, from which most of the beauty andevery scrap of local colour will have been successfully eliminated. Iam lucky in having seen some of it.

I have also witnessed great changes in social habits. I do not refer somuch to the removal of the rigid lines of demarcation formerlyprevailing in English Society, as to the disappearance of certainaccepted standards. For instance, in my young days the possibility ofappearing in Piccadilly in anything but a high hat and a tail coat wasunthinkable, as was the idea of sitting down to dinner in anything buta white tie. Modern usage has common sense distinctly on its side.Again, in my youth the old drinking customs lingered, especially at theUniversities. Though personally I have never been able to extract thefaintest gratification from the undue consumption of alcohol, myfriends do not seem to have invariably shared my tastes. I am certainof one thing: it is to the cigarette that the temperate habits of thetwentieth century are due. Nicotine knocked port and claret out in thesecond round. The acclimatisation of the cigarette in England onlydates from the "seventies." As a child I remember that the only form oftobacco indulged in by the people that I knew was the cigar. Acigarette was considered an effeminate foreign importation; a pipe wasunspeakably vulgar.

In my mother's young days before her marriage, the old hard-drinkinghabits of the Regency and of the eighteenth century still persisted. AtWoburn Abbey it was the custom for the trusted old family butler tomake his nightly report to my grandmother in the drawing-room. "Thegentlemen have had a good deal to-night; it might be as well for theyoung ladies to retire," or "The gentlemen have had very littleto-night," was announced according to circ*mstances by this faithfulfamily retainer. Should the young girls be packed off upstairs, theyliked standing on an upper gallery of the staircase to watch theshouting, riotous crowd issuing from the dining-room. My father veryrarely touched wine, and I believe that it was the fact that he, thenan Oxford undergraduate, was the only sober young man amongst the rowdytroop of roysterers that first drew my mother to him, though he hadalready proposed marriage to her at a children's party given by thePrince Regent at Carlton House, when they were respectively seven andsix years old. My father had succeeded to the title at the age of six,and they were married as soon as he came of age. They lived tocelebrate their golden wedding, which two of my sisters, the lateduch*ess of Buccleuch and Lady Lansdowne, were also fortunate enough todo, and I can say with perfect truth that in all three instances mymother and her daughters celebrated fifty years of perfect happiness,unclouded save for the gaps which death had made amongst their children.

Students of Pepys' Diary must have gasped with amazement at learning ofthe prodigious quantities of food considered necessary in theseventeenth century for a dinner of a dozen people. Samuel Pepys givesus several accounts of his entertainments, varying, with a nice senseof discrimination, the epithet with which he labels his dinners. Hereis one which he gave to ten people, in 1660, which he proudly terms "avery fine dinner." "A dish of marrow-bones; a leg of mutton; a loin ofveal; a dish of fowl; three pullets, and two dozen of larks, all in adish; a great tart; a neat's tongue; a dish of anchovies; a dish ofprawns, and cheese." On another occasion, in 1662, Pepys having fourguests only, merely gave them what he modestly describes as "a prettydinner." "A brace of stewed carps; six roasted chickens; a jowl ofsalmon; a tanzy; two neats' tongues, and cheese." For six distinguishedguests in 1663 he provided "a noble dinner." (I like this carefulgrading of epithets.) "Oysters; a hash of rabbits; a lamb, and a rarechine of beef, Next a great dish of roasted fowl cost me about thirtyshillings; a tart, fruit and cheese." Pepys anxiously hopes that thiswas enough! One is pleased to learn that on all three occasions hisguests enjoyed themselves, and that they were "very merry," but howeverdid they manage to hold one quarter of this prodigious amount of food?

The curious idea that hospitality entailed the proffering of four timesthe amount of food that an average person could assimilate, persistedthroughout the eighteenth century and well into the "seventies" of thenineteenth century. I remember as a child, on the rare occasion when Iwas allowed to "sit up" for dinner, how interminable that repastseemed. That may have been due to the fact that my brother and I wereforbidden to eat anything except a biscuit or two. The idea that humanbeings required perpetual nourishment was so deep-grounded that, to theend of my father's life, the "wine and water tray" was brought innightly before the ladies went to bed. This tray contained port, sherryand claret, a silver kettle of hot water, sugar, lemons and nutmeg, aswell as two large plates of sandwiches. All the ladies devoured whollysuperfluous sandwiches, and took a glass of wine and hot water beforeretiring. I think people would be surprised to find how excellent abeverage the obsolete "negus" is. Let them try a glass of either port,sherry, or claret, with hot water, sugar, a squeeze of lemon, and adusting of nutmeg, and I think that they will agree with me.

A custom, I believe, peculiar to our family, was the burning of churchincense in the rooms after dinner. At the conclusion of dinner, thegroom-of-the-chambers walked round the dining-room, solemnly swinging alarge silver censer. This dignified thurifer then made the circuit ofthe other rooms, plying his censer. From the conscientious manner inwhich he fulfilled his task, I fear that an Ecclesiastical Court mighthave found that this came under the heading of "incense usedceremonially."

My father had one peculiarity; he never altered his manner of living,whether the house was full of visitors, or he were alone with mymother, after his children had married and left him. At Baron's Court,when quite by themselves, they used the large rooms, and had them alllighted up at night, exactly as though the house was full of guests.There was to my mind something very touching in seeing an aged couple,after more than fifty years of married life together, still preservingthe affectionate relations of lovers with each other. They played theirchess together nightly in a room ninety-eight feet long, and delightedin still singing together, in the quavering tones of old age, thesimple little Italian duets that they had sung in the far-off days oftheir courtship. As his years increased, my father did not care toventure much beyond the circle of his own family, though as thirteen ofhis children had grown up, and he had seven married daughters, the twoelder of whom had each thirteen children of her own, the number of hisimmediate descendants afforded him a fairly wide field of selection. Inhis old age he liked to have his five sons round him all the winter,together with their wives and children. Accordingly, every October mythree married brothers arrived at Baron's Court with their entirefamilies, and remained there till January, so that the housepersistently rang with children's laughter. What with governesses,children, nurses and servants, this meant thirty-three extra people allthrough the winter, so it was fortunate that Baron's Court was a largehouse, and that there was plenty of room left for other visitors. Itentailed no great hardship on the sons, for the autumn salmon-fishingin the turbulent Mourne is excellent, there was abundance of shooting,and M. Gouffe, the cook, was a noted artist.

Both my father and mother detested publicity, or anything in the natureof self-advertisem*nt, which only shows how hopelessly out of touchthey would have been with modern conditions.

My father was also old-fashioned enough to read family prayers everymorning and every Sunday evening; he was very particular, too, aboutSunday observance, now almost fallen into desuetude, so neither thethud of lawn-tennis racquets nor the click of billiard-balls were everheard on that day, and no one would have dreamed of playing cards onSunday.

It would be difficult to convey any idea of the pleasant family life inthat isolated spot tucked away amongst the Tyrone mountains; of thelong tramps over the bogs after duck and snipe; of the struggles withbig salmon; of the sailing-matches on the lakes; of the grouse and thewoodco*cks; of the theatrical performances, the fun and jollity, and allthe varied incidents which make country life so fascinating to thosebrought up to it.

It was the custom at Baron's Court to have two annual dances in thebarn to celebrate "Harvest Home" and Christmas, and to these dances myfather, and my brother after him, invited every single person in theiremploy, and all the neighbouring farmers and their wives. Any onehoping to shine at a barn-dance required exceptionally sound muscles,for the dancing was quite a serious business. The so-called barn wasreally a long granary, elaborately decorated with wreaths ofevergreens, flags, and mottoes. The proceedings invariably commencedwith a dance (peculiar, I think, to the north of Ireland) known as"Haste to the Wedding." It is a country dance, but its peculiarity liesin the fact that instead of the couples standing motionless opposite toone another, they are expected to "set to each other," and to keep ondoing steps without intermission; all this being, I imagine, typical ofthe intense eagerness every one was supposed to express to reach thescene of the wedding festivities as quickly as possible. Twenty minutesof "Haste to the Wedding" are warranted to exhaust the stoutestleg-muscles. My mother always led off with the farm-bailiff as partner,my father at the other end dancing with the bailiff's wife. Both myfather, and my brother after him, were very careful always to weartheir Garter as well as their other Orders on these occasions, in orderto show respect to their guests. Scotch reels and Irish jigs alternatedwith "The Triumph," "Flowers of Edinburgh," and other country dances,until feet and legs refused their office; and still the fiddlesscraped, and feet, light or heavy, belaboured the floor till 6 a.m. Thesupper would hardly have come up to London standards, for instead oflight airy nothings, huge joints of roast and boiled were aligned downthe tables. Some of the stricter Presbyterians, though fond of a dance,experienced conscientious qualms about it. So they struck an ingeniouscompromise with their consciences by dancing vigorously whilst assumingan air of intense misery, as though they were undergoing some terriblepenance. Every one present enjoyed these barn-dances enormously.

My father was an admirable speaker of the old-fashioned school, withcalculated pauses, an unusual felicity in the choice of his epithets,and a considerable amount of gesticulation. The veteran Lord Chaplin isthe last living exponent of this type of oratory. Although my fatherprepared his speeches very carefully indeed, he never made a singlewritten note. He had a beautiful speaking voice and a prodigiousmemory; this memory, he knew from experience, would not fail him. Anexcellent shot himself both with gun and rifle, and a good fisherman,to the end of his life he maintained his interest in sport and in allthe pursuits of the younger life around him, for he was very human.

It is difficult for a son to write impartially of his mother. Mymother's character was a blend of extreme simplicity and great dignity,with a limitless gift of sympathy for others. I can say with perfecttruth that, throughout her life, she succeeded in winning the deep loveof all those who were brought into constant contact with her. Veryearly in life she fell under the influence of the Evangelical movement,which was then stirring England to its depths, and she throughout herdays remained faithful to its tenets. It could be said of her that,though, in the world, she was not of the world. Owing to force ofcirc*mstances, she had at times to take her position in the world, andno one could do it with greater dignity, or more winning grace; but theatmosphere of London, both physical and social, was distasteful to her.She had an idea that the smoke-laden London air affected her lungs,and, apart from the pleasure of seeing the survivors of the veryintimate circle of friends of her young days, London had fewattractions for her; all her interests were centred in the country, incountry people, and country things. Although deeply religious, herreligion had no gloom about it, for her inextinguishable love of ajoke, and irrepressible sense of fun, remained with her to the end ofher life, and kept her young in spite of her ninety-three years. Fromthe commencement of her married life, my mother had been in the habitof "visiting" in the village twice a week, and in every cottage she waswelcomed as a friend, for in addition to her gift of sympathy, she hada memory almost as tenacious as my father's, and remembered the namesof every one of the cottagers' children, knew where they were employed,and whom they had married. With the help of her maid, my mother used tocompound a cordial, bottles of which she distributed amongst thecottagers, a cordial which gained an immense local reputation. Theingredients of this panacea were one part of strong iron-water to fiveparts of old whisky, to which sal-volatile, red lavender, cardamoms,ginger, and other warming drugs were added. "Her Grace's bottle," as itwas invariably termed, achieved astonishing popularity, and the mostmarvellous cures were ascribed to it. I have sometimes wondered whetherits vogue would have been as great had the whisky been eliminated fromits composition. In her home under the Sussex downs, amidst the broadstretches of heather-clad common, the beautiful Tudor stone-built oldfarm-houses, and the undulating woodlands of that most lovable andtypically English county, she continued, to the end of her life,visiting amongst her less fortunate neighbours, and finding friends inevery house. Her immense vitality and power of entering into thesorrows and enjoyments of others, led at times to developments veryunexpected in the case of one so aged. For instance, a smallgreat-nephew of mine had had a pair of stilts given him. The boy wasclumsy at learning to use them, and my mother, who in her youth, couldperform every species of trick upon stilts, was discovered by hertrained nurse mounted on stilts and perambulating the garden on them,in her eighty-sixth year, for the better instruction of her littlegreat-grandson. Again, during a great rat-hunt we had organised, thenurse missed her ninety-year-old charge, to discover her later, incompany with the stable-boy, behind a barn, both of them armed withsticks, intently watching a rat-hole into which the stable-boy had justinserted a ferret.

My mother travelled up to London on one occasion to consult acelebrated oculist, and confided to him that she was growingapprehensive about her eyesight, as she began to find it difficult toread small print by lamplight. The man of Harley Street, after acareful examination of his patient's eyes, asked whether he mightinquire what her age was. On receiving the reply that she had beenninety on her last birthday, the specialist assured her that hisexperience led him to believe that cases of failing eyesight were by nomeans unusual at that age.

My mother had known all the great characters that had flitted acrossthe European stage at the beginning of the nineteenth century:Talleyrand, Metternich, the great Duke of Wellington, and many others.With her wonderful memory, she was a treasure-house of anecdotes ofthese and other well-known personages, which she narrated with all theskill of the born reconteuse. She belonged, too, to an age in whichletter-writing was cultivated as an art, and was regarded as anintellectual relaxation. At the time of her death she had one hundredand sixty-nine direct living descendants: children, grandchildren,great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren, in addition tothirty-seven grandchildren and great-grandchildren by marriage. Shekept in touch with all her descendants by habitually corresponding withthem, and the advice given by this shrewd, wise old counsellor, withher ninety years of experience, was invariably followed by itsrecipients. She made a point of travelling to London to attend theweddings of every one of her descendants, and even journeyed up to bepresent at the Coronation of King Edward in her ninetieth year. It isgiven to but few to see their GRANDSON'S GRANDSON; it is granted tofewer to live ninety-three years with the full use of everyintellectual faculty, and the retention of but slightly impaired bodilypowers; and seldom is it possible to live to so great an age with thepowers of enjoyment and of unabated interest in the lives of othersstill retained.

She never returned to Ireland after her widowhood, but was able, up tothe end of her life, to pay a yearly autumn visit to her belovedScotland. And so, under the rolling Sussex downs, amidst familiarwoodlands and villages, full of years, and surrounded by the lore ofall those who knew her, the long day closed.

I think that there is a passage in the thirty-first chapter of Proverbswhich says: "Her children rise up and call her blessed."

I have reached my appointed limits, leaving unsaid one-half of thethings I had wished to narrate. Reminiscences come crowding inunbidden, and, like the flickering lights of the Will-o'-the-wisp, theytend to lead the wayfarer far astray from the path he had originallytraced out for himself. "Jack-o'-lanthorn" is proverbially a fickleguide to follow, and should I have succumbed to his lure, I can onlyproffer my excuses, and plead in extenuation that sixty years is such along road to re-travel that an occasional deviation into a by-path byelderly feet may perhaps be forgiven.

Charles Kingsley, in the "Water-Babies", has put some very touchinglines into the mouth of the old school-dame in Vendale, lines whichcome home with pathetic force to persons of my time of life.

"When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad
And every dog his day.

"When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The old and spent among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young."

I protest indignantly against the idea that all the wheels are rundown; nor are the trees yet brown, for kindly autumn, to soften us tothe inevitable passing of summer, touches the trees with her magicwand, and forthwith they blaze with crimson and russet-gold, pale-goldand flaming copper-red.

In the mellow golden sunshine of the still October days it is sometimesdifficult to realise that the glory of the year has passed beyondrecall, though the sunshine has no longer the genial warmth of July,and the more delicate flowers are already shrivelled by the firstfurtive touches of winter's finger-tips. Experience has taught us thatthe many-hued glory of autumn is short-lived; the faintest breezebrings the leaves fluttering to the ground in golden showers. Soon thefew that remain will patter gently down to earth, their mother. Wintercomes.