The Project Gutenberg eBook of Faces and Places, by Sir Henry W. Lucy

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at https://www.gutenberg.org/license. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Faces and Places

Author: Sir Henry W. Lucy

Release Date: May 27, 2008 [EBook #25624]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

E-text prepared by Ruth Golding

The Whitefriars Library of Wit & Humour

FACES AND PLACES

By

HENRY W. LUCY

(AUTHOR OF "EAST BY WEST: A RECORD OF A JOURNEY ROUND THE WORLD")

WITH PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON:

HENRY AND CO, BOUVERIE STREET, EC

To J.R. Robinson, Editor and Manager of the "Daily News", at whose

suggestion some of these articles were written, they are in their

collected form inscribed, with sincere regard, by an old friend and

colleague.

London, February 1892.

CONTENTS

Chap.

Page

I. "FRED" BURNABY

1

II. A NIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN

23

III. THE PRINCE OF WALES

35

IV. A HISTORIC CROWD

41

V. WITH PEGGOTTY AND HAM

52

VI. TO THOSE ABOUT TO BECOME JOURNALISTS

62

VII. A CINQUE PORT

69

VIII. OYSTERS AND ARCACHON

77

IX. CHRISTMAS EVE AT WATTS'S

86

X. NIGHT AND DAY ON THE CARS IN CANADA

100

XI. EASTER ON LES AVANTS

108

XII. THE BATTLE OF MERTHYR

125

XIII. MOSQUITOES AND MONACO

137

XIV. A WRECK IN THE NORTH SEA

145

XV. A PEEP AT AN OLD HOUSE OF COMMONS

152

XVI. SOME PREACHERS I HAVE KNOWN:--

Mr. Moody

170

"Bendigo"

176

"Fiddler Joss"

181

Dean Stanley

184

Dr. Moffat

187

Mr. Spurgeon

190

In the Ragged Church

196

FACES AND PLACES

CHAPTER I.

"FRED" BURNABY

I made the acquaintance of Colonel Fred Burnaby in a balloon. In such

strange quarters, at an altitude of over a thousand feet, commenced a

friendship that for years was one of the pleasantest parts of my life,

and remains one of its most cherished memories.

It was on the 14th of September, 1874. A few weeks earlier two French

aeronauts, a Monsieur and Madame Duruof, making an ascent from Calais,

had been carried out to sea, and dropping into the Channel, had passed

through enough perils to make them a nine days' wonder. Arrangements had

been completed for them to make a fresh ascent from the grounds of the

Crystal Palace, and half London seemed to have gone down to Sydenham to

see them off. I was young and eager then, and having but lately joined

the staff of the Daily News as special correspondent, was burning for

an opportunity to distinguish myself. So I went off to the Crystal

Palace resolved to go up in the balloon.

"No," said Mr. Coxwell, when I asked him if there were a seat to spare

in the car. "No; I am sorry to say that you are too late. I have had at

least thirty applications for seats, and as the car will hold only six

persons, and as practically there are but two seats for outsiders, you

will see that it is impossible."

This was disappointing, the more so as I had brought with me a large

military cloak and a pair of seal-skin gloves, under a general but

well-defined impression that the thing to do up in a balloon was to keep

yourself warm. Mr. Coxwell's account of the position of affairs so

completely shut out the prospect of a passage in the car that I

reluctantly resigned the charge of the military cloak and gloves, and

strolled down to the enclosure where the process of inflating the

balloon was going on. Here was congregated a vast crowd, which increased

in density as four o'clock rang out, and the great mass of brown silk

into which the gas was being assiduously pumped began to assume a

pear-like shape, and sway to and fro in the light air of the autumn

afternoon.

About this time the heroes of the hour, Monsieur and Madame Duruof

walked into the enclosure, accompanied by Mr. Coxwell and Mr. Glaisher.

A little work was being extensively sold in the Palace bearing on the

title-page, over the name "M. Duruof," a murderous-looking face, the

letter-press purporting to be a record of the life and adventures of

the French aeronauts. Happily M. Duruof bore but the slightest

resemblance to this portrait, being a young man of pleasing appearance,

with a good, firm, frank-looking face.

By a quarter to five o'clock the monster balloon was almost fully

charged, and was swaying to and fro in a wild, fitful manner, that could

not have been beheld without trepidation by any of the thirty gentlemen

who had so judiciously booked seats in advance. The wickerwork car now

secured to the balloon was half filled with ballast and crowded with

men, whilst others hung on to the ropes and to each other in the effort

to steady it.

But they could not do much more than keep it from mounting into mid-air.

Hither and thither it swung, parting in swift haste the curious throng

that encompassed it, and dragging the men about as if they were ounce

weights. The wind seemed to be rising and the faces of the experienced

aeronauts grew graver and graver, answers to the constantly repeated

question, "Where is it likely to come down?" becoming increasingly

vague. At last Mr. Glaisher, looking up at the sky and round at the

neighbouring trees bending under the growing blast, put his veto upon

Madame Duruof's forming one of the party of voyagers.

"We are not in France," he said. "The people will not insist upon a

woman going up when there is any danger. The descent is sure to be

rough, will possibly be perilous, so Madame Duruof had better stay where

she is."

Madame Duruof was ready to go, but was at least equally willing to stay

behind, and so it was settled that she should not leave the palace

grounds by the balloon. I cast a lingering thought on the military cloak

and the seal-skin gloves, in safe keeping in a remote part of the

building. If Madame was not going there might be room for a substitute.

But again Mr. Coxwell would not listen to the proposal. There were at

least thirty prior applicants; some had even paid their money, and they

must have the preference.

At five o'clock all was ready for the start. M. Wilfrid de Fonvielle,

a French aeronaut and journalist, took off his hat, and in full gaze of

a sympathising and deeply interested crowd deliberately attired himself

in a Glengarry cap, a thick overcoat, and a muffler. M Duruof put on

his overcoat, and Mr. Barker, Mr. Coxwell's assistant, seated on the

ring above the car, began to take in light cargo in the shape of

aneroids, barometers, bottles of brandy and water, and other useful

articles. M. Duruof scrambled into the car, one of the men who had been

weighing it down getting out to make room for him. Then M. de Fonvielle,

amid murmurs of admiration from the crowd, nimbly boarded the little

ship, and immediately began taking observations. There was a pause, and

Mr. Coxwell, who stood by the car, prepared for the rush of the Thirty.

But nobody volunteered. Names were called aloud; only the wind, sighing

amongst the trees made answer.

"Il faut partir," said M. Duruof, somewhat impatiently. Then a

middle-aged gentleman, who, I afterwards learned, had come all the way

from Cambridge to make the journey, and who had only just arrived

breathless on the ground, was half-lifted, half-tumbled in, amid

agonised entreaties from Barker to "mind them bottles." The Thirty had

unquestionably had a fair chance, and Mr. Coxwell made no objection as I

passed him and got into the car, followed by one other gentleman, who

brought the number up to the stipulated half-dozen. We were all ready to

start, but it was thought desirable that Madame Duruof should show

herself in the car. So she was lifted in, and the balloon allowed to

mount some twenty feet, frantically held by ropes by the crowd below. It

descended again, Madame Duruof got out, and in her place came tumbling

in a splendid fellow, some six feet four high, broad-chested to boot,

who instantly made supererogatory the presence of half a dozen of the

bags of ballast that lay in the bottom of the car.

It was an anxious moment, with the excited multitude spread round far as

the eye could reach, the car leaping under the swaying balloon, and the

anxious, hurried men straining at the ropes. But I remember quite well

sitting at the bottom of the car and wondering when the new-comer would

finish getting in. I dare say he was nimble enough, but his full arrival

seemed like the paying out of a ship's cable.

This was Fred Burnaby, only Captain then, unknown to fame, with Khiva

unapproached, and the wilds of Asia Minor untrodden by his horse's

hoofs. His presence on the grounds was accidental, and his undertaking

of the journey characteristic. He had invited some friends to dine

with him that night at his rooms, then in St. James's Street. Hearing

of the proposed balloon ascent, he felt drawn to see the voyagers off,

purposing to be home in time to dress for dinner. The defection of the

Thirty appearing to leave an opening for an extra passenger, Burnaby

could not resist the temptation. So with a hasty Au revoir! to his

companion, the Turkish Minister, he pushed his way through the crowd

and dropped into the car.

I always forgot to ask him how his guests fared. As it turned out, he

had no chance of communicating with his servant before the dinner hour.

The arrival of Burnaby exceeded by one the stipulated number of

passengers, and Coxwell was anxious for us to start before any more got

in. For a minute or two we still cling to the earth, the centre of an

excited throng that shout, and tug at ropes, and run to and fro, and

laugh, and cry, and scream "Good-bye" in a manner that makes our

proposed journey seem dreadful in prospect. The circle of faces look

fixedly into ours; we hear the voices of the crowd, see the women

laughing and crying by turns, and then, with a motion that is absolutely

imperceptible, they all pass away, and we are in mid-air where the echo

of a cheer alone breaks the solemn calm.

I had an idea that we should go up with a rush, and be instantly in the

cold current of air in view of which the preparation of extra raiment,

the nature of which has been already indicated, had been made. But here

we were a thousand feet above the level of the Palace gardens, sailing

calmly along in bright warm sunlight, and no more motion perceptible

than if we were sitting on chairs in the gardens, and had been so

sitting whilst the balloon mounted. It was a quarter past five when we

left the earth, and in less than five minutes the Crystal Palace

grounds, with its sea of upturned faces, had faded from our sight.

Contrary to prognostication, there was only the slightest breeze, and

this setting north-east, carried us towards the river in the direction

of Greenwich. We seemed to skirt the eastern fringe of London, St.

Paul's standing out in bold relief through the light wreath of mist that

enveloped the city. The balloon slowly rose till the aneroid marked a

height of fifteen hundred feet. Here it found a current which drove it

slightly to the south, till it hovered for some moments directly over

Greenwich Hospital, the training ship beneath looking like a cockle boat

with walking sticks for masts and yards. Driving eastward for some

moments, we slowly turned by Woolwich and crossed the river thereafter

steadily pursuing a north-easterly direction.

Looking back from the Essex side of the river the sight presented to

view was a magnificent one. London had vanished, even to the dome of

St. Paul's, but we knew where the great city lay by the mist that

shrouded it and shone white in the rays of the sun. Save for this patch

of mist, that seemed to drift after us far away below the car, there was

nothing to obscure the range of vision. I am afraid to say how many

miles it was computed lay within the framework of the glowing panorama.

But I know that we could follow the windings of the river that curled

like a dragon among the green fields, its shining scales all aglow in

the sunlight, and could see where it finally broadened out and trended

northward. And there, as M. Duruof observed with a significant smile,

was "the open sea."

There was no feeling of dizziness in looking down from the immense

height at which we now floated--two thousand feet was the record as

we cleared the river. By an unfortunate oversight we had no map of

the country, and were, except in respect of such landmarks as

Greenwich, unable with certainty to distinguish the places over which

we passed.

"That," said Burnaby from his perch up in the netting over the car,

where he had clambered as being the most dangerous place immediately

accessible, "is one of the great drawbacks to the use of balloons in

warfare. Unless a man has natural aptitude, and is specially trained

for the work, his observations from a balloon are of no use, a

bird's-eye view of a country giving impressions so different from the

actual position of places."

This dictum was illustrated by the scene spread out beneath us. Seen

from a balloon the streets of a rambling town resolve themselves into

beautifully defined curves, straight lines, and various other highly

respectable geometrical shapes.

We could not at any time make out forms of people. The white highways

that ran like threads among the fields, and the tiny openings in the

towns and villages which we guessed were streets, seemed to belong to

a dead world, for nowhere was there trace of a living person. The

strange stillness that brooded over the earth was made more uncanny

still by cries that occasionally seemed to float in the air around us,

behind, before, to the right, to the left, but never exactly beneath

the car. We could hear people calling, and had a vague idea they were

running after us and cheering; but we could distinguish no moving

thing. Yes; once the gentleman from Cambridge exclaimed that there

were some pheasants running across a field below; but upon close

investigation they turned out to be a troop of horses capering about

in wild dismay. A flock of sheep in another field, huddled close

together, looked like a heap of limestone chippings. As for the

fields stretched out in wide expanse, far as the eye could reach,

they seemed to form a gigantic carpet, with patterns chiefly diamond

shape, in colour shaded from bright emerald to russet brown.

At six o'clock the sun began to drop behind a broad belt of black

cloud that had settled over London. The mist following us ever since

we crossed the river had overtaken us, even passed us, and was

strewed out over the earth, the sky above our heads being yet a

beautiful pale blue. We were passing with increased rapidity over the

rich level land that stretches from the river bank to Chelmsford, and

there was time to look round at each other. Burnaby had come down from

the netting and disposed his vast person amongst us and the bags of

ballast. He was driven down by the smell of gas, which threatened to

suffocate us all when we started. M. Wilfrid de Fonvielle, kneeling

down by the side of the car, was perpetually "taking observations,"

and persistently asking for "the readings," which the gentleman from

Cambridge occasionally protested his inability to supply, owing either

to Burnaby having his foot upon the aneroid, or to the Captain so

jamming him up against the side of the car that the accurate reading

of a scientific instrument was not only inconvenient but impossible.

When we began to chat and exchange confidences, the fascination which

balloon voyaging has for some people was testified to in a striking

manner. The gentleman from Cambridge had a mildness of manner about him

that made it difficult to conceive him engaged in any perilous

enterprise. Yet he had been in half a dozen balloon ascents, and had

posted up from his native town on hearing that a balloon was going up

from the Crystal Palace. As for Burnaby, it was borne in upon me, even

at this casual meeting, that it did not matter to him what enterprise

he embarked upon, so that it were spiced with danger and promised

adventure. He had some slight preference for ballooning, this being his

sixteenth ascent, including the time when the balloon burst, and the

occupants of the car came rattling down from a height of three thousand

feet, and were saved only by the fortuitous draping of the half emptied

balloon, which prevented all the gas from escaping.

At half-past six we were still passing over the Turkey carpet,

apparently of the same interminable pattern. Some miles ahead the level

stretch was broken by clumps of trees, which presently developed into

woods of considerable extent. It was growing dusk, and no town or

railway station was near. Burnaby, assured of being too late for his

dinner party, wanted to prolong the journey. But the farther the balloon

went the longer would be the distance over which it would have to be

brought back and Mr. Coxwell's assistant was commendably careful of his

employer's purse. On approaching Highwood the balloon passed over a

dense wood, in which there was some idea of descending. But finally the

open ground was preferred, and, the wood being left behind, a ploughed

field was selected as the place to drop, and the gas was allowed to

escape by wholesale. The balloon swooped downward at a somewhat

alarming pace, and if Barker had had all his wits about him he would

have thrown out half a bag of ballast and lightened the fall. But after

giving instructions for all to stoop down in the bottom of the car and

hold onto the ropes, he himself promptly illustrated the action, and

down we went like a hawk towards the ground.

As it will appear even to those who have never been in a balloon, no

advice could have been worse than that of stooping down in the bottom of

the car, which was presently to come with a great shock to the earth,

and would inevitably have seriously injured any who shared its contact.

Fortunately Burnaby, who was as cool as if he were riding in his

brougham, shouted out to all to lift their feet from contact with the

bottom of the car, and to hang on to the ropes. This was done, and when

the car struck the earth it merely shook us, and no one had even a

bruise.

Before we began to descend at full speed the grappling iron had been

pitched over, and, fortunately, got a firm hold in a ridge of the

ploughed land. Thus, when the balloon, after striking the ground, leapt

up again into the air and showed a disposition to wander off and tear

itself to pieces against the hedges and trees, it was checked by the

anchor rope and came down again with another bump on the ground. This

time the shock was not serious, and after a few more flutterings it

finally stood at ease.

The highest altitude reached by the balloon was three thousand feet, and

this was registered about a couple of miles before we struck Highwood.

For some distance before completing this descent we had been skimming

along at about a thousand feet above the level of the fields, and the

intention to drop being evident, a great crowd of rustics gallantly kept

pace with the balloon for the last half-mile. By the time we were fairly

settled down, half a hundred men, women, and children had converged upon

the field from all directions, and were swarming in through the hedge.

Actually the first in at the death was an old lady attired chiefly in a

brilliant orange-coloured shawl, who came along over the ridges with a

splendid stride. But she did not fully enjoy the privilege she had so

gallantly earned. She was making straight for the balloon, when Burnaby

mischievously warned her to look out, for it might "go off." Thereupon

the old lady, without uttering a word in reply, turned round and, with

strides slightly increased in length, made for the hedge, through which

she disappeared, and the orange-coloured shawl was seen no more.

All the rustics appeared to be in a state more or less dazed. What with

having been running some distance, and what with surprise at discovering

seven gentlemen dropped out of the sky into the middle of a ploughed

field, they could find relief only in standing at a safe distance with

their mouths wide open. In vain Barker talked to them in good broad

English, and begged them to come and hold the car whilst we got out.

No one answered a word, and none stirred a step, except when the balloon

gave a lurch, and then they got ready for a start towards the protecting

hedges. At last Burnaby volunteered to drop out. This he did, deftly

holding on to the car, and by degrees the intelligent bystanders

approached and cautiously lent a hand. Finding that the balloon neither

bit nor burned them, they swung on with hearty goodwill, and so we all

got out, and Barker commenced the operation of packing up, in which

task the natives, incited by the promise of a "good drink," lent

hearty assistance.

We had not the remotest idea where we were, and night was fast closing

in. Where was the nearest railway station? Perhaps if we had arrived in

the neighbourhood in a brake or an omnibus, we might have succeeded in

getting an answer to this question. As it was, we could get none. One

intelligent party said, after profound cogitation, that it was "over

theere," but as "over theere" presented nothing but a vista of

fields--some ploughed and all divided by high hedges--this was scarcely

satisfactory. In despair we asked where the high-road was, and this

being indicated, but still vaguely and after a considerable amount of

thought, Burnaby and I made for it, and presently succeeded in striking

it.

The next thing was to get to a railway station, wherever it might be,

and as the last train for town might leave early, the quicker we arrived

the better. Looking down the road, Burnaby espied a tumble-down cart

standing close into the hedge, and strode down to requisition it. The

cart was full of hampers and boxes, and sitting upon the shaft was an

elderly gentleman in corduroys intently gazing over the hedge at the

rapidly collapsing balloon, which still fitfully swayed about like a

drunken man awaking out of sleep.

"Will you drive us to the nearest railway station, old gentleman?" said

Burnaby cheerily.

The old gentleman withdrew his gaze from the balloon and surveyed us,

a feeble, indecisive smile playing about his wooden features; but he

made no other answer.

"Will you drive us to the nearest railway station?" repeated Burnaby.

"We'll pay you well."

Still no answer came from the old gentleman, who smiled more feebly than

ever, now including me in his intelligent purview. After other and

diverse attempts to draw him into conversation, including the pulling of

the horse and cart into the middle of the road, and the making of a

feint to start it off at full gallop, it became painfully clear that the

old gentleman had, at sight of the balloon, gone clean out of such

senses as he had ever possessed, and as there was a prospect of losing

the train if we waited till he came round again, nothing remained but to

help ourselves to the conveyance. So Burnaby got up and disposed of as

much of himself as was possible in a hamper on the top of the cart. I

sat on the shaft, and taking the reins out of the old gentleman's

resistless hand, drove off down the road at quite a respectable pace.

After we had gone about a mile the old gentleman, who had been employing

his unwonted leisure in staring at us all over, broke into a chuckle.

We gently encouraged him by laughing in chorus, and after a brief space

he said,--

"I seed ye coming."

As I had a good deal to do to keep the pony up and going, Burnaby

undertook to follow up this glimmering of returning sense on the part of

the old gentleman, and with much patience and tact he succeeded in

getting him so far round that we ascertained we were driving in the

direction of "Blackmore." Further than this we could not get, any

pressure in the direction of learning whether there was a railway

station at the town or village, or whatever it might be, being followed

by alarming symptoms of relapse on the part of the old gentleman.

However, to get to Blackmore was something, and after half an hour's

dexterous driving we arrived at the village, of which the inn standing

back under the shade of three immemorial oak trees appeared to be a fair

moiety.

We paid the old gentleman and parted company with him, though not

without a saddening fear that the shock of the balloon coming down

under his horse's nose, as it were, had permanently affected his brain.

At Blackmore we found a well-horsed trap, and through woods and long

country lanes drove to Ingatestone, and as fast as the train could

travel got back to civilisation.

This was the beginning of a close and intimate friendship, that ended

only with Burnaby's departure for the Soudan. He often talked to me

of himself and of his still young life. Educated at Harrow, he thence

proceeded to Germany, where, under private tuition, he acquired an

unusually perfect acquaintance with the French, Italian, and German

languages, and incidentally imbibed a taste for gymnastics. At

sixteen he, the youngest of one hundred and fifty candidates, passed

his examination for admission to the army, and at the mature age of

seventeen found himself a cornet in the Royal Horse Guards. At this

time his breast seems to have been fired by the noble ambition to

become the strongest man in the world. How far he succeeded is told

in well-authenticated traditions that linger round various spots in

Windsor and London. He threw himself into the pursuit of muscle with

all the ardour since shown in other directions, and the cup of his

joy must have been full when a precise examination led to the

demonstration of the fact that his arm measured round the biceps

exactly seventeen inches. He could put 'Nathalie' (then starring it

at the Alhambra) to shame with her puny 56-lb. weight in each hand,

and could 'turn the arm' of her athletic father as if it had been

nothing more than a hinge-rusted nut-cracker. His plaything at

Aldershot was a dumb-bell weighing 170 lbs., which he lifted straight

out with one hand, and there was a standing bet of £10 that no

other man in the Camp could perform the same feat. At the rooms of

the London Fencing Club there is to this day a dumb-bell weighing 120

lbs., with record of how Fred Burnaby was the only member who could

lift it above his head.

There is a story told of early barrack days which he assured me was

quite true. A horsedealer arrived at Windsor with a pair of beautiful

little ponies he had been commanded to show the Queen. Before

exhibiting them to her Majesty he took them to the Cavalry Barracks

for display to the officers of the Guards. Some of these, by way of

a pleasant surprise, led the ponies upstairs into Burnaby's room,

where they were much admired. But when the time came to take leave an

alarming difficulty presented itself. The ponies, though they had

walked upstairs, could by no means be induced to walk down again. The

officers were in a fix; the horsedealer was in despair; when young

Burnaby settled the matter by taking up the ponies, one under each

arm and, walking downstairs, deposited them in the barrack-yard. The

Queen heard the story when she saw the ponies, and doubtless felt an

increased sense of security at Windsor, having this astounding

testimony to the prowess of her Household Troops.

Cornet Burnaby was as skilful as he was strong. He was one of the best

amateur boxers of the day, as Tom Paddock, Nat Langham, and Bob Travers

could testify of their well-earned personal experience. Moreover, he

fenced as well as he boxed, and the turn of his wrist, which never

failed to disarm a swordsman, was known in more than one of the capitals

of Europe. Ten years before he started for Khiva, there was much talk at

the Rag of the wonderful feat of the young Guardsman, who undertook

for a small wager to hop a quarter of a mile, run a quarter of a mile,

ride a quarter of a mile, row a quarter of a mile, and walk a quarter of

a mile in a quarter of an hour, and who covered the mile and a quarter

of distance in ten minutes and twenty seconds.

Fred Burnaby had, whilst barely out of his teens, realised his boyish

dream, and become the strongest man in the world. But he had also begun

to pay the penalty of success in the coin of wasted tissues and failing

health. When a man finds, after anxious and varied experiments, that a

water-ice is the only form of nourishment his stomach will retain, he is

driven to the conviction that there is something wrong, and that he had

better see the doctor. The result of the young athlete's visit to the

doctor was that he mournfully laid down the dumb-bells and the foil,

eschewed gymnastics, and took to travel.

An average man advised to travel for his health's sake would probably

have gone to Switzerland or the South of France, according to the sort

of climate held to be desirable. Burnaby went to Spain, that being at

the time the most troubled country in Europe, not without promise of an

outbreak of war. Here he added Spanish to his already respectable stock

of languages, and found the benefit of the acquisition in his next

journey, which was to South America, where he spent four months

shooting unaccustomed game and recovering from the effects of his

devotion to gymnastics. Returning to do duty with his regiment, he began

to learn Russian and Arabic, going at them steadily and vigorously, as

if they were long stretches of ploughed land to be ridden over. A second

visit to Spain provided him with the rare gratification of being shut up

in Barcelona during the siege, and sharing all the privations and

dangers of the garrison. Whilst in Seville during a subsequent journey

he received a telegram saying that his father was seriously ill. France

was at the time in the throes of civil war, with the Communists holding

Paris against the army of Versailles. To reach England any other way

than viâ Paris involved a delay of many days, and Burnaby determined to

dare all that was to be done by the Communists. So, carrying a Queen's

Messenger's bag full of cigars in packets that looked more or less like

Government despatches, he passed through Paris and safely reached

Calais.

A year later he set forth intending to journey to Khiva, but on reaching

Naples was striken with fever, spent four months of his leave in bed,

and was obliged to postpone the trip. In 1874 he once more went to

Spain, this time acting as the special correspondent of the Times with

the Carlists, and his letters form not the least interesting chapter in

the long story of the miserable war. In the early spring of 1875 he made

a dash at Central Africa, hoping to find "Chinese Gordon" and his

expedition. He met that gallant officer on the Sobat river, a stream

which not ten Englishmen have seen, and having stayed in the camp for a

few days, set out homeward, riding on a camel through the Berber desert

to Korosko, a distance of five hundred miles. After an absence of

exactly four months he turned up for duty at the Cavalry Barracks,

Windsor, with as much nonchalance as if he had been for a trip to the

United States in a Cunard steamer.

It was whilst on this flight through Central Africa that the notion of

the journey to Khiva came back with irresistible force. It had been done

by MacGahan, but that plucky journalist had judiciously started in the

spring. Burnaby resolved to accomplish the enterprise in winter; and

accordingly, on November 30th, 1875, he started by way of St.

Petersburg, treating himself, as a foretaste of the joys that awaited

him on the steppes, to the long lonely ride through Russia in midwinter.

At Sizeran he left civilisation and railways behind him, and rode on a

sleigh to Orenburg, a distance of four hundred and eighty miles. At

Orenburg he engaged a Tartar servant, and another stretch of eight

hundred miles on a sleigh brought him to Fort No. 1, the outpost of the

Russian army facing the desert of Central Asia. After this even the

luxury of sleigh-riding was perforce foregone, and Burnaby set out on

horseback, with one servant, one guide, and a thermometer that

registered between 70° and 80° below freezing point, to find Khiva

across five hundred miles of pathless, trackless, silent snow.

Two Cossacks riding along this route with despatches had just before

been frozen to death. The Russians, inured to the climate, had never

been able to take Khiva in the winter months. They had tried once, and

had lost six hundred camels and two-thirds of their men before they saw

the enemy. But Fred Burnaby gaily went forth, clothed-on with

sheepskins. After several days' hard riding and some nights' sleep on

the snow, he arrived in Khiva, chatted with the Khan, fraternised with

the Russian officers, kept his eyes wide open, and finally was invited

to return by a telegram from the Commander-in-Chief, who had been

brought to understand how this strange visitor from the Cavalry Barracks

at Windsor had fluttered the military authorities at St. Petersburg.

This adventure might have sufficed an ordinary man for a lifetime. But

in the very next year, whilst his Ride to Khiva remained the most

popular book in the libraries, he paid a second visit to the Turcomans,

seeking them now, not on the bleak steppes round Khiva, but in the more

fertile, though by Europeans untrodden, plains of Asia Minor. He had one

other cherished project of which he often spoke to me. It was to visit

Timbuctoo. But whilst brooding over this new journey he fell in love,

married, settled down to domestic life in Cromwell Gardens, and took to

politics. It was characteristic of him that, looking about for a seat to

fight, he fixed upon John Bright's at Birmingham, that being at the time

the Gibraltar of political fortresses.

The last time I saw Fred Burnaby was in September 1884. He was standing

on his doorstep at Somerby Hall, Leicestershire, speeding his parting

guests. By his side, holding on with all the might of a chubby hand

to an extended forefinger, was his little son, a child some five years

old, whose chief delight it was thus to hang on to his gigantic father

and toddle about the grounds. We had been staying a week with Burnaby

in his father's old home, and it had been settled, on the invitation

of his old friend Henry Doetsch, that we should meet again later in

the year, and set out for Spain to spend a month at Huelva. A few

weeks later the trumpet sounded from the Soudan, and like an old

war-horse that joyously scents the battle from afar, Burnaby gave up

all his engagements, and fared forth for the Nile.

At first he was engaged in superintending the moving of the troops

between Tanjour and Magrakeh. This was hard work admirably done. But

Burnaby was always pining to get to the front. In a private letter

dated Christmas Eve, 1884, he writes: "I do not expect the last boat

will pass this cataract before the middle of next month, and then I

hope to be sent for to the front. It is a responsible post Lord

Wolseley has given me here, with forty miles of the most difficult

part of the river, and I am very grateful to him for letting me have

it. But I must say I shall be better pleased if he sends for me when

the troops advance upon Khartoum."

The order came in due course, and Burnaby was riding on to the relief

of Gordon when his journey was stopped at Abu-Klea. He was attached to

the staff of General Stewart, whose little force of six-thousand-odd

men was suddenly surrounded by a body of fanatical Arabs, nine

thousand strong. The British troops formed square, inside which the

mounted officers sat directing the desperate defence, that again and

again beat back the angry torrent. After some hours' fighting, a

soldier in the excitement of the moment got outside the line of the

square, and was engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict with a cluster of

Arabs. Burnaby, seeing his peril, dashed out to the rescue--"with a

smile on his face," as one who saw him tells me,--and was making

irresistible way against the odds when an Arab thrust a spear in his

throat, and he fell off his horse dead. He sleeps now, as he always

yearned to rest, in a soldier's grave, dug for him by chance on the

continent whose innermost recesses he had planned some day to explore.

The date of his death was January 17th, 1885. His grave is nameless,

and its place in the lonely Desert no man knoweth.

"Brave Burnaby down! Wheresoever 'tis spoken

The news leaves the lips with a wistful regret

We picture that square in the desert, shocked, broken,

Yet packed with stout hearts, and impregnable yet

And there fell, at last, in close mêlée, the fighter

Who Death had so often affronted before;

One deemed he'd no dart for his valorous slighter

Who such a gay heart to the battle-front bore.

But alas! for the spear thrust that ended a story

Romantic as Roland's, as Lion-Heart's brief

Yet crowded with incident, gilded with glory

And crowned by a laurel that's verdant of leaf.

A latter-day Paladin, prone to adventure,

With little enough of the spirit that sways

The man of the market, the shop, the indenture!

Yet grief-drops will glitter on Burnaby's bays.

Fast friend as keen fighter, the strife glow preferring,

Yet cheery all round with his friends and his foes;

Content through a life-story short, yet soul-stirring

And happy, as doubtless he'd deem, in its close."

Thus Punch, as it often does, voiced the sentiments of the nation

on learning the death of its hero.

CHAPTER II.

A NIGHT ON A MOUNTAIN

There are not many English abroad this morning on the top of

the hill. In fact, unless they had passed the night here it

would not be easy for them to present themselves, seeing that

San Salvatore, though a very modest mound, standing as it does

in the neighbourhood of the Alps, is high enough to lift its

crest out of the curtain of mist that lies over the lower world.

Lugano, its lake, and its many small towns--as like each other

when seen from a distance as if they had been turned out of a

mould--are understood to lie at some uncertain depth beneath

the mist. In truth, unless they have wholly disappeared in the

night, we know that they are there, for we walked up in the

late afternoon with intent to sleep here.

The people of Lugano, more especially the hotel-keepers, were much

exercised at this undertaking. Nobody in recent recollection had been

known to spend the night on San Salvatore, and if the eccentricity

were permitted and proved enjoyable, no one could say that it might

not spread, leaving empty beds at Lugano. There was, accordingly,

much stress laid on possible dangers and certain discomforts.

Peradventure there was no bed; assuredly it would be hard and damp

and dirty. There would be nothing to eat, nor even to drink; and

in short, if ever there was madness characteristic of the English

abroad, here was the mid March of its season.

But the undertaking was not nearly so mad as it looked. I had been

up Salvatore on the previous day and surveyed the land. It is a

place that still holds high rank in the Romish calendar of Church

celebrations. Many years ago a chapel was built on its summit, and

pilgrimages instituted. These take place at Ascension and Pentecost,

when the hillside swarms with devout sons and daughters of Italy, and

the music of high mass breaks the silence of the mountains. Even

pilgrims must eat and drink and sleep, and shortly after the chapel

was built there rose up at its feet, in a sheltered nook, a little

house, a chapel-of-ease in the sense that here was sold wine of the

country, cheese of the district, and jambon reputed to come across

the seas from distant "Yorck." A spare bedroom was also established

for the accommodation of the officiating priests, and it was on the

temporary reversion of this apartment that I had counted in making

those arrangements that Lugano held to be hopelessly heretical.

When, on my first visit to the top of San Salvatore, I reached

the pilgrimage chapel, I found an old gentleman standing at the

door of the hostelry by which the pilgrim must needs pass on

his way to the chapel--a probably undesigned but profitable

arrangement, since it brings directly under his notice the

possibility of purchasing "vins du pays, pain, fromage,

saucissons, and jambon d'Yorck."

When I broached the subject of the night's entertainment the

landlord was a little taken aback, and evidently inclined

to dwell upon those inconveniences of which Lugano had made

so much. But the more he thought of it, the more he liked the

idea. As I subsequently learned, the hope of his youth, the

sustenance of his manhood, and the dream of his old age was

to see his little hut develop into a grand hotel, with a porter

in the hall, an army of waiters bustling about, and himself in

the receipt of custom. It was a very small beginning that two

English people should propose to lodge with him for a night.

Still, it was something, and everything must have a beginning.

Monte Generoso, among the clouds on the other side of the lake,

began in that way; and look at it now with its chambres at

eight francs a day, its table d'hôte at five francs, and its

bougies dispensed at their weight in silver!

"Si, signor"; he thought it might be done. He was sure--nay,

he was positive.

As the picture of the hotel of the future glowed in his mind he

became enthusiastic, and proposed that we should view the

apartments. The bedroom we found sufficiently roomy, with both

fireplace and one of the two windows bricked up to avoid

draughts. The mattress of the bed, it is true, was stuffed with

chopped straw, and was not free from suspicion of harbouring

rats. But there was a gorgeous counterpane, whose many colours

would have excited the envy of Joseph's brethren had their

pilgrimage chanced to lead them in this direction. The floor

was of cement, and great patches of damp displayed themselves

on the walls. Over the bed hung a peaceful picture of a chubby

boy clasping a crook to his breast, and exchanging glances of

maudlin sentimentality with a sheep that skipped at his side.

The damp had eaten up one of the legs of mutton, and the sheep

went on three legs. But nothing could exceed the more than

human tenderness with which it regarded the chubby boy with the

crook.

We soon settled about the bed, and there remained only

the question of food. On this point also our host displayed

even an increase of airy confidence. What would signor? There

were sausage, ham of York, and eggs, the latter capable of

presentation in divers shapes.

This, it must be admitted, engendered a feeling of discouragement.

We had two days earlier tasted the sausage of the country when

served up in a first-class hotel as garnish to a dish of spinach.

It is apparently made of pieces of gristle, and when liberated from

the leather case that enshrines it, crumbles like a piece of old

wall. Sausage was clearly out of the question, and the ham of York

does not thrive out of its own country, acquiring a foreign flavour

of salted sawdust. Eggs are very well in their way, but man cannot

live on eggs alone.

Our host was a man full of resources. Why should we not bring the

materials for dinner from Lugano? He would undertake to cook them,

whatever they might be. This was a happy thought that clenched the

bargain. We undertook to arrive on the following day, bringing our

sheaves with us, in the shape of a supply of veal cutlets.

The ostensible object of spending a night on San Salvatore is to see

the sun set and rise. The mountain is not high, just touching three

thousand feet, an easy ascent of two hours. But it is a place

glorious in the early morning and solemn in the quiet evening.

Below lies the lake of Lugano, its full length visible. Straight

before you, looking east, is the long arm that stretches to Porlezza,

with its gentle curves where the mountains stand and cool their feet

in the blue water. To the west, beyond a cluster of small and

nameless lakes that lie on the plain, we see the other arm of the

lake, with Ponte Tresa nestling upon it, and still farther west the

sun gleams on the waters of Lago Maggiore. Above Porlezza is Monte

Legnone, and far away on the left glint the snow peaks of the Bernina.

High in the north, above the red tiles and white walls of the town of

Lugano are the two peaks of Monte Camoghe, flanked by something that

seems a dark cloud in the blue sky, but which our host says is the

ridge of St. Gothard. The sun sets behind the Alps of the Valais

among which towers the Matterhorn and gleam the everlasting snows of

Monte Rosa.

These form the framework of a picture which contains all the softness

and richness of the beauty of a land where the grape and the fig

grow, and where in these October days roses are in full bloom, and

heliotropes sweeten every breath of air. Yesterday had opened

splendidly, the morning sun rising over the fair scene and bringing

out every point. But as we toiled up the hill this afternoon,

carrying the cutlets, the sun had capriciously disappeared. The

mountains were hid in clouds, and the lake, having no blue sky to

reflect, had turned green with chagrin. There was little hope of

visible sunset; but there was a prospect of sunrise, and certainty

of a snug dinner in circumstances to which the novelty of the

surroundings would lend a strange charm.

It was rather disappointing on arriving to find that our acquaintance

of yesterday had disappeared. I have reason to believe the excitement

of our proposed visit had been too much for him, and that he had

found it desirable to retire to rest in the more prosaic habitation

of the family down in the town. He had selected as substitute the

most stalwart and capable of his sons, a man of the mature age of

thirty-five. This person had the family attribute of readiness of

resource and perfect confidence. The enthusiasm which had been too

dangerously excited in the breast of his aged parent had been

communicated to him. He was ready to go anywhere and cook anything,

and having as a preliminary arranged a napkin under his arm, went

bustling about the table disturbing imaginary flies and flicking off

supposititious crumbs, as he had seen the waiter do in the restaurant

at the hotel down in the town.

"Signor had brought the cutlets? Si, and beautiful they were! How

would signor like to have them done? Thus, or thus, or thus?" in a

variety of ways which, whilst their recital far exceeded my limited

knowledge of the language, filled me with fullest confidence in

Giacommetti.

That was his name, he told me in one of his bursts of confidence;

and a very pretty name it is, though for brevity's sake it may be

convenient hereafter to particularise him by the initial letter.

As I was scarcely in a position to decide among the various

appetising ways of cooking suggested by G., I said I would leave it

to him.

But, then, the signor could not make a dinner of cutlets. What else

would he be so good as to like? Sausage, ham of York, and eggs--eggs

à la coque or presented as omelettes. No? Then signor would commence

with soup? Finally potage au riz was selected out of the

embarrassment of riches poured at our feet by the enthusiastic G.

There being yet an hour to dinner, we ascended the few steps that

led to the summit of the hill on which the chapel is perched, a

marvel to all new-comers by the highway of the Lake. The door was

open, and we walked in. There was no light burning on the altar,

nor any water in the stone basin by the door. But there was all

the apparatus of worship--the gaudy toyshop above the grand altar,

the tiny side chapels, with their pictures of the dying Saviour,

and the confessional box, now thick with dust, and echoless of

sob of penitent or counsel of confessor. It was evidently a poorly

endowed chapel, the tinsel adornments being of the cheapest and

the candles of the thinnest. But in some past generation a good

Catholic had bestowed upon it an altarcloth of richest silk,

daintily embroidered. The colours had faded out of the flowers,

and the golden hue of the cloth had been grievously dimmed. Still

it remained the one rich genuine piece of workmanship in a chapel

disfigured by an overbearing hankering after paper flowers and

tinsel.

Early the next morning, whilst reposing under the magnificent

counterpane on the bed of chopped straw, I was awakened by hearing

the chapel bell ring for mass. I thought it must be the ghost of

some disembodied priest, who had come up through the darkness of

the night and the scarcely more luminous mist of the morning to

say a mass for his own disturbed soul. But, as I presently learned,

they were human hands that pulled the bell-rope, and a living

priest said mass all by himself in this lonely chapel whilst dawn

was breaking over a sleeping world.

I saw him some hours later sitting on the kitchen dresser, in the

sanctum where G. worked the mysteries of his art. He was resting

his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward, and had in his mouth

a large pipe, from which he vigorously puffed. I found him a very

cheerful old gentleman, by no means unduly oppressed with the

solemnity of this early mass in the lonely chapel. He lived down

at Barbeng, at the back of the hill, and had come up this morning

purely as a matter of business, and in partial fulfilment of a

contract entered into with one of his parishioners, whose husband

had been lost at sea whilst yet they were only twelve months

married. The widow had scraped together sufficient money to have

a due number of masses said on San Salvatore for the repose of the

soul of her young husband. So once a week, whilst the contract ran,

the old priest made his way up through the morning mist, tolled the

bell, said the mass, and thereafter comforted himself with a

voluminous pipe seated on the dresser in G.'s kitchen.

This is a digression, and I confess I have rather lingered over it,

as it kept the soup waiting.

The preparation was brought in in a neat white bowl gracefully

carried aloft by G., who still insisted upon going about with a

napkin under his arm. Everything was in order except the soup. I

like to think that the failure may have been entirely due to myself.

G. had proposed quite a dozen soups, and I had ignorantly chosen

the only one he could not make. The liquid was brown and greasy,

smelling horribly of a something which in recognition of G.'s good

intention I will call butter. The rice, which formed a principal

component part, presented itself in conglomerate masses, as if G.,

before placing it in the tureen, had squeezed portions of it in his

hand.

Perhaps he had, for he was not in the humour to spare himself trouble

in his effort to make the banquet a success.

We helped ourselves plentifully to the contents of the tureen, which

was much easier to do than to settle the disposition of the soup. G.

was in an ecstasy of delight at things having gone on so well thus

far. He positively pervaded the place, nervously changing the napkin

from arm to arm, and frantically flicking off imaginary crumbs. At

length it happily occurred to him that it would be well to go and

see after the cutlets. Whereupon we emptied the soup back into the

tureen, and when G. returned were discovered wiping our lips with

the air of people who had already dined.

After all, there were the cutlets, and G. had not indulged in

exaggerated approval of their excellence when in a state of nature.

They were those dainty cuts into which veal naturally seems to

resolve itself in butcher's shops on the Continent. We observed

with concern that they looked a little burned in places when they

came to the table, and the same attraction of variety was maintained

in the disposition of salt. There were large districts in the area

of the cutlet absolutely free from savouring. But then you came upon

a small portion where the salt lay in drifts, and thus the average

was preserved. We were very hungry and ate the cutlets, which, with

an allowance of bread, made up the dinner. There were some potatoes,

fried with great skill, amid much of the compound we had agreed to

call butter. But, as I explained to G. in reply to a deprecatory

gesture when he took away the floating mass untouched, I have not

for more than three years been able to eat a potato. One of my

relations was, about that date, choked by a piece of potato, and

since then I have never touched them, especially when fried in a

great deal of butter.

We had some cheese, for which Earl Granville's family motto would

serve as literal description. You might bend it, but could not

break it. I never was partial to bent cheese, but we made a fair

appearance with this part of the feast, owing to the arrival of

G.'s dog, a miserable-looking cur, attracted to the banquet-hall

by unwonted savours. He seemed to like the cheese; and G., when he

came in with the coffee, was more than ever pleased with our

appreciation of the good things provided for us.

"Rosbif and chiss--ha!" he said, breaking forth into English, and

smiling knowingly upon us.

He felt he had probed the profoundest depths of the Englishman's

gastronomical weakness.

With the appearance of the coffee the real pleasure of the evening

commenced. Along nearly the whole of one side of the banquet-hall

ran a fireplace, a recess of the proportions of a spare bedroom in

an ordinary English house. There were no "dogs" or other contrivance

for minimising the spontaneity of a fire. There are granite quarries

near, and these had contributed an enormous block which formed a

hearth raised about six inches above the level of the floor. On this

an armful of brushwood was placed; and the match applied, it began

to burn with cheerful crackling laughter and pleasant flame,

filling the room with a fragrant perfume. For all other light a

feeble oil lamp twinkled high up on the wall, and a candle burned

on the table where we had so luxuriantly dined.

The fitful light shone on the oil paintings which partly hid the

damp on the walls. There was a picture (not a bad one) of St.

Sebastian pierced with arrows, and in his death-agony turning

heavenward a beautiful face. There was the portrait of another

monk holding on to a ladder, each rung of which was labelled with

a cardinal virtue. There was a crucifixion or two, and what

elsewhere might well pass for a family portrait--an elderly lady,

with a cap of the period, nursing a spaniel. The damp had spared

the spaniel whilst it made grave ravages upon the lady, eating

a portion of her cheek and the whole of her left ear.

G. having the dinner off his mind, and having, as was gathered

from a fearsome clattering in the back premises, washed up the

dishes, wandered about the shadows in the background and showed

a disposition for conversation. It was now he unfolded that dream

of the hotel some day to be built up here, with the porter in the

hall, the waiters buzzing round, the old man, his father, in the

receipt of custom, and he (G.) exercising his great natural talents

in supervising the making of soup, the frying of potatoes, and

the selection of elastic cheeses. He showed, with pardonable pride,

a visitors' book in which was written "Leopold, Prince of Great

Britain and Ireland." His Royal Highness came here one rainy day

in 1876, riding on a mule, and escorted by a bedraggled suite.

Did they partake of any refreshments?

No; the father, G. frankly admits, lost his head in the excitement

of the moment--a confession which confirms the impression that, on

a much less auspicious occasion, it has been thought desirable that

a younger and stronger man should assume the direction of affairs.

To proffer Royalty potage au riz on such brief notice was of course

out of the question. But the fatuous old gentleman had permitted a

Prince of Great Britain and Ireland to descend the mountain without

having tasted any other of the comestibles which were doubtless on

hand at the time, and portions of which most probably remain to

this day.

About eight o'clock there were indications from the shadowy

portions of the banqueting chamber that G. was getting sleepy, and

that the hour had arrived when it was usual for residents to retire

for the night. Even on the top of a mountain one cannot go to bed

at eight o'clock, and we affected to disregard these signals.

Beginning gently, the yawns increased in intensity till they became

phenomenal. At nine o'clock G. pointedly compared the hour of the

day as between his watch and mine.

It was hard to leave a bright wood fire and go to bed at nine

o'clock; but G. was irresistible. He literally yawned us out of

the room, up the staircase, and into the bed-chamber. There was a

key hanging by the outside of the door the size of a small club,

and weighing several pounds. On the inside the keyhole, contrary to

habitude, was in the centre of the door. From this point of approach

it was, however, useful rather for ventilation than for any other

purpose, since the key would not enter. Looking about for some means

of securing the door against possible intrusions on the part of G.

with a new soup, I discovered the trunk of a young tree standing

against the wall. The next discovery was recesses in the wall on

either side of the door, which suggested the evident purpose of the

colossal bar. With this across the door one might sleep in peace,

and I did till eight o'clock in the morning.

G. had been instructed to call us at sunrise if the morning were

fair. As it happened, our ill luck of the evening was repeated in

the morning. A thick mist obscured all around us, though as we

passed down to civilisation and Lugano the sun, growing stronger,

lifted wreaths of white mist, and showed valley, and lake, and

town bathed in glorious light.

CHAPTER III.

THE PRINCE OF WALES

We in this country have grown accustomed to the existence of the

Prince of Wales, and his personality, real and fabulous, is not

unfamiliar on the other side of the Atlantic. But if we come to

think of it, it is a very strange phenomenon. The only way to

realise its immensity is to conceive its creation today, supposing

that heretofore through the history of England there had been

no such institution. A child is born in accidental circumstances

and with chance connections that might just as reasonably have

fallen to the lot of some other entity. He grows from childhood

through youth into manhood, and all the stages, with increasing

devotion and deference, he is made the object of reverential

solicitude. All his wants are provided for, even anticipated. He

is the first person to be considered wherever he goes. Men who

have won renown in Parliament, in the camp, in literature, doff

their hats at his coming, and high-born ladies curtsey.

It is all very strange; but so is the rising of the sun and the

sequence of the moon. We grow accustomed to everything and take

the Prince of Wales like the solar system as a matter of course.

Reflection on the singularity of his position leads to sincere

admiration of the manner in which the Prince fills it. Take it for

all in all, there is no post in English public life so difficult

to fill, not only without reproach, but with success. Day and night

the Prince lives under the bull's-eye light of the lantern of a

prying public. He is more talked about, written about, and pulled

about than any Englishman, except, perhaps, Mr. Gladstone. But Mr.

Gladstone stands on level ground with his countrymen. If he is

attacked or misrepresented, he can hit back again. The position of

the Prince of Wales imposes upon him the impassivity of the target

used in ordinary rifle practice. Whatever is said or written about

him, he can make no reply, and the happy result which in the main

follows upon this necessary attitude suggests that it might with

advantage be more widely adopted.

Probably in the dead, unhappy night when the rain was on the roof

and the Tranby Croft scandal was on everybody's tongue, the Prince

of Wales had some bad quarters of an hour. But whatever he felt or

suffered, he made no sign. To see him sitting in the chair on the

bench in court whilst that famous trial was proceeding, no one, not

having prior knowledge of the fact, would have guessed that he had

the slightest personal interest in the affair. There was danger of

his even over-doing the attitude of indifference. But he escaped it,

and was exactly as smiling, debonair and courtly as if he were in

his box at the theatre watching the development of some quite other

dramatic performance. He has all the courage of his race, and his

long training has steeled his nerves.

It would be so easy for the Prince of Wales to make mistakes that

would alienate from him the affection which is now his in unstinted

measure. There are plenty of precedents, and a fatal fulness of

exemplars. Take, for example, his relations with political life. It

would not be possible for him now, as a Prince of Wales did at the

beginning of the century, to form a Parliamentary party, and

control votes in the House of Commons by cabals hatched at

Marlborough House. But he might, if he were so disposed, in less

occult ways meddle in politics. As a matter of fact, noteworthy and

of highest honour to the Prince, the outside public have not the

slightest idea to which side of politics his mind is biassed. They

know all about his private life, what he eats, and how much; how he

dresses, whom he talks to, what he does from the comparatively

early hour at which he rises to the decidedly late one at which he

goes to bed. But in all the gossip daily poured forth about him

there is never a hint as to whether he prefers the politics of Tory

or Liberal, the company of Lord Salisbury or Mr. Gladstone.

In a country where every man in whatever station of life is a keen

politician, this is a great thing to say for one in the position of

the Prince of Wales.

This absolute impartiality of attitude does not arise from

indifference to politics or to the current of political warfare.

The Prince is a Peer of Parliament, sits as Duke of Cornwall, and

under that name figures in the division lists on the rare occasions

when he votes. When any important debate is taking place in the

House, he is sure to be found in his corner seat on the front Cross

Bench, an attentive listener. Nor does he confine his attention to

proceedings in the House of Lords. In the Commons there is no more

familiar figure than his seated in the Peers' Gallery over the

clock, with folded hands irreproachably gloved, resting on the

rail before him as he leans forward and watches with keen interest

the sometimes tumultuous scene.

Thus he sat one afternoon in the spring of the session of 1875. He

had come down to hear a speech with which his friend, Mr. Chaplin,

was known to be primed. The House was crowded in every part, a

number of Peers forming the Prince's suite in the gallery, while

the lofty figure of Count Munster, German Ambassador, towered at

his right hand, divided by the partition between the Peers'

Gallery and that set apart for distinguished strangers. It was a

great occasion for Mr. Chaplin, who sat below the gangway visibly

pluming himself and almost audibly purring in anticipation of

coming triumph. But a few days earlier the eminent orator had the

misfortune to incur the resentment of Mr. Joseph Gillis Biggar.

All unknown to him, Joseph Gillis was now lying in wait, and just

as the Speaker was about to call on the orator of the evening,

the Member for Cavan rose and observed,--

"Mr. Speaker, Sir, I believe there are strangers in the house."

The House of Commons, tied and bound by its own archaic

regulations, had no appeal against the whim of the indomitable

Joey B. He had spied strangers in due form, and out they must go.

So they filed forth, the Prince of Wales at the head of them, the

proud English Peers following, and by another exit the Envoy of the

most potent sovereign of the Continent, representative of a nation

still flushed with the overthrow of France--all publicly and

peremptorily expelled at the raising of the finger of an uneducated,

obscure Irishman, who, when not concerned with the affairs of the

Imperial Parliament, was curing bacon at Belfast and selling it at

enhanced prices to the Saxon in the Liverpool market.

The Prince of Wales bore this unparalleled indignity with the good

humour which is one of his richest endowments. He possesses in rare

degree the faculty of being amused and interested. The British

workman, who insists on his day's labour being limited by eight

hours, would go into armed revolt if he were called upon to toil

through so long a day as the Prince habitually faces. Some of its

engagements are terribly boring, but the Prince smiles his way

through what would kill an ordinary man. His manner is charmingly

unaffected, and through all the varying duties and circumstances of

the day he manages to say and do the right thing. It is not a heroic

life, but it is in its way a useful one, and must be exceedingly hard

to live.

Watching the Prince of Wales moving through an assemblage, whether

it be as he enters a public meeting or as he strolls about the

greensward at Marlborough House on the occasion of a garden party,

the observer may get some faint idea of the strain ever upon him. You

can see his eyes glancing rapidly along the line of the crowd in

search of some one whom he can make happy for the day by a smile or a

nod of recognition. If there were one there who might expect the

honour, and who was passed over, the Prince knows full well how sore

would be the heart-burning.

There is nothing prettier at the garden party than to see him walking

through the crowd of brave men and fair women with the Queen on his

arm. Her Majesty used in days gone by to be habile enough at the

performance of this imperative duty laid upon Royalty of singling

out persons for recognition. Now, when he is in her company, the

Prince of Wales does it for her. Escorting her, bare-headed,

through the throng; he glances swiftly to right or left, and when he

sees some one whom he thinks the Queen should smile upon he whispers

the name. The Queen thereupon does her share in contributing to the

sum of human happiness.

It is, as I began by saying, all very strange if we look calmly at it.

But, in the present order of things, it has to be done. It is the

Prince of Wales's daily work, and it is impossible to conceive it

accomplished with fuller appearance of real pleasure on the part of

the active agent.

CHAPTER IV.

A HISTORIC CROWD.

"I very much regret that so much of your valuable time has been

absorbed," said the Lord Chief Justice, speaking to the Tichborne

Jury, as the massive form of the Claimant vanished through the side

door, never more to enter the Court of Queen's Bench; "but it will

be a consolation to you to think that your names will be associated

in history with the most remarkable trial that has ever occurred in

the annals of England."

There was another jury outside Sir Alexander Cockburn's immediate

observation that always struck me, and I saw a good deal of it, as

not the least notable feature in the great trial that at one time

engrossed the attention of the English-speaking race. That was the

crowd that gathered outside the Courts of Justice, then still an

adjunct of Westminster Hall.

As there never was before a trial like that of the Claimant, so

there never was a crowd like this. It had followed him through all

the vicissitudes of his appeal to the jury of his countrymen, and

of his countrymen's subsequently handing him over to another jury

upon a fresh appeal. It began to flood the broad spaces at the

bottom of Parliament Street in far-off days when the case of

Tichborne v. Lushington was opened in the Sessions House, and it

continued without weariness or falling-off all through the progress

of the civil suit, beginning again with freshened zeal with the

commencement of the criminal trial.

Like the Severn, Palace Yard filled twice a day whilst the blue

brougham had its daily mission to perform, the crowd assembling in

the morning to welcome the coming Claimant, and foregathering in

the evening to speed him on his departure westward. It ranged in

numbers from 5000 down to 1000. Put the average at 3000, multiply

it by 291, the aggregate number of days which the Claimant was

before the Courts in his varied character of plaintiff and

defendant, and we have 873,000 as the total of the assemblage.

As a rule, the congregation of Monday was the largest of the week.

Why this should be, students of the manners of this notable crowd

were not agreed. Some held that the circumstance was to be accounted

for by the fact that two days had elapsed during which the Claimant

was not on view, and that on Monday the crowd came back, like a

giant refreshed, to the feast, which, by regular repetition, had

partially palled on Friday's appetite. Others found the desired

explanation in the habit which partly obtains among the labouring

classes of taking Monday as a second day of rest in the week, and

of devoting a portion of it to the duty of going down to Westminster

Hall to cheer "Sir Roger."

Probably both causes united to bring together the greater crowd of

Monday afternoons. It must not be supposed that the mob was composed

wholly or principally of what are called the working classes. When

an hon. member rose in the House of Commons, and complained of the

inconvenience occasioned to legislators by the "Tichborne crowd,"

another member observed that, relative numbers considered, the House

of Commons contributed as much to swell the throng as any other

section of the people. During the last months of the trial, if any

class predominated it was that which came from the provinces. The

Claimant was undoubtedly one of the sights of London and before his

greater attraction the traditional Monument which elsewhere--

"Lifts its tall head and like a bully lies,"

sank into absolute insignificance. Not to have seen the Claimant,

argued the London of the period unknown. Fashionably dressed ladies

and exquisitely attired gentlemen battled for front places upon the

pavement with sturdy agriculturists who had brought their wives and

daughters to see "Sir Roger," and who had not the slightest

intention of going back till they had accomplished their desire.

It came to pass that there were some two hundred faces in the crowd

familiar to the police as daily attendants at the four o'clock

festival in Palace Yard. Day after day, they came to feast their

eyes on the portly figure of "Sir Roger," and, having gazed their

fill, went away, to return again on the morrow. There was one aged

gentleman whose grey gaiters, long-tailed coat, and massive umbrella

were as familiar in Palace Yard as are the features on the clock-face

in the tower. He came up from somewhere in the country in the days

when Kenealy commenced his first speech, and, being a hale old man,

he survived long enough to be in the neighbourhood when the learned

gentleman had finished his second. At the outset, he was wont to

fight gallantly for a place of vantage in the ranks near the arch-way

of the Hall. Then, before the advances of younger and stouter

newcomers, he faded away into the background. Towards the end, he

wandered about outside the railings in Bridge Street, and, as the

clock struck four, got the umbrella as near as its natural

obstructiveness would permit to the carriage-gate whence the

Claimant's brougham was presently to issue.

At first the police authorities dealt with the assembly in the

ordinary manner, a more or less sufficient force being told off for

the duty of keeping the thoroughfare clear. It soon became manifest

that the Tichborne crowd, like everything else in connection with

the trial, required especial treatment, and accordingly a carefully

elaborated scheme was prepared. Superintendent Denning had under his

command, for the preservation of peace and order in Palace Yard and

the adjacent thoroughfares, not less than sixty men. One or two were

stationed in the justice-chamber itself, and must by the time the

verdict had been delivered have got pretty well up in the details of

the case. Others guarded the entrance-door; others lined the passage

into the yard, others were disposed about the yard itself; whilst,

after three o'clock, two strong companies stood in reserve in the

sheds that flank the entrance to the Hall. At half past three the

crowd began to assemble, building itself up upon the little nucleus

that had been hanging about all day. The favourite standpoint,

especially in the cold, uncertain winter weather that marked the

conclusion of the trial, was inside Westminster Hall, where the

people were massed on the far side of a temporary barricade which

the Tichborne case called into being, the railing of which was worn

black by the touch of the hands of the faithful.

Outside, in the yard, the crowd momentarily thickened till it formed

a dense lane, opening out from the front of the Hall, and turning to

the left down to the south carriage-gate. The railings in Bridge

Street and St. Margaret's Street were banked with people, and ranks

were formed on the pavement in front of the grass-plot. At a quarter

to four the policemen under the shed received the word of command,

and marched out into St. Margaret's Street, some filing off to take

charge of the gates, whilst the rest were drawn up on the pavement

opposite and at the corner of Bridge Street, with the mission of

preventing rushes after the Claimant's carriage as it drove through.

A few minutes later the distinguished vehicle itself--a plain,

dark-blue brougham, drawn by a finely bred bay mare--drove into the

yard, and, taking up its position a little on one side of the entrance

to the Hall, became the object of curious and respectful consideration.

As the great clock boomed four strokes, the doors of the Court opened,

and the privileged few who had been present at the day's proceedings

issued forth.

The excitement increased as the Court emptied, culminating when,

after a brief lull, the Claimant himself appeared, and waddled down

the living lane that marked the route to his carriage. There was

much cheering and a great amount of pocket-handkerchief waving,

which "Sir Roger" acknowledged by raising his hat and smiling that

"smile of peculiar sweetness and grace" which Dr. Kenealy brought

under the notice of the three judges and a special jury. As the

Claimant walked through the doorway, closely followed by the

Inspector, the policemen on guard suddenly closed the doors, and

the public within Westminster Hall found themselves netted and

hopelessly frustrated in what was evidently their intention of

rushing out and sharing the outside crowd's privilege of staring

at the Claimant, as he actually stepped into his carriage.

The outside throng in Palace Yard, meanwhile, made the most of

their special privilege, crowding round "Sir Roger" and cheering

in a manner that made the bay mare plunge and rear. With the least

possible delay, the Claimant is got into the brougham, the door is

banged to, and the bay mare is driven swiftly through the Yard, the

crowd closing in behind. But when they reach the gates, and essay

to pass and flood the streets beyond, where the gigantic umbrella

of the aged gentleman looms uplifted over the shoulders of the line

of police like the section of a windmill sail, the iron gates are

swung to, and this, the second and larger portion of the crowd, is

likewise safely trapped, and can gaze upon the retreating brougham

only through iron bars that, in this instance at least, "do make a

cage." There are not many people outside, for it is hard to catch

even a passing glimpse of the occupant of the carriage as it drives

swiftly westward to Pimlico, finally pulling up in a broad street of

a severely respectable appearance, not to be marred even by the near

contiguity of Millbank convict prison.

Here also is a crowd, though only a small one, and select to wit,

being composed chiefly of well-dressed ladies, forming part of a

band of pilgrims who daily walked up and down the street, waiting

and watching the outgoing and incoming of "Sir Roger." They are

rewarded by the polite upraising of "Sir Roger's" hat, and a further

diffusion of the sweet and gracious smile; and having seen the door

shut upon the portly form, and having watched the brougham drive

off, they, too, go their way, and the drama is over for the day.

But the crowd in and about Palace Yard have not accomplished their

mission when they have seen the blue brougham fade in the distance.

There is the "Doctor" to come yet, and all the cheering has to be

repeated, even with added volume of sound. When the Claimant has

got clear away, and the crowd have had a moment or two of

breathing-time, the "Doctor" walks forth from the counsels'

entrance, and is received with a burst of cheering and clapping

of hands, which, "just like Sir Roger", he acknowledges by raising

his hat, but, unlike him, permits no trace of a smile to illumine

his face. Without looking right or left, the "Doctor" walks

northward, raising his hat as he passes the caged and cheering

crowd in Palace Yard. With the same grave countenance, not moved in

the slightest degree by the comical effect of the big men in the

crowd at his heels waving their hats over his head, the "Doctor"

crosses Bridge Street, and walks into Parliament Street, as far as

the Treasury, where a cab is waiting. Into this he gets with much

deliberation, and, with a final waving of his hat, and always with

the same imperturbable countenance, is driven off, and Parliament

Street, subsiding from the turmoil in which the running, laughing,

shouting mob have temporarily thrown it, finds time to wonder

whether it would not have been more convenient for all concerned if

the "Doctor's" cab had picked him up at the door of Westminster Hall.

Slowly approached the end of this marvellous, and to a succeeding

generation almost incredible, and altogether inexplicable,

phenomenon. It came about noon, on Saturday, the final day of

February, 1874.

A few minutes before ten o'clock on that morning the familiar bay

mare and the well-known blue brougham--where are they now?--appeared

in sight, with a contingent of volunteer running footmen, who

cheered "Sir Roger" with unabated enthusiasm. As the carriage passed

through into the yard, a cordon of police promptly drew up behind it

across the gateway, and stopped the crowd that would have entered

with it. But inside there was, within reasonable limits, no

restraint upon the movements of the Claimant's admirers, who lustily

cheered, and wildly waved their hats, drowning in the greater sound

the hisses that came from a portion of the assemblage. The Claimant

looked many shades graver than in the days when Kenealy's speech

was in progress. Nevertheless, he smiled acknowledgment of the

reception, and repeatedly raised his hat. When he had passed in,

the throng in Palace Yard rapidly vanished, not more than a couple

of hundred remaining in a state of vague expectation. Westminster

Hall itself continued to be moderately full, a compact section of

the crowd that had secured places of vantage between the barricade

and the temporary telegraph station evidently being prepared to see

it out at whatever hour the end might come.

For the next hour there was scarcely any movement in the Hall, save

that occasioned by persons who lounged in, looked round, and either

ranged themselves in the ranks behind the policemen, or strolled

out again, holding to the generally prevalent belief that if they

returned at two o'clock they would still have sufficient hours to

wait. In the Yard a thin line extended from the side of the Hall

gateway backwards to the railings in St. Margaret's Street, with

another line drawn up across the far edge of the broad carriage-way

before the entrance. There was no ostentatious show of police, but

they had a way of silently filing out from under the sheds or out

of the Commons' gateway in proportion as the crowd thickened, which

conveyed the impression that there was a force somewhere about that

would prove sufficient to meet any emergency. As a matter of fact,

Mr. Superintendent Denning had under his command three hundred men,

who had marched down to Westminster Hall at six o'clock in the

morning, and were chiefly disposed in reserve, ready for action as

circumstances might dictate.

At half-past eleven, there being not more than three or four hundred

people in Palace Yard, a number of Press messengers, rushing

helter-skelter out of the court and into waiting cabs, indicated the

arrival of some critical juncture within the jealously guarded

portals. Presently it was whispered that the Lord Chief Justice had

finished his summing up, and that Mr. Justice Mellor was addressing

the jury. A buzz of conversation rose and fell in the Hall, and the

ranks drew closer up, waiting in silence the consummation that could

not now be far distant.

The news spread with surprising swiftness, not only in Palace Yard,

but throughout Bridge Street and St. Margaret's Street, and the

railings looking thence into the yard became gradually banked with

rows of earnest faces. Little groups formed on the pavement about

the corners of Parliament Street. Faces appeared at the windows of

the houses overlooking the Yard, and the whole locality assumed an

aspect of grave and anxious expectation. A few minutes after the

clock in the tower had slowly boomed forth twelve strokes it was

known in the Bail Court, where a dozen rapid hands were writing out

words the echo of which had scarcely died away in the inner court,

that the Judges had finished their task, and that the Jury had

retired to consider their verdict. It was known also in the lobbies,

where a throng of gowned and wigged barristers were assembled,

hanging on as the fringe of the densely packed audience that sat

behind the Claimant, and overflowed by the opened doorway. Thence

it reached the crowd outside, and after the first movement and hum

of conversation had subsided, a dead silence fell upon Westminster

Hall, and all eyes were fixed upon the door by which, at any moment,

messengers might issue with the word or words up to the utterance of

which by the Foreman of the Jury the great trial slowly dragged its

length.

Half an hour later the door burst open, and messengers came leaping

in breathless haste down the steps and across the Hall, shouting as

they ran,--

"Guilty! Guilty on all counts!" The words were taken up by the

crowd, and passed from mouth to mouth in voices scarcely above a

whisper. It was a flock of junior barristers, issuing from the

court, radiant and laughing, who brought the next news.

"Fourteen years! Fourteen years!" they called out.

This time the crowd in Westminster Hall took up the cry in louder

tones, and there was some attempt at cheering, but it did not

prevail. The less dense crowd in the Yard received the intelligence

without any demonstration and after a brief pause made off with one

consent for the judges' entrance in St. Margaret's Street, where,

peradventure, they might see the prisoner taken away, or at least

would catch a glimpse of the judges and counsel.

From this hour up to nearly four o'clock the crowd, in numbers far

exceeding those present at the first intimation of the verdict and

sentence, hung about St. Margaret's Street and Palace Yard waiting

for the coming forth of the prisoner, who had long ago been safely

lodged in Newgate. They did not know that as soon as the convict

was given in charge of the tipstaff of the court he was led away by

Inspector Denning, along a carefully planned and circuitous route

that entirely baffled the curiosity of the waiting crowd. Through the

Court of Exchequer the prisoner and his guards went, by the members'

private staircase, across the lobby, along the corridor, through the

smoking-room into the Commons Courtyard, where a plain police

omnibus was in waiting with an escort of eleven men. In this the

prisoner took his seat, and was driven through the Victoria Tower

gate en route for Newgate. He accompanied his custodians as quietly

as if they were conducting him to his brougham, and only once broke

the silence of the journey to Newgate.

"It's very hot," he said, as he panted along the passages of the

House of Commons, "and I am so fat."

CHAPTER V.

WITH PEGGOTTY AND HAM.

A careful survey of the map of Kent will disclose Lydd lying within

four miles of the coast, in the most southerly portion of the

promontory tipped by Dungeness. Lydd has now its own branch line

from Ashford, but when I first knew it the nearest point by rail on

one hand was Folkestone, and on the other Appledore. Between these

several points lies a devious road, sometimes picking its way

through the marshes, and occasionally breaking in upon a sinking

village, which it would probably be delightful to dwell in if it

did not lie so low, was not so damp, and did not furnish the

inhabitants with an opportunity for obtaining remarkably close

acquaintance with the symptoms of the ague. Few of the marsh towns

are more picturesque than Lydd, owing to the sturdy independence

shown by the architects of the houses, and to the persistent and

successful efforts made to avoid anything like a straight line in

the formation of the streets. The houses cluster "anyhow" round the

old church, and seem to have dropped accidentally down in all sorts

of odd nooks and corners. They face all ways, and stand at angles,

several going the length of turning their backs upon the streets and

placidly opening out from their front door into the nearest field.

In the main street, through which her Majesty's cart passes, and

along which all the posting is done, a serious attempt has made at

the production of something like an ordinary street. But even here

the approach to regularity is a failure, owing to some of the houses

along the line putting forth a porch, or blooming into a row of

utterly unnecessary pillars before the parlour windows. In short,

Lydd, being entirely out of the tracks of the world, cares little for

what other towns may do, and has just built its houses where and how

it pleased. Between Dungeness and Lydd there is an expanse of shingle

which makes the transit an arduous undertaking, and one not to be

accomplished easily without the aid of "backstays" (pronounced

"backster"), a simple contrivance somewhat upon the principle of

snowshoes. When the proneness to slip off the unaccustomed foot has

been overcome, backstays are not so awkward as they look. A couple of

flat pieces of inch-thick wood, four inches wide by six long, with a

loop of leather defectively fastened for the insertion of the foot

went to make up the pair of "backsters" by whose assistance I

succeeded in traversing two miles of rough, loose shingle that

separates the southern and eastern edge of Lydd marsh from the sea.

The lighthouse stands on the farthest point, jutting into the sea,

and has at the right of it West Bay, and on the left East Bay. A

signboard on the top of a pole stuck in the shingle, almost within

hail of the lighthouse, announces the proximity of "The Pilot." "The

Pilot" is a small shanty run up on the shingle, and possessed of

accommodation about equal in extent to that afforded by the

residence of the Peggottys. Reminiscences of the well-known abode on

the beach at Yarmouth are further favoured, as we draw nearer, by

the appearance of the son of the house, who comes lounging out in a

pilot-cloth suit, with a telescope under his arm, and a smile of

welcome upon his bright, honest face. This must be Ham, who we find

occupies the responsible position of signalman at this station, and

frequently has the current of his life stirred by the appearance of

strange sail upon the horizon. Peggotty, his father, is the proprietor

of "The Pilot," which hostelry drives a more or less extensive trade

in malt liquor with the eight men constituting the garrison of a

neighbouring fort, supplemented by such stray customers as wind and

tide may bring in.

I made the acquaintance of the Peggotty family and was made free of

the cabin many years ago, in the dark winter time when the Northfleet

went down off Dungeness, and over three hundred passengers were lost.

All the coast was then alive with expectancy of some moment finding

the sea crowded with the bodies of the drowned. The nine days during

which, according to all experience at Dungeness, the sea might hold

its dead were past, and at any moment the resurrection might

commence. But it never came, and other theories had to be broached

to explain the unprecedented circumstance. The most generally

acceptable, because the most absolutely irrefragable, was that the

dead men and women had been carried away by an under-current out

into the Atlantic, and for ever lost amid its wilds.

My old friend Peggotty tells me, in a quiet, matter-of-fact manner,

a story much more weird than this. He says that after we watchers

had left the scene, the divers got fairly to work and attained a

fair run of the ship. They found she lay broadside on to a bank of

sand, by the edge of which she had sunk till it overtopped her

decks. By the action of the tide the sand had drifted over the ship,

and had even at that early date commenced to bury her. The bodies

of the passengers were there by the hundred, all huddled together

on the lee-side.

"The divers could not see them," Peggotty adds, "for what with the

mud and sand the water is pretty thick down there. But they could

feel them well enough--an arm sticking out there, and a knee sticking

out here, and sometimes half a body clear of the silt, owing to lying

one over another. They could have got them all up easy enough, and

would, too, if they had been paid for it. They were told that they

were to have a pound apiece for all they brought up. They sent up

one, but there was no money for it, and no one particularly glad to

see it, and so they left them all there, snug enough as far as

burying goes. The diving turned out a poor affair altogether. The

cargo wasn't much good for bringing up, bein' chiefly railway iron,

spades, and such like. There were one or two sales at Dover of odd

stores they brought up, but it didn't fetch in much altogether, and

they soon gave up the job as a bad un."

The years have brought little change to this strange out-of-the-way

corner of the world, an additional wreck or two being scarcely a

noteworthy incident. The section of an old boat in which, with

fortuitous bits of building tacked on at odd times as necessity has

arisen, the Peggottys live is as brightly tarred as ever, and still

stoutly braves the gales in which many a fine ship has foundered

just outside the front door. One peculiarity of the otherwise

desirable residence is that, with the wind blowing either from the

eastward, westward, or southward, Mrs. Peggotty will never allow

the front door to be opened. As these quarters of the wind

comprehend a considerable stretch of possible weather, the

consequence is that the visitor approaching the house in the usual

manner is on eight days out of ten disturbed by the apparition of

Peggotty at the little look-out window, violently, and to the

stranger, mysteriously, beckoning him away to the northward,

apparently in the direction of the lighthouse.

This means, however, only that he is to go round by the back, and

the détour is not to be regretted, as it leads by Peggotty's garden,

which in its way is a marvel, a monument of indomitable struggle

with adverse circumstances. It is not a large plot of ground, and

perhaps looks unduly small by reason of being packed in by a high

paling, made of the staves of wrecked barrels and designed to keep

the sand and grit from blowing across it. But it is large enough

to produce a serviceable crop of potatoes, which, with peas and

beans galore occupy the centre beds, Peggotty indulging a weakness

for wallflowers and big red tulips on the narrow fringe of soil

running under the shadow of the palings. The peculiarity about the

garden is that every handful of soil that lies upon it has been

carried on Peggotty's back across the four-mile waste of shingle

that separates the sea-coast from Lydd. That is, perhaps, as severe

a test as could be applied to a man's predilection for a garden.

There are many people who like to have a bit of garden at the back

of their house. But how many would gratify their taste at the expense

of bringing the soil on their own backs, plodding on "backstays"

over four miles of loose shingle?

One important change has happened in this little household since I

last sat by its hearthstone. Ham is married, and is, in some

incomprehensible manner, understood to reside both at Lydd with

Mrs. Ham and at the cabin with his mother. As for Mrs. Peggotty,

she is as lively and as "managing" as ever--perhaps a trifle smaller

in appearance, and with her smooth clean face more than ever

suggestive of the idea of a pebble smoothed and shaped by the action

of the tide.

I find on chatting with Peggotty that the old gentleman's mind is in

somewhat of a chaotic state with respect to the wrecks that abound

in the bay. He has been here for forty-eight years, and the fact is,

in that time, he has seen so many wrecks that the timbers are, as it

were, floating in an indistinguishable mass through his mind, and

when he tries to recall events connected with them, the jib-boom of

"the Rhoda brig" gets mixed up with the rigging of "the Spendthrift,"

and "the Branch, a coal-loaded brig," that came to grief thirty years

ago, gets inextricably mixed up with the "Rooshian wessel." But,

looking with far-away gaze towards the Ness Lighthouse, and sweeping

slowly round as far east as New Romney, Peggotty can tot off a number

of wrecks, now to be seen at low water, which with others, the names

whereof he "can't just remember," bring the total past a score.

The first he sees on this side of the lighthouse is the Mary, a bit

of black hull that has been lying there for more than twenty years.

She was "bound somewheres in France," and running round the Ness,

looking for shelter in the bay, stuck fast in the sand, "and broke

up in less than no time." She was loaded with linseed and

millstones, which I suspect, from a slight tinge of sadness in

Peggotty's voice as he mentioned the circumstance, is not for people

living on the coast the best cargo which ships that will go down in

the bay might be loaded with. Indeed, I may remark that though

Peggotty, struggling with the recollections of nearly fifty years,

frequently fails to remember the name of the ship whose wreck shows

up through the sand, the nature of her cargo comes back to him with

singular freshness.

Near the Mary is another French ship, which had been brought to

anchor there in order that the captain might run ashore and visit

the ship's agent at Lydd. Whilst he was ashore a gale of wind came

on "easterdly"; ship drifted down on Ness Point, and knocked right

up on the shore, the crew scrambling out on to dry land as she went

to pieces. Another bit of wreck over there is all that is left of the

Westbourne, of Chichester, coal-laden. She was running for Ness Point

at night, and, getting too far in, struck where she lay, and all the

crew save one were drowned. Nearer is the Branch, also a coal-loaded

brig, a circumstance which suggests to Peggotty the parenthetical

remark that "at times there is a good deal of coal about the shingle."

A little more to the east is "the Rooshian wessel Nicholas I.," in

which Peggotty has a special interest so strong that he forgets to

mention what her cargo was. It is forty-six years since Nicholas I.

came to grief; and no other help being near, the whole of the crew

were saved through the instrumentality of Peggotty's dog. It was

broad daylight, with a sea running no boat could live in. The

"Rooshian" was rapidly breaking up, and the crew were shrieking in

an unknown tongue, the little group on shore well knowing that the

unfamiliar sound was a cry for help. Peggotty's Newfoundland dog was

there, barking with mad delight at the huge waves that came tumbling

on the shore, when it occurred to Peggotty that perhaps the dog

could swim out to the drowning men. So he signalled him off, and in

the dog went, gallantly buffeting the waves till it reached the ship.

The Russian sailors tied a piece of rope to a stick, put the stick in

the dog's mouth, and he, leaping overboard, carried it safely to

shore, and a line of communication being thus formed, every soul on

board was saved.

"They've got it in the school-books for the little children to

read," Peggotty says, permitting himself to indulge in the

slightest possible chuckle. I could not ascertain what particular

school-book was meant, because last winter, when another Russian

ship came ashore here and was totally wrecked, Peggotty presented

the captain with his only copy of the work as a souvenir of the

compulsory visit. But when we returned to the cabin, Mrs. Peggotty

brought down a faded, yellow, much-worn copy of the Kent Herald,

in which an account of the incident appears among other items of

the local news of the day.

Further eastward are the remains of a West Indiaman, loaded with

mahogany and turtles, the latter disappearing in a manner still a

marvel at Dungeness, whilst of the former a good deal of salvage

money was made. It is not far from this wreck that the Russian

last-mentioned came to grief. She met her fate in a peculiarly sad

manner. The Alliance, a tar-loaded vessel, drifting inwards before

a strong east wind, began to burn pitch barrels as a signal for

assistance. The Russian, thinking she was on fire, ran down to her

assistance, and took the ground close by. Both ships were totally

wrecked, and the crews saved with no other property save

the clothes they stood in.

Still glancing from Dungeness eastward, we see at every hundred

yards a black mass of timber, sometimes showing the full length of

a ship, oftener only a few jagged ribs marking where the carcase

lies deeply embedded. Each has its name and its history, and is a

memento of some terrible disaster in which strong ships have been

broken up as if they were built of cardboard, and through which

men and women have not always successfully struggled for life.

"We don't have so much loss of life in this bay as in the west bay

round the point," said Ham. "Here, you see, when there's been a

rumpus, the water quiets soon after, and the shipwrecked folk can

take to their boats; on the other side the water is rougher, and

there's less chance for them. There was one wreck here not long

since, though, when all hands were lost. It was a Danish ship that

came running down one stormy night, and run ashore there before

she could make the light. We saw her flash her flare-up lights,

and made ready to help her, but before we could get up she went to

pieces, and what is most singular, never since has a body been seen

from the wreck. Ah, sir, it's a bad spot. Often between Saturday

and Monday you'll see three fine ships all stranded together on this

beach. When there's a big wreck like the Northfleet over there,

everybody talks about it, and all the world knows full particulars.

But there's many and many a shipwreck here the newspapers never

notice, and hundreds of ships get on, and with luck get off, without

a word being said anywhere."

"There's mother signallin' the heggs and bakin is done," said

Peggotty, looking back at the cabin, where a white apron waved out

of one of the port-holes that served for window.

So we turned and left this haunted spot, where, with the ebbing

tide, twenty-three wrecks, one after the other, thrust forth a

rugged rib or a jagged spar to remind the passer-by of a tragedy.

CHAPTER VI.

TO THOSE ABOUT TO BECOME JOURNALISTS.

AN OPEN LETTER.

My dear young friends,__

I suppose no one not prominently engaged in journalism knows how

widely spread is the human conviction that, failing all else, any

one can "write for the papers," making a lucrative living on easy

terms, amid agreeable circumstances. I have often wondered how

Dickens, familiar as he was with this frailty, did not make use of

it in the closing epoch of Micawber's life before he quitted

England. Knowing what he did, as letters coming to light at this

day testify, it would seem to be the most natural thing in the

world that finally, nothing else having turned up, it should occur

to Dickens that Mr. Micawber would join the Press--probably as

editor, certainly on the editorial staff, possibly as dramatic

critic, a position which involves a free run of the theatres and a

more than nodding acquaintance with the dramatic stars of the day.

Perhaps Dickens avoided this episode because it was too literally

near the truth in the life of the person who, all unconsciously,

stood as the lay figure of David Copperfield's incomparable friend.

It is, I believe, not generally known that Charles Dickens's father

did in his last desolate days become a member of the Press. When

Dickens was made editor of the Daily News, he thoughtfully provided

for his father by installing him leader of the Parliamentary Corps

of that journal. The old gentleman, of course, knew nothing of

journalism, was not even capable of shorthand. Providentially he

was not required to take notes, but generally to overlook things,

a post which exactly suited Mr. Micawber. So he was inducted, and

filled the office even for a short time after his son had

impetuously vacated the editorial chair. Only the other day there

died an original member of the Daily News Parliamentary Corps, who

told me he quite well remembered his first respected leader, his

grandly vague conception of his duties, and his almost ducal manner

of not performing them.

Of the many letters that come to me with the assurance that I have

in my possession blank appointments on the editorial and reportorial

staff of all contemporary journals paying good salaries, the saddest

are those written by more than middle-aged men with families. Some

have for years been earning a precarious living as reporters or

sub-editors on obscure papers, and now find themselves adrift;

others are men who, having vainly knocked at all other gates, are

flushed by the happy thought that at least they can write

acceptably for the newspapers; others, again, already engaged in

daily work, are anxious to burn the midnight oil, and so add

something to a scanty income. These last are chiefly clergymen and

schoolmasters--educated men with a love of letters and the idea that,

since it is easy and pleasant to read, it must be easy to write, and

that in the immensity of newspapers and periodical literature there

would be not only room, but eager welcome for them.

This class of correspondents is curiously alike in one feature.

There is an almost sprightliness in their conviction that what they

can write in these circumstances would exactly suit any paper, daily

or weekly, morning or evening. All they have to do is to give up

their odd savings of time to the work; all you--their hapless

correspondent--have to do is to fill up one of those blank

appointments with which your desk is clogged, and send it to them

by first post.

There is no other profession in the world thus viewed by outsiders.

No one supposes he can make boots, cut clothes, or paint the outside

of a house without having served some sort of apprenticeship, not to

mention the possession of special aptitude. Any one can, right off--,

become a journalist. Such as these, and all those about to become

journalists, I would advise to study a book published several years

ago. It is the Life of James MacDonell, a name which, before this

book was published, was an idle sound to the outer world, though to

contemporary workers in the inner circle of the Press Macdonell was

known as one of the ablest and most brilliant of modern journalists.

In these short and simple annals, the aspirant who imagines the

successful journalist's life is all beer and skittles will discover

what patient study, what self-denial, what strenuous effort, and,

more essential than all, what rare natural gifts are needed to

achieve the position into which Macdonell toiled.

It is this last consideration that makes me doubt whether there is

any utility in offering practical hints "To Those about to become

Journalists." If a boy or youth has in him the journalistic faculty,

it will come out, whatever unpromising or adverse circumstances he

may be born to. If he has it not, he had very much better take to

joinering or carpentering, to clerking, or to the dispensation of

goods over the retail counter. Journalism is an honourable and,

for those specially adapted, a lucrative profession. But it is a

poor business for the man who has mistaken his way into it. The

very fact that it has such strong allurement for human nature makes

harder the struggle for life with those engaged in its pursuit. I

gather from facts brought under my personal notice that at the

present time there are, proportionately with its numbers, more

unemployed in the business of journalism than in any other, not

exceeding that of the dockers. When a vacancy occurs on any staff,

the rush to fill it is tremendous. Where no vacancy exists the

knocking at the doors is incessant. All the gates are thronged

with suitors, and the accommodation is exceedingly limited.

The first thing the youth who turns his face earnestly towards

journalism should convince himself of is, that the sole guiding

principle controlling admission to the Press or advance in its ranks

is merit. This, as your communications, my dear young friends, have

convinced me, is a statement in direct contravention of general

belief. You are convinced that it is all done by patronage, and that

if only some one in authority will interest himself in you, you

straightway enter upon a glorious career. There is, however, no

royal road to advancement on the Press. Proprietors and editors

simply could not afford it. Living as newspapers do in the fierce

light focussed from a million eyes, fighting daily with keen

competition, the instinct of self-preservation compels their

directors to engage the highest talent where it is discoverable,

and, failing that, the most sedulously nurtured skill. For this they

will pay almost anything; and they ask nothing more, neither

blood-relationship, social distinction, nor even academic training.

In journalism, more than in any other profession, not excepting the

Bar, a man gets on by his own effort, and only by that. Of course,

proprietors, and even editors, may, if the commercial prosperity of

their journal permit the self-indulgence, find salaried situations

for brothers, sons, or nephews or may oblige old friends in the

same direction. Charles Dickens, as we have seen, made his father

manager of the Parliamentary Corps of the Daily News. But that did

not make him a journalist, nor did he, after his son's severance of

his connection with the paper, long retain the post.

This line of reflection is, I am afraid, not encouraging to you, my

dear young friends; but it leads up to one fact in which I trust

you will be justified in finding ground for hope. Amongst the crowd

struggling to obtain a footing within the pale of journalism, the

reiterated rebuffs they meet with naturally lead to the conviction

that it is a sort of close borough, those already in possession

jealously resenting the efforts of outsiders to breach its sacred

portals. Nothing could be further removed from the fact. A nugget of

gold is not more pleasing to the sight of the anxious miner than is

the discovery by the editor or manager of a newspaper of a new light

in the world of journalism. This I put in the forefront of friendly

words of advice to those about to enter journalism. Get rid of the

fatal idea that some one will open the door for you and land you

safely inside. You must force the door yourself with incessant

knocking if need be, prepared for searching inquiry as to your right

to enter, but certain of a hearty welcome and fraternal assistance

when you have proved your right.

As an ounce of example is worth a ton of precept, I may perhaps

mention that in a journalistic career now extending over just

twenty-five years, I never but once received anything in the way of

patronage, and that was extended at the very outset only after a

severe test of the grounds upon which recommendation could be made.

My parents, in their wisdom, destined me for a commercial career.

If I had followed the bent given me when I left school, I should

now have been a very indifferent clerk in the hide and valonia

business. But like you, my dear young friends, I felt that my true

vocation was journalism, and I determined to be a journalist.

I will tell you exactly how I did it. Like you, I meant to be an

editor some day, but also, I trust, like you, I felt that it would

be convenient, if not necessary to start by being a reporter. So I

began to study shorthand, teaching myself by Pitman's system. When,

after infinite pains, I had mastered this mystery, I began to look

out for an opening on the Press. I had no friends in journalism, not

the remotest acquaintance. I made the tour of the newspaper offices

in the town where I lived, was more or less courteously received,

and uniformly assured that there was no opening. One exception was

made by a dear friend whose name is to-day known and honoured

throughout Great Britain, who was then the young assistant-editor of

a local daily paper. He gave me some trial work to do, and was so

far satisfied that he promised me the first vacancy on the junior

staff of reporters.

That was excellent, but I did not sit down waiting till fortune

dropped the promised plum into my mouth. I got at all the newspapers

within reach, searched for advertisements for reporters, answered

them day after day, week after week, even month after month,

without response. At last a cautious inquiry came. The reply was

deemed satisfactory, and I got my chance.

This, dear young friends, is the short and simple annal of my start

in journalism, and you will see that the pathway is equally open to

you.

CHAPTER VII.

A CINQUE PORT.

Skulls piled roof high in the vault beneath the church tower supply

the only show thing Hythe possesses. There is some doubt as to their

precise nationality, but of their existence there can be none, as any

visitor to the town may see for himself on payment of sixpence

(parties of three or more eighteenpence). It is known how within a

time to which memory distinctly goes the skulls were found down upon

the beach, whole piles of them, thick as shingle on this coast. The

explanation of their tenancy of British ground is popularly referred

to the time, now nearly nine hundred years gone by, when Earl Godwin,

being exiled, made a raid on this conveniently accessible part of

England, and after a hard fight captured all the vessels lying in

the haven. Others find in the peculiar formation of the crania proof

positive that the skulls originally came from Denmark.

But Saxon or Dane, or whatever they be, it is certain the skulls

were picked up on the beach, and after an interval were, with some

dim notion of decency, carried up to the church, where they lay

neglected in a vault. The church also going to decay, the

determination was taken to rebuild it, and being sorely pressed for

funds a happy thought occurred to a practical vicar. He had the

skulls piled up wall-like in an accessible chamber, caused the

passages to be swept and garnished, and then put on the impost

mentioned above, the receipts helping to liquidate the debt on

the building fund. Thus, by a strange irony of fate, after eight

centuries, all that is left of these heathens brings in sixpences

to build up a Christian church.

A good deal has happened in Hythe since the skulls first began to

bleach on the inhospitable shore. When Earl Godwin suddenly

appeared with his helm hard up for Hythe, the little town on the

hill faced one of the best havens on the coast. It was, as every

one knows, one of the Cinque Ports, and at the time of the

Conqueror undertook to furnish, as its quota of armament, five

ships, one hundred and five men, and five boys. Even in the time

of Elizabeth there was a fair harbour here. But long ago the sea

changed all that. It occupied itself in its leisure moments by

bringing up illimitable shingle, with which it filled up all water

ways, and cut Hythe off from communication with the sea as

completely as if it were Canterbury.

It is not without a feeling of humiliation that a burgess of the

once proud port of Hythe can watch the process of the occasional

importation of household coal. Where Earl Godwin swooped down over

twenty fathoms of water the little collier now painfully picks her

way at high water. On shore stand the mariners of Hythe (in number

four), manning the capstan. When the collier gets within a certain

distance a hawser is thrown out, the capstan turns more or less

merrily round, and the collier is beached, so that at low water

she will stand high and dry.

Thus ignominiously is coal landed at one of the Cinque Ports.

Of course this change in the water approaches has altogether

revolutionised the character of the place. Hythe is a port without

imports or exports, a harbour in which nothing takes refuge but

shingle. It has not even fishing boats, for lack of place to moor

them in. It is on the greatest water highway of the world, and yet

has no part in its traffic. Standing on the beach you may see day

after day a never-ending fleet of ships sailing up or down as the

wind blows east or west. But, like the Levite in the parable, they

all pass by on the other side. Hythe has nothing to do but to stand

on the beach with its hands in its pockets and lazily watch them.

Thus cut off from the world by sea, and by land leading nowhere in

particular except to Romney Marshes, Hythe has preserved in an

unusual degree the flavour of our earlier English world. There have

indeed been times when endeavour was made to profit by this

isolation. As one of the Cinque Ports Hythe has since Parliaments

first sat had the privilege of returning representatives. In the

time of James II. it seems to have occurred to the Mayor (an

ancestor of one of the members for West Kent in a recent

Parliament), that since a member had to be returned to Parliament

much trouble would be saved, and no one in London would be any the

wiser, if he quietly, in his capacity as returning officer,

returned himself. But some envious Radical setting on the opposite

benches, was too sharp for him, and we find the sequel of the story

set forth in the Journals of the House of Commons under date 1685,

where it is written--

"Information given that the Mayor of Hythe had returned himself:

Resolved by the House of Commons that Mr. Julius Deedes, the Mayor,

is not duly elected. New writ ordered in his stead."

Hythe is a little better known now, but not much. And yet for many

reasons its acquaintance is worth forming. The town itself, lying

snugly at the foot of the hill crowned by the old church, is full

of those bits of colour and quaintnesses of wall and gable-end

which good people cross the Channel to see. In the High-street there

is a building the like of which probably does not anywhere exist. It

is now a fish-shop, not too well stocked, where a few dried herrings

hang on a string under massive eaves that have seen the birth and

death of centuries. From the centre of the roof there rises a sort

of watch-tower, whence, before the houses on the more modern side of

the street were built, when the sea swept over what is now

meadow-land, keen eyes could scan the bay on the look out for

inconvenient visitors connected with the coastguard. When the sea

prevented Hythe honestly earning its living in deep-keeled boats, it

perforce took to smuggling, a business in which this old watch-tower

played a prominent part.

This is a special though neglected bit of house architecture in

Hythe. But everywhere, save in the quarters by the railway station

or the Parade, where new residences are beginning to spring up, the

eye is charmed by old brown houses roofed with red tiles, often

standing tree-shaded in a bountiful flower garden, and always

preserving their own lines of frontage and their own angle of gable,

with delightful indifference to the geometric scale of their

neighbour.

The South-Eastern Railway Company have laid their iron hand on

Hythe, and its old-world stillness is already on Bank Holidays and

other bleak periods of the passing year broken by the babble of

the excursionist. In its characteristically quiet way Hythe has

long been known as what is called a watering-place. When I first

knew it, it had a Parade, on which were built eight or ten houses,

whither in the season came quiet families, with children and

nurses. For a few weeks they gave to the sea frontage quite a

lively appearance, which the mariners (when they were not manning

the capstan) contemplated with complacency, and said to each other

that Hythe was "looking up." For the convenience of these visitors

some enterprising person embarked on the purchase of three bathing

machines, and there are traditions of times when these were all in

use at the same hour--so great was the influx of visitors.

Also there is a "bathing establishment" built a long way after

the model of the Pavilion at Brighton. The peculiarity of this

bathing establishment is or was when I first knew the charming

place that regularly at the end of September the pump gets out of

order, and the new year is far advanced before the solitary plumber

of the place gets it put right. He begins to walk dreamily round

the place at Easter. At Whitsuntide he brings down an iron vessel

containing unmelted solder, and early in July the pump is mended.

This mending of the pump is one of the epochs of Hythe, a sure

harbinger of the approaching season. In July "The Families" begin

to come down, and the same people come every year, for visitors to

Hythe share in the privilege of the inhabitants, inasmuch as they

never--or hardly ever--die. Of late years, since the indefatigable

Town Clerk has succeeded in waking up the inhabitants to the

possibilities of the great future that lies before their town, not

only has a new system of drainage and water been introduced, but a

register has been kept of the death-rate. From a return, published

by the Medical Officer of Health, it appears that the death-rate of

Hythe was 9.3 per 1000. Of sixty-three people who died in a year out

of a population of some four thousand, twenty-three were upwards of

sixty years of age, many of them over eighty. Perhaps the best

proof of the healthfulness of Hythe is to be found in a stroll

through the churchyard, whence it would appear that only very

young children or very old people are carried up the hill.

The difficulty about Hythe up to recent times has been the

comparative absence of accommodation for visitors. Its fame has

been slowly growing as The Families have spread it within their

own circles. But it was no use for strangers to go to Hythe, since

they could not be taken in. This is slowly changing. Eligible

building sites are offered, villas have been run up along the

Sandgate Road, and an hotel has been built by the margin of the

sea. When news reached the tower of the church that down on the

beach there had risen a handsome hotel, fitted with all the

luxuries of modern life, it is no wonder that the skulls turned

on each other and--as Longfellow in the "Skeleton in Armour" puts

it--

"Then from those cavernous eyes

Pale flashes seem to rise,

As when the northern skies

Gleam In December."

This is surely the beginning of the end. Having been endowed with a

railway which brings passengers down from London in a little over

two hours, Hythe is now dowered with an hotel in which they may dine

and sleep. The existence of the hotel being necessarily admitted,

prejudice must not prevent the further admission that it is

exceedingly well done. Architecturally it is a curiosity, seeing

that though it presents a stately and substantial front neither

stone nor brick enters into its composition. It is made entirely

of shingle mixed with mortar, the whole forming a concrete

substance as durable as granite. The first pebble of the new hotel

was laid quite a respectable number of years ago, the ceremony

furnishing an almost dangerous flux of excitement to the mariners

at the capstan. It has grown up slowly, as becomes an undertaking

connected with Hythe. But it is finished now, handsome without,

comfortable within, with views from the front stretching seawards

from Dungeness to Folkestone, and at the back across green pastures,

glimpses are caught through the trees of the red-tiled town.

Now that suitable accommodation is provided for stray visitors,

Hythe, with its clean beach, its parade that will presently join

hands with Sandgate, its excellent bathing, and its bracing air,

may look to take high rank among watering places suburban to

London. But there are greater charms even than these in the

immediate neighbourhood. With some knowledge of English watering

places, I solemnly declare that none is set in a country of such

beauty as is spread behind Hythe. Unlike the neighbourhood of

most watering places, the country immediately at the back of the

town is hilly and well wooded. Long shady roads lead past blooming

gardens or through rich farms, till they end in some sleepy village

or hamlet, the world forgetting, by the world forgot. In late July

the country is perfect in its loveliness. The fields and woods are

not so flowery as in May, though by way of compensation the gardens

are rich in roses. Still there are sufficient wild flowers to

gladden the eye wherever it turns. From the hedgerows big white

convolvulus stare with wonder-wide eyes, the honeysuckle is out,

the wild geranium blooms in the long grass, the blackberry bushes

are in full flower, and the poppies blaze forth in great clusters

at every turn of the road. The corn is only just beginning to turn

a faint yellow, but the haymakers are at work, and every breath of

the joyous wind carries the sweet scent of hay.

CHAPTER VIII.

OYSTERS AND ARCACHON.

If the name had not been appropriated elsewhere, Arcachon might

well be called the Salt Lake City. It lies on the south shore of

a basin sixty-eight miles in circumference, into which, through a

narrow opening, the Bay of Biscay rolls its illimitable waters.

Little more than thirty years ago the town was represented by half

a dozen huts inhabited by fishermen. It was a terribly lonely place,

with the smooth lake in front of it, the Atlantic thundering on the

dunes beyond, and in the rear the melancholy desert of sand known as

the Landes.

The Landes is peopled by a strange race, of whom the traveller

speeding along the railway to-day may catch occasional glimpses.

Early in the century the department was literally a sandy plain,

about as productive as Sahara, and in the summer time nearly as hot.

But folks must live, and they exist on the Landes, picking up a

scanty living, and occasionally dying for lack of water. One initial

difficulty in the way of getting along in the Landes is the sheer

impossibility of walking. When the early settler left his hut to pay

a morning call or walk about his daily duties, he sank ankle deep in

sand.

But the human mind invariably rises superior to difficulties of this

character.

What the "backstay" is to the inhabitant of the district around Lydd,

the stilts are to the lonely dwellers in the Landes. The peasants of

the department are not exactly born on stilts, but a child learns to

walk on them about the age that his British brother is beginning to

toddle on foot.

Stilts have the elementary recommendation of overcoming the difficulty

of moving about in the Landes. In addition, they raise a man to a

commanding altitude, and enable him to go about his daily business at

a pace forbidden to ordinary pedestrians. The stilts are, in truth,

a modern realisation of the gift of the seven-league boots. They are

so much a part of the daily life of the people that, except when he

stoops his head to enter his hut, the peasant of the Landes would as

soon think of taking off his legs by way of resting himself as of

removing his stilts. The shepherds, out all day tending their sheep,

might, if they pleased, stretch themselves at full length on the grey

sand, making a pillow of the low bushes. But they prefer to stand;

and you may see them, reclining against a third pole stuck in the

ground at the rear, contentedly knitting stockings, keeping the while

one eye upon the flock of sheep anxiously nibbling at the meagre grass.

Next to the shepherds, the most remarkable live stock in the Landes

are the sheep. Such a melancholy careworn flock! poor relations of

the plump Southdown that grazes on fat Sussex wolds. Long-legged,

scraggy-necked, anxious-eyed, the sheep of the Landes bear eloquent

testimony to the penury of the place and the difficulty of making both

ends meet--which in their case implies the burrowing of the nose in

tufts of sand-girt grass. To abide among such sheep through the long

day should be enough to make any man melancholy. But the peasant of

the Landes, who is used to his stilts, also grows accustomed to his

sheep, and they all live together more or less happily ever afterwards.

The Landes is quite a prosperous province to-day compared with what it

was in the time of Louis XVI. During the First Empire there was what

we would call a Minister of Woods and Forests named Bremontier. He

looked over the Landes and found it to be nothing more than a waste of

shifting sand. Rescued from the sea by a mere freak of nature, it might,

for all practical purposes, have been much more usefully employed if

covered a few fathoms deep with salt water. To M. Bremontier came the

happy idea of planting the waste land with fir trees. Nothing else

would grow, the fir tree might. And it did. To-day the vast extent of

the Landes is almost entirely covered with dark forests in perpetual

verdure.

These have transformed the district, adding not only to the improvement

of its sanitary condition, but creating a new source of wealth. Out of

the boundless vistas of fir trees there ever flows a constant stream of

resin, which brings in large revenues. Passing through the forest by

the railway line from La Mothe to Arcachon, one sees every tree marked

with a deep cut. It looks as if the woodman had been about, picking out

trees ready for the axe, and had come to the conclusion that they might

be cut down en bloc. But these marks are indications of the process

of milking the forests. It is a very simple affair, to which mankind

contributes a mere trifle. In order to get at the resin a piece of bark

is cut off from each tree. Out of the wound the resin flows, falling

into a hole dug in the ground at the roots. When this is full it is

emptied into cans and carried off to the big reservoir: when one wound

in the tree is healed another is cut above it, and so the tree is

finally drained.

Besides this revenue from resin immense sums are obtained from the sale

of timber; and thus the Landes, which a hundred years ago seemed to be

an inconvenient freak of nature afflicting complaining France, has been

turned into a money-yielding department.

The firs which fringe the seacoast by the long strip of land that lies

between the mouth of the Gironde and the town of Bayonne have much to

do with the prosperity of Arcachon. The salt lake, with its little

cluster of fishermen's cottages, lies within a couple of hours'

journey by rail from Bordeaux, a toiling, prosperous place, which,

seated on the broad Garonne, longed for the sea. Some one discovered

that there was excellent bathing at Arcachon, the bed of the salt

lake sloping gently upwards in smooth and level sands. Then the doctors

took note of the beneficial effects of the fir trees which environed

the place. The aromatic scent they distilled was declared to be good

for weak chests, and, almost by magic, Arcachon began to grow.

By swift degrees the little cluster of fishermen's cottages spread till

it became a town--of one street truly, but the street is a mile and a

half long, skirting the seashore and backed by the fir forests. Bordeaux

took Arcachon by storm. A railway was made, and all through the summer

months the population poured into the long street, filling it beyond

all moderate notions of capacity. The rush came so soon, and Arcachon

was built in such a hurry, that the houses have a casual appearance,

recalling the towns one comes upon in the Far West of America, which

yesterday were villages, and to-day have a town-hall, a bank, many

grog-shops, a church or two, and four or five daily newspapers.

A vast number of the dwellings are of the proportion of pill-boxes. Some

are literally composed of two closets, one called a bedroom and the

other a sitting-room; or, oftener still, both used as bedrooms. Others

are built in terraces a storey high and a few feet wide, with the name

of the proprietor painted over the liliputian trap-door that serves for

entrance hall. The idea is that you live at ease and in comfort at

Bordeaux, and just run down to Arcachon for a bath. There are no

bathing machines or tents; but all along the shore, in supplement of the

liliputian houses that serve a double debt to pay--being residences at

night and bathing-machines by day,--stand rows of sentry-boxes, whence

the bather emerges arrayed in more or less bewitching attire. The water

is very shallow, and enterprising persons of either sex spend hours of

the summer day in paddling about in their bathing costumes.

It is a pretty, lively scene. For background the long straggling town;

in the foreground the motley groups of bathers, the far-reaching smooth

surface of the lake; and, beyond, the broad Atlantic, thundering

impotently upon the barricade of sandhills that makes possible the

peace of Arcachon.

Like all watering-places, Arcachon lives two lives. In summer-time it

springs into active bustle, with house-room at a premium, and the shops

and streets filled with a gay crowd. It affects to have a winter season,

and is, indeed, ostentatiously divided into two localities, one called

the winter-town and the other the summer-town. The former is situated

on the higher ground at the back of the town, and consists of villa

residences built on plots reclaimed from the fir forest.

This is well enough in the winter-time, many English people flocking

thither attracted by the shelter and scent of the fir trees; but

Arcachon itself--the long unlovely street--is in the winter months

steeped in the depths of desolation. The shops are deserted, the

pill-boxes have their lids put on, and everywhere forlorn signs hang

forth announcing that here is a maison or an appartement à louer.

All through the winter months, shut up between sea and sand, Arcachon

is A Town to Let.

Deprived in the winter months of the flock of holiday makers, Arcachon

makes money in quite another way. Just as suddenly as it bloomed forth

a fashionable watering-place, it has grown into an oyster park of

world-wide renown. Last year the Arcachon oyster beds produced not

less than three hundred million oysters, the cultivators taking in

round figures a million francs. The oysters are distributed through

various markets, but the greatest customer is London, whither there

come every year fifty millions of the dainty bivalve.

"And what do they call your oysters in London?" I asked M. Faure, the

energetic gentleman who has established this new trade between the

Gironde and the Thames.

"They call them 'Natives'," he said, with a sly twinkle.

The Arcachon oyster, if properly packed, can live eight days out of the

water, a period more than sufficient to allow for its transit by the

weekly steamers that trade between Bordeaux and London. A vast quantity

go to Marenne in the Charente lnferieure, where they fatten more

successfully than in the salt lake, and acquire that green colour which

makes them so much esteemed and so costly in the restaurants at Paris.

Oysters have, probably since the time of the Deluge, congregated in the

Basin d'Arcachon; but it is only within the last thirty years the

industry has been developed and placed on a footing that made possible

the growth of today. Up to the year 1860 oysters were left to their own

sweet will in the matter of creating a bed. When they settled upon a

place it was diligently cultivated, but the lead was absolutely left to

the oyster. Dr. Lalanne, in the intervals of a large medical practice at

La Teste, a little place on the margin of the Basin, observed that

oysters were often found attached to a piece of a wreck floating in the

middle of the water far remote from the beds.

This led him to study more closely the reproductive habits of the

oyster. He discovered that the eggs after incubation remained suspended

in the water for a space of from three to five days. Thus, for some

time after the frai season, practically the whole of the water in the

Basin d'Arcachon was thick with oysters' eggs. Dr. Lalanne conceived

the idea of providing this vast wealth with other means of establishing

itself than were offered by a casual piece of wreck. What was wanted

was something to which the eggs, floating in the water, could attach

themselves, and remain till they were developed beyond the state of

ova. After various experiments Dr. Lalanne adapted to the purpose the

hollow roof tile in use everywhere in the South of France.

These are laid in blocks, each containing one hundred and twelve tiles,

enclosed in a wooden framework. In June, when the oysters lay their

eggs, these blocks of tiles are dropped into the water by the oyster

beds. The eggs floating about, find the crusty surface of the tiles a

convenient resting-place, and attach themselves by millions. Six months

later the tiles, being examined, are found to be covered by oysters

grown to the size of a silver sixpence. The tiles are taken up and the

little oysters scraped off, a process facilitated by the fact that the

tiles have in the first instance been coated with a solution of lime,

which rubs off, carrying the tender oyster with it.

The infant oysters are next placed in iron network cases, through which

the water freely passes, whilst the young things are protected from

crabs and other natural enemies. At the end of a year or eighteen

months, they have so far grown as to be trusted out on their own

account. They are accordingly strewn on the broad oyster beds, to fatten

for another year or eighteen months, when they are ready for the waiting

gourmet. Your oyster is fit to eat at eighteen months of age; but there

is more of it when it is three years old.

We sailed out from Arcachon across the lake to the oyster park. Here

the water is so shallow that the men who tend the beds walk about them

in waterproof boots coming up to their knees. This part of the bay is

dotted with boats with white canopies. Seen at anchor from Arcachon

they look like boats laid up for the winter season; but every one is

tenanted night and day. They are the homes of the guardians of the

oyster beds, who keep watch and ward through the long winter.

Even more disastrous than possible visits from a male poacher are the

incursions of a large flat sea-fish, known at Arcachon as the thére,

with us the ray. This gentleman has a colossal appetite for oysters.

Scorning to deal with them by the dozen, he devours them by the

thousand, asking neither for the succulent lemon nor the grosser

addition of Chili vinegar. His action with the oyster is exceedingly

summary. He breaks the shell with a vigorous blow of his tail, and

gobbles up the contents. As it is stated by reputable authorities

that the thére can dispose of 100,000 oysters in a day, it is clear

that the tapping must be pretty persistent.

This selfish brute, regardless of the fact that we pay a minimum three

shillings a dozen for oysters in London, is happily circumvented by

an exceedingly simple device. Rowing about the oyster beds at Arcachon

one notices that they are fringed with small twigs of fir trees. The

natural supposition is that these are to mark the boundary of the

various oyster beds; but it is in truth designed to keep out the

thére. This blundering fish, bearing down on the oyster bed in search

of luncheon, comes upon the palisade of loosely planted twigs. Nothing

in the world would be easier than for him to steer between the openings,

of which there are abundance. But though he has stomach enough for a

hundred thousand oysters, he has not brains enough to understand that

by a little manoeuvring he might get at his meal. Repelled by the open

network of twigs, he swims forlornly round and round the beds, so near

and yet so far, with what anguish of heart only the lover of oysters

can fathom.

The oyster beds at Arcachon belong to the State, and are leased to

private persons, the leading company, which has created the British

trade, having its headquarters at La Teste. The wholesale price of

oysters at Arcachon is from a sovereign to forty shillings a thousand,

according to size. In the long street they sell retail at from twopence

to eightpence a dozen, thus realising what seems to-day the hopeless

dream of the British oyster-eater.

CHAPTER IX.

CHRISTMAS EVE AT WATTS'S.

Wandering out of the High Street, Rochester, on the afternoon before

Christmas Day, by a narrow passage to the left I came upon the old

Cathedral. The doors were open, and as they were the only doors in

Rochester open to me, except, perhaps, those of the tramp house at the

Union, I entered, and sat down as near as befitted my condition. The

afternoon service was going on, and even to tired limbs and an empty

stomach it was restful and soothing to hear the sweet voices of the

surpliced choristers, and the grand deep tones of the organ, echoing

through the fretted roof, and rolling round the long pillared aisles.

There were not ten people there besides myself, the clergy and the choir

forming the bulk of the assembly. As soon as the service had been gone

through, the clergy and the choir filed out, and the lay people one by

one departed.

I should have liked to sit where I was all night. It was at least warm

and sheltered, and I have slept on worse beds than may be made of half

a dozen Cathedral chairs. But presently the verger came round, and

perceiving at a glance that I was not a person likely to possess a

superfluous sixpence, asked me if I was going to sit there all night.

I said I was if he didn't mind; but he did, and there was nothing for

it but to clear out.

"Haven't you got nowhere to go to?" asked the man, as I moved slowly

off.

"Nowhere in particular," I answered.

"That's a bad look-out for Christmas-eve. Why don't you go over to

Watts's?"

"What's Watts's?"

"It's a house in High Street, where you'll get a good supper, a bed,

and a fourpenny-bit in the morning if you can show you'em an honest man,

and not a regular tramp. There's old Watts's muniment down by the side

of the choir. A reglar brick he was, who not only wrote beautiful hymns,

but gave away his money for the relief of the pore."

My heart warmed to the good old Doctor whose hymns I had learnt in

my youth, little thinking that the day would come when I should be

thankful to him for more substantial nourishment. I had intended to

go in the ordinary way to get a night's lodging in the casual ward;

but Watts's was evidently a better game, and getting from the verger

minute directions how to proceed in order to gain admittance to

Watts's, I left the Cathedral.

The verger was not a bad-hearted fellow, I am sure, though he did speak

roughly to me at first. He seemed struck with the fact that a man not

too well clad, who had nowhere particular to sleep on the eve of

Christmas Day, could scarcely be expected to be "merry." All the time

he was talking about Watts's he was fumbling in his waistcoat pocket,

and I know he was feeling if he had there a threepenny-bit. But if he

had, it didn't come immediately handy, and before he got hold of it

the thought of the sufficient provision which awaited me at Watts's

afforded vicarious satisfaction to his charitable feelings, and he

was content with bidding me a kindly good-night, as he pointed my road

down the lane to the police-office, where, it seemed, Dr. Watts's guests

had to put in a preliminary appearance.

Crossing High Street, passing through a sort of courtyard, and down some

steps, I reached a snug-looking house, which I had some difficulty in

believing was a police-office. But it was, and the first thing I saw was

seven men lounging about the yard. They didn't seem like regular tramps,

but they had a look as if they had walked far, and each man carried a

little bundle and a stick. The verger had told me that only six men per

night were admitted to Watts's, and there were seven already.

"Are you for Watts's?" one of them, a little, sharp-looking fellow, with

short light hair pasted down over his forehead, asked me, seeing me

hesitate.

"Yes."

"Well, it ain't no go to-night. There's seven here, and fust come,

fust served."

"Don't believe him, young 'un," said an elderly man, "it's all one what

time you come, so as it's afore half-past five you'll take your chance

with the rest of us."

It was not yet five, so I loafed about with the rest of them, being

scowled upon by all except the elderly man till the arrival of two other

travellers removed to them the weight of the odium I had lightly borne.

At a quarter to six a police-sergeant appeared at the door of the office

and said:

"Now then."

This was generally interpreted as a signal to advance, and we stood

forward in an irregular line. The sergeant looked around us sternly

till his eye lighted upon the elderly man.

"So you're trying it on again, are you?"

"I've not been here for two months, if I may never sleep in a bed

again," whimpered the elderly man.

"You was here last Monday week that I know of, and may be since. Off you

go!" and the elderly gentleman went off with an alacrity that rather

reduced the wonderment I had felt at his disinterested intervention to

prevent my losing a chance, suggesting, as it did, that he felt the

probability of gaining admission was exceedingly remote.

I was the next upon whom the eye of the police-sergeant loweringly fell.

"What do you want?"

"A night's lodging at Watts's."

"Watts's is for decent workmen on the tramp. You ain't a labourer. Show

me your hands." I held out my hands, and the police-sergeant examined

the palms critically.

"What are you?"

"A paper stainer."

"Where have you been to?"

"I came from Canterbury last."

"Where do you work?"

"In London when I can find work."

"Where are you going now?"

"To London."

"How much money have you got?"

"Three-halfpence."

"Humph!"

I don't know whether a murder had recently been committed in Kent, and

whether I in some degree answered to the description of the supposed

murderer. If it were so, the unfortunate circumstance will explain why

the sergeant should have run me through and through with his eyes whilst

propounding these queries, and why he should have made them in such a

gruff voice. However, he seemed to have finally arrived at the

conclusion that I was not the person wanted for the murder, and after a

brief pause he said, "Go inside."

I went inside, into one of the snuggest little police-offices I have

seen in the course of some tramping, and took the liberty of warming

myself by the cosy fire, whilst the remaining applicants for admission

to Watts's were being put through a sort of minor catechism such as that

I had survived. Presently the sergeant came in with the selected five of

my yard companions, and, taking us one by one, entered in a book, under

the date "24th December," our several names, ages, birthplaces and

occupations, also the names of the last place we had come from, and the

next whither we were going. Then, taking up a scrap of blue paper with

some printed words on it, and filling in figures, a date, and a

signature, he bade us follow him.

Out of the snug police-office--which put utterly in the shade the

comforts of the cathedral regarded as a sleeping place--across the

courtyard, which somebody said faced the Sessions House, down High

Street to the left till we stopped before an old-fashioned white house

with a projecting lamp lit above the doorway, shining full on an

inscription graven in stone. I read it then and copied it when I left

the house next morning. It ran thus:--

RICHARD WATTS, Esqr.

by his will dated 22 Aug., 1579,

founded this charity

for six poor travellers,

who not being Rogues, or Proctors,

may receive gratis, for one Night,

Lodging, Entertainment,

and four pence each.

In testimony of his Munificence,

in honour of his Memory,

and inducement to his Example,

Nathl. Hood, Esq., the present Mayor,

has caused this stone,

gratefully to be renewed,

and inscribed,

A.D. 1771.

It was not Dr. Watts, then, as the verger had given me to understand. I

was sorry, for it had seemed like going to the house of an old friend,

and I had meant after supper to recite "How doth the little Busy Bee"

for the edification of my fellow-guests, and to tell them what I had

learnt long ago of the good writer's life and labours.

"Here we are again, Mrs. Kercham," said our conductor, stepping into the

low hall of the white house.

"Yes, here you are again," replied an old lady, dressed in black, and

wearing a widow's cap. "Have you got 'em all to-night?"

"Yes, six--all tidy men. Can you write, Mr. Paper Stainer?"

I could write, and did, setting forth, in a book which lay on a table in

a room labelled "Office," my name, age, occupation, and the town whence

I had last come. Three of the other guests followed my example. Two

could not write; and the sergeant, paying me a compliment on my

beautiful clerkly handwriting, asked me to fill in the particulars for

them. This ceremony over, we were shown into our bedrooms, and told to

give ourselves "a good wash." My room was on the ground-floor, out in

the yard: and I hope I may never be shown into a worse. It was not

large, being about eight feet square, nor was it very high. The walls

were whitewashed, and the floor clean. A single small window, deep set

in the thick stone-built walls, looked out on to the yard, and by it

stood the solitary piece of furniture, a somewhat rickety Windsor chair.

I except the bed, which was supposed to stand in a corner, but actually

covered nearly the whole of the floor. The bedstead was of iron, and, I

should imagine, was one of the earliest constructions of the sort ever

sold in this country.

"I put on three blankets, being Christmas-time, though the weather is

not according; so you can take one off if you like."

"Thank you, ma'am; I'll leave it till I go to bed, if you please." Much

reason had I subsequently to be thankful for my caution.

After having washed, I came out, and was told to go into a room, facing

my bedroom, on the other side of the yard. Here I found three of my

fellow-guests sitting by a fire, and in a few minutes the other two

arrived, all looking very clean and (speaking for myself particularly)

feeling ravenously hungry. The chamber, which had "Travellers' Room"

painted over the doorway, was about twelve or thirteen feet long and

eight wide, and, like our bedrooms, was not remarkable for variety of

furniture. A plain deal table stood at one end, and then there were

two benches, and that's all. Over the mantelpiece a large card hung

with the following inscription:--

"Persons accepting this charity are each supplied with a supper,

consisting of half a pound of meat, one pound of bread, and half a pint

of porter at seven o'clock in the evening, and fourpence on leaving the

house in the morning. The additional comfort of a good fire is given

during the winter months, from October 18th till March 10th, for the

purpose of drying their clothes and supplying hot water for their use.

They go to bed at eight o'clock."

This was satisfactory, except inasmuch as it appeared that supper was

not to be forthcoming till seven o'clock, and it was now only twenty

minutes past six. This forty minutes promised to be harder to bear

than the hunger of the long day; but the pain was averted by the

appearance at half-past six of a pleasant-looking young woman,

carrying a plate of cold roast beef in each hand. These she put down

on the table, supplementing them in course of time with four similar

plates, six small loaves, and as many mugs of porter.

It does not become guests to dictate arrangements, but if the worshipful

trustees of Watts's knew how tantalising it is to a hungry man to see

cold roast beef brought in in a slow and deliberate manner, they would

buy a large tray for the use of the pleasant young person, and let the

feast burst at once upon the vision of the guests.

Sharp on the stroke of seven we drew the benches up to the table, and

Mrs. Kercham, standing at one end and leaning over, said grace.

Impatiently hungry as I was, I could not help noticing the precise

terms in which the good matron implored a blessing. I suppose she had

had her tea in the parlour. At any rate, she was not going to favour

us with her company, and so, bending over our plates of cold beef, she

lifted up her voice and said with emphasis,--

"For what you are about to receive out of His bountiful goodness may

the Lord make you truly thankful."

I write the personal pronoun with a capital letter, not being quite

certain from Mrs. Kercham's rapid enunciation whether the bountiful

goodness was Mr. Watts's or the Lord's.

Six emphatic "Amens!" followed, and before the sound had died away

six able-bodied men had fallen-to upon the beef and the bread in a

manner that would have done kind Master Watts's heart good had he

beheld them.

I think I had done first, for I remember when I looked round the table

my fellow-guests were still eating and washing their suppers down with

economical draughts from the half-pint mugs of porter. They--I think I

may say we--did credit to the selection of the police sergeant, and, so

far as appearances went, fulfilled one of the requirements of Master

Watts, there being nothing of the rogue in our faces, if I except a

slight hint in the physiognomy of the little man with the fair hair

plastered down over his forehead, and perhaps I am prejudiced against

him.

It was a little after seven when the plates were all polished, the mugs

drained, and nothing but a few crumbs left to tell where a loaf had

stood. The pleasant young person coming in to clear the table, we drew

up round the fire, and for the first time in our more than two hours'

companionship began to exchange remarks.

They were of the briefest and most commonplace character, and attempts

made to get up a general conversation signally failed. "What do you

do?" "Where do you come from?" "Things hard down there?" were staple

questions, with an occasional "Did you hear tell of Joe Mackin on the

road?" or "Was Bill O'Brien there at the time?" From the replies to these

inquiries I learnt that my companions were respectively a fitter, a

painter, a waiter, and two indefinitely self-described as "labourers."

They had walked since morning from Faversham, from Sittingbourne, from

Gravesend, and from Greenwich, and, sitting close around the fire,

soon began to testify to their weariness by nodding, and even snoring.

"Well, lads, I'm off, goodnight," said the painter, yawning and

stretching himself out of the room.

One by one the remaining four quickly followed, and before what I had

on entering regarded as the absurdly early hour of eight o'clock had

struck, five of Watts's guests had gone to bed, and the sixth was

sitting looking drowsily in the fire, and thinking what a jolly

Christmas he was having.

I was awakened by a familiar voice inquiring whether I was "going to

sit up all night," and opening my eyes beheld the matron standing by me

with a shovelful of coal in one hand and a small jug in the other. Her

voice was sharp, but her look was kind, and I was not a bit surprised

when she threw the coal on the fire, and, putting down the jug, which

evidently contained porter, said she would bring a glass in a minute.

"I'm not going to bed myself for a bit, and if you like to sit by the

fire and smoke a pipe and drink a glass whilst I mend a stocking or

two, you'll be company."

So we sat together by Master Watts's fire, and whilst I drank his

porter and smoked my own tobacco, the matron mended her stockings, and

told me a good deal about the trials she had gone through in a life

that would never again see its sixtieth year. Forty years she had

spent under the roof of Watts's, and knew all about the old man's

will, and how he ordered that after the re-marriage or the death of

his wife, his principal dwelling-house, called Satis, on Boley Hill,

with the house adjoining, the closes, orchards, and appurtenances,

his plate and his furniture, should be sold, and the proceeds be

placed out at usury by the Mayor and citizens of Rochester for the

perpetual support of an alms-house then erected and standing near

the Market Cross; and how he further ordained that there should be

added thereto six rooms, "with a chimney in each," and with

convenient places for six good mattresses or flock beds, and other

good and sufficient furniture for the lodgment of poor wayfarers

for a single night.

Had she many people come to see the quaint old place beside those

whom the police-sergeant brought every night?

Not many. The visitors' book had been twenty years in the house,

and it was not nearly full of names.

I took up the book, and carelessly turning back the leaves came upon

the signature "Charles Dickens," with "Mark Lemon" written underneath.

I know Dickens pretty well--his books, I mean, of course--and said,

with a gratified start, "Ha! has Dickens been here?"

"Yes, he has," said the matron, in her sharpest tones, "and a pretty

pack of lies he told about it. Stop a bit."

I stopped accordingly whilst the old lady flew out of the room, and

flying back again with a well-worn pamphlet in her hand, shoved it at

me, saying, "Read that." I opened it, and found it to be the Christmas

number of Household Words for 1854. It was entitled "The Seven Poor

Travellers," and the opening chapter, in Mr Dickens's well-known style,

described by name, and in detail, the very house in which I had taken

my supper.

It was a charming narrative, I, poor waif and stray, felt a strong

personal regard for the great novelist as I read the cheery story in

which he sets forth how, calling at the house on the afternoon before

Christmas-day, he obtained permission to give a Christmas feast to the

six Poor Travellers; how he ordered the materials for the feast to be

sent in from his own inn; how, when the feast was set upon the table,

"finer beef, a finer turkey, a greater prodigality of sauce and gravy,"

he never saw; and how "it made my heart rejoice to see the wonderful

justice my travellers did to everything set before them." All this and

much more, including "a jug of wassail" and the "hot plum-pudding and

mince pies," which "a wall-eyed young man connected with the fly

department at the hotel was, at a given signal, to dash into the

kitchen, seize, and speed with to Dr. Watts's Charity," was painted

with a warmth and colour that made my mouth water, even after the plate

of cold beef, the small loaf, and the unaccustomed allowance of porter.

"How like Dickens!" I exclaimed, with wet eyes, as I finished the

recital; "and he even waited in Rochester all night to give his poor

Travellers 'hot coffee and piles of bread and butter in the morning!'"

"Get along with you! he didn't do nothing of the sort."

"What! didn't he come here, as he says, and give the poor Travellers a

Christmas treat?"

Not a bit of it; as the matron, with indignation that seemed to have

lost nothing by lapse of years, forthwith demonstrated. There had been

no supper, no wassail, no hot coffee in the morning, and, in truth, no

meeting between Charles Dickens and the Travellers, at Christmas or at

any other time.

Indeed, the visitors' book testified that the visit had been paid on

May 11th, 1854, and not at Christmastide at all.

It was time to go to bed after that, and I left the matron to cool down

from the boiling-point to which she had been suddenly lifted at sight

of the ghost of 1854. My little room looked cheerless enough in the

candlelight, but I had brought sleep with me as a companion, and knew

that I should soon be as happy as if my bed were of down, and the

roof-tree that of Buckingham Palace.

And so in sooth I would have been but for the chimney. Why did the

otherwise unexceptional Master Watts insist upon the chimney? Such a

chimney it was, too, yawning across the full length of one side of the

room, and open straight up to the cold sky. There was--what I forgot

to mention in the inventory--a sort of tall clothes-horse standing

before the enormous aperture, and after trying various devices to keep

the wind out, I at last bethought me of the supernumerary blanket, and,

throwing it over the clothes-horse, I leaned it against the chimney

board. This served admirably as long as it kept its feet, and when it

blew down, as it did occasionally during the night, it only meant

putting up and refixing it, and the exercise prevented heavy sleeping.

At seven in the morning we were called up, and after another "good

wash," went our ways, each with fourpence sterling in his hand, the

parting gift of hospitable Master Watts.

"Good-bye, paper-stainer," said the matron, as, after looking up and

down High Street, I strode off towards the bridge, Londonwards. "Come

and see us again if you are passing this way."

"Thank you,--I will," I said.

CHAPTER X.

NIGHT AND DAY ON THE CARS IN CANADA.

"Porter!"

The voice broke the stillness of a long night, and suddenly woke me out

of a deep sleep. There was a moment's pause, and then the voice, which

sounded singularly near to my bed-curtains, spoke again.

"Porter!"

"Yes, sah!"

"You have given me the wrong boots."

From the foot of my bed, as it seemed, there came another voice which

said, with querulous emphasis, "These are not my boots."

Then followed explanations, apologies, and interchange of boots; and

before the parleying had come to an end I was sufficiently awake to

remember that on the previous night I had gone to bed in a Pullman car

at Montreal, and had been speeding all night towards Halifax. It had

been mild autumnal weather in Montreal, and the snow, which a week ago

had fallen to the depth of two or three inches, had melted and been

trodden out of sight save for the sprinkling which remained on the

crest of Mount Royal. Here, as a glance through the window disclosed,

we were again in the land of snow. It was not deep, for winter had not

yet set in, and the sleighs, joyfully brought out at the first fall,

had been relegated to summer quarters. But there was quite enough about

to give the country a cheerful wintry aspect, the morning sun shining

merrily over the white fields and the leafless trees, bare save for the

foliage with which the snowflakes had endowed them. It may have been an

equally fine morning in Montreal, but it is certain it seemed twice as

bright and fresh here, and we began to realise something of those

exhilarating properties of the Canadian air of which we had fondly read.

On this long journey eastward travellers do not enter the city of

Quebec. They pass by on the other side of the river, and thus gain the

advantage of seeing Quebec as a picture should be seen, from a

convenient distance. Moreover, like many celebrated paintings, Quebec

will not stand inspection at the length of the nose. But even taken in

detail, walking through its narrow and steep streets, there is much to

delight the eye. It has quaint old houses, and shops with pea green

shutters, over which flaunt crazy, large-lettered signs that it could

have entered into the heart of none but a Frenchman to devise. Save for

the absence of the blouse and the sabot you might, picking your way

through the mud in a street in the lower part of the city, imagine

yourself in some quarters of Dieppe or Calais, or any other of the

busier towns in the north of France. The peaked roofs, the unexpected

balconies, the ill-regulated gables, and the general individuality of

the houses are pleasing to the eye wearied with the prim monotony of

English street architecture.

Quebec, to be seen at its best, should be gazed at from the harbour, or

from the other side of the river. This morning it is glorious, with its

streets in the snow, its many spires in the sunlight, and the blue haze

of the hills in the distance. We make our first stoppage at Point Levi,

the station for Quebec, and here are twenty minutes for breakfast. The

whereabouts of breakfast is indicated by a youth, who from the steps of

an "hotel" at the station gate stolidly rings a bell. The passengers

enter, and are shown into a room, in the centre of which is a large

stove. The atmosphere is simply horrible. The double windows are up for

the still dallying winter, and, as the drops of dirty moisture which

stand on the panes testify, they are hermetically closed. The kitchen

leads out of the room by what is apparently the only open door in the

house, every other being jealously closed lest peradventure a whiff of

fresh air should get in. It is impossible to eat, and one is glad to

pay for the untasted food and get out into the open air before the

power of respiration is permanently injured.

It was said this is the only place where there would be any chance of

breakfast, nothing to eat till Trois Pistoles is reached, late in the

afternoon. Happily this information turned out ill-founded. At L'Islet,

a little station reached at eleven o'clock a stoppage was made at an

unpretentious but clean and fresh restaurant, where the people speak

French and know how to make soup.

A few years ago a journey by rail between Montreal and Halifax, without

break save what is necessary for replenishing the engine stores, would

have been impossible. The Grand Trunk, spanning the breadth of the more

favoured provinces of Ontario and Quebec, leaves New Brunswick and Nova

Scotia without other means of intercommunication than is afforded by its

many rivers and its questionable roads. For many years Canadian

statesmen, and all others interested in the practical confederation of

the various provinces that make up the Dominion, felt that the primary

and surest bond of union would be a railway. The military authorities

were even more urgent as to the necessity of connecting Quebec and

Halifax, and at one time a military road was seriously talked about.

Long ago a railway was projected, and in 1846-8 a survey was carried out

with that object. From that date up to 1869, when the road was actually

commenced, the matter was fitfully discussed, and it was only in 1876

that the railway was opened.

It is only a single line, and as a commercial undertaking is not likely

to pay at that, passing as it does through long miles of territory where

"still stands the forest primeval." It was made by the Dominion

Government in pursuance of a high national policy, and it adequately and

admirably meets the ends for which it was devised. The total length from

Rivière du Loup to Halifax is 561 miles. There is a spur running down to

St. John, in the Bay of Fundy, eighty-nine miles long, another branch

fifty-two miles long to Pictou, a great coal district opposite the

southern end of Prince Edward Island; while a third span of eleven

miles, branching off at Monckton and finishing at Point du Char, meets

the steamers for Prince Edward Island, making a total length of 713

miles. The rails are steel, and the road is, mile for mile, as well made

as any in England. The carriages are on the American principle--the long

waggons capable of seating fifty or sixty persons, with an open passage

down the centre, through which the conductor and ticket collector

periodically walk. The carriages are heated to distraction by means of a

huge stove at either end. It is possible to open the windows, but that

is to be easily accomplished only after an apprenticeship too long for

the stay of the average traveller. After a painful hour one gets

accustomed to the atmosphere of the place, as it is happily possible to

grow accustomed to any atmosphere. But the effect of these fierce stoves

and obstinate windows must be permanently deleterious.

The Pullman car has fortunately come to make railway travelling in

America endurable. Apart from other considerations, the inevitable stove

is better managed. You are thoroughly warmed,---occasionally, it is

true, parboiled. But there is at least freedom from the sulphurous

atmosphere which pervades the ordinary car, with its two infernal

machines, one at either end. In addition, the Pullman cars have more

luxurious fittings, and are hung on smoother springs. It is at night

their value becomes higher, and travellers are inclined to lie awake and

wonder how their fathers and elder brothers managed to travel in the

pre-Pullman era.

Life is too short to limit travel on this continent to the daytime.

Travelling eight hours a day by rail, which we in England think a pretty

good allowance, it would take just five days to go from Montreal to

Halifax. Thanks to the Pullman car and its adequate sleeping

accommodation, a business man may leave Montreal at ten o'clock at

night, say on Monday, and be in Halifax in time to transact business

shortly after noon on Wednesday. Thus he loses only a day, for he must

sleep somewhere, and he might find many a worse bed than is made up for

him on a Pullman. The arrangements for ventilation leave nothing to be

desired save a little less apprehension on the part of Canadians of the

supposed malign influence of fresh air. If you can get the ventilators

kept open you may sleep with impunity. But, as far as a desire for

preserving the goodwill of my immediate neighbours controls me, I would,

being in Canada, as soon pick a pocket as open a window. One night,

before the beds were made up I secretly approached the coloured

gentleman in charge of the carriage and heavily bribed him to open the

ventilators. This he faithfully did, as I saw, but when I awoke this

morning, half stifled in the heavy atmosphere, I found every ventilator

closed.

After leaving Quebec, and for a far-reaching run, the railway skirts the

river St. Lawrence, of which we get glimpses near and far as we pass.

The time is not far distant when this mighty river will be frozen to the

distance of fully a mile out, and men may skate where Atlantic steamers

sail. At present the river is free, but the frost comes like a thief in

the night, and the wary shipmasters have already gone into winter

quarters. The railway people are also preparing for the too familiar

terrors of the Canadian winter. As we steamed out of Quebec we saw the

snow-ploughs conveniently shunted, ready for use at a moment's notice.

The snowsheds are a permanent institution on the Intercolonial Railway.

The train passes through them sometimes for the length of half a mile.

They are simply wooden erections like a box, built in parts of the line

where the snow is likely to drift. Passing swiftly through them just now

you catch glimmers of light through the crevices. Presently, when the

snow comes, these will be effectually closed up. Snow will lie a hundred

feet thick on either side, to the full height of the shed, and the

train, as watched from the line, will seem to vanish in an illimitable

snow mound.

This is as yet in the future. At present the landscape has all the

beauty that snow can give without the monotony of the unrelieved waste

of white. Mounds of brown earth, tufts of grass, bits of road, roofs of

houses, and belts of pine showing above the sprinkling of snow, give

colour to the landscape. One divines already why Canadians, in building

their houses, paint a door, or a side of a chimney, or a gable-end, red

or chocolate, whilst all the rest is white. This looks strange in the

summer, or in the bleak interregnum when neither the sun nor the

north-east wind can be said absolutely to reign. But in the winter, when

far as the eye can roam it is wearied with sight of the everlasting

snow, a patch of red or of warm brown on the scarcely less white houses

is a surprising relief.

The country in the neighbourhood of Rivière du Loup, where the Grand

Trunk finishes and the Intercolonial begins, is filled with comfortable

homesteads. The line runs through a valley between two ranges of hills.

All about the slopes on the river side stand snug little houses, each

within its own grounds, each having a peaked roof, which strives more or

less effectually to rival the steepness of its neighbour. The houses

straggle for miles down the line, as if they had started out from Quebec

with the intention of founding a town for themselves, and had stopped on

the way, beguiled by the beauty of the situation. Sometimes a little

group stand together, when be sure you shall find a church, curiously

small but exceedingly ornate in its architecture. The spires are coated

with a glazed tile, which catches whatever sunlight there may be about,

and glistens strangely in the landscape.

The first day following the first night of our journey closed in a

manner befitting its rare beauty. The sun went down amid a glow of

grandeur that illuminated all the world to the west, transfigured the

blue mountains veined with snow, and spread a soft roseate blush over

the white lowlands. We went to bed in New Brunswick still in the hilly

country named by the colonists Northumberland. We awoke to find

ourselves in the narrow neck of land which connects Nova Scotia with the

continent. It was like going to bed in Sweden in December, and waking in

Ireland in September. The snow was melted, the sun was hidden behind the

one thin cloud that spread from horizon to horizon, and the sharp, brisk

air of yesterday was exchanged for a cold, wet atmosphere, that

distilled itself in dank drops on the window-panes. The aspect of the

country was also changed. The ground was sodden, the grass brown with

perpetual wet. In one field we saw the hapless haycocks floating in

water. Thus it was through Nova Scotia into Halifax--water everywhere on

the ground, and threatening rain in the air.

CHAPTER XI

EASTER ON LES AVANTS.

We nearly lost our Naturalist between Paris and Lausanne. It was felt at

the time, more especially by the latest additions to the party, that

this would have been a great calamity. Habits, long acquired, of

stopping by the roadside and minutely examining weeds or bits of stone,

are not to be eradicated in a night's journey by rail. Accordingly,

wherever the train stopped the Naturalist was, at the last moment,

discovered to be absent, and search parties were organised with a

promptness that, before we reached Dijon, had become quite creditable.

But the success achieved begat a condition of confidence that nearly

proved fatal. In travelling on a French line there is only one thing

more remarkable than the leisurely way in which an express train gets

under way after having stopped at a station, and that is the excitement

that pervades the neighbourhood ten minutes before the train starts. Men

in uniform go about shrieking "En voiture, messieurs, en voiture!" in a

manner that suggests to the English traveller that the train is actually

in motion, and that his passage is all but lost.

It was this habitude that led to our excitement at Melun. We had, after

superhuman efforts, got the Naturalist into the carriage, and had

breathlessly fallen back in the seat, expecting the train to move

forthwith. Ten minutes later it slowly steamed out of the station,

accompanied by the sound of the tootling horn and enveloped in thick

clouds of poisonous smoke. This sort of thing happening at one or two

other stations, we were induced to give our Naturalist an extra five

minutes to gather some fresh specimen of a rare grass growing between

the rails or some curious insect embedded in the bookstall. It was at

Sens that, growing bolder with success, we nearly did lose him,

dragging him in at the last moment, amid a scene of excitement that

could be equalled elsewhere only on the supposition that the station

was on fire and that five kegs of gunpowder were in the booking-office.

Shortly after leaving Dijon a conviction began to spread that perhaps if

the fates had proved adverse, and we had lost him somewhere under

circumstances that would have permitted him to come on by a morning

train, we might have borne up against the calamity. Amongst a

miscellaneous and imposing collection of scientific instruments, he was

the pleased possessor of an aneroid. This I am sure is an excellent and

even indispensable instrument at certain crises. But when you have been

so lucky as to get to sleep in a railway carriage on a long night

journey, to be awakened every quarter of an hour to be informed "how

high you are now" grows wearisome before morning.

It was the Chancery Barrister who was partly responsible for this. He

found it impossible to sleep, and our Naturalist, fastening upon him,

kept him carefully posted up in particulars of the increasing altitude.

This was the kind of thing that broke in upon our slumbers all through

the night:--

Our Naturalist: "1200 feet above the level of the sea."

The Chancery Barrister (in provokingly sleepy tone): "Ah!"

Then we turn over, and fall asleep again. A quarter of an hour later:

Our Naturalist: "1500 feet now."

Chancery Barrister: "Really!"

Another fitful slumber, broken by a strong presentiment that the

demoniacal aneroid is being again produced.

Our Naturalist (exultantly, as if he had privately arranged the incline,

and was justly boastful of his success): "2100 feet."

Chancery Barrister (evidently feeling that something extra is expected of

him): "No, really now!"

This kind of thing through what should be the silent watches of the

night is to be deprecated, as tending to bring science into disrepute.

There was a good deal of excitement about the baggage. We were a

personally conducted party to the extent that the Hon. Member who had

suggested the trip, had undertaken the general direction, or had had

the office thrust upon him. Feeling his responsibility, he had,

immediately on arriving at Calais, changed some English money. This

was found very convenient. Nobody had any francs except the Member, so

we freely borrowed from him to meet trifling exigencies.

With the object of arriving at the best possible means of dealing with

the vexed question of luggage, a variety of expedients had been tried.

The Chancery Barrister, having read many moving narratives of raids made

upon registered luggage in the secrecy of the luggage van, had adopted a

course which displayed a profound knowledge of human nature. He had

argued with himself (as if he were a judge in chambers) that what proved

an irresistible temptation to foreign guards and other railway officials

was the appearance of boxes and portmanteaux iron-clasped,

leather-strapped, and double-locked. The inference naturally was that

they contained much that was valuable. Now, he had pointed out to

himself, if you take a directly opposite course, and, as it were, invite

the gentleman in charge of your luggage to open your portmanteau, he

will think you have nothing in it worth his attention, and will pass on

to others more jealously guarded. You can't very well leave your box

open, as the things might tumble out. So, as a happy compromise, he had

duly locked and strapped his portmanteau, and then tied the key to the

handle.

As he observes, with the shrewd perception that will inevitably lead him

to the Woolsack, "You are really helpless, and can do nothing to prevent

these gentlemen from helping themselves. If you leave the key there,

there is a fair chance of their treating your property as the Levite

treated the Good Samaritan. If not, your box will be decently opened

instead of having the lock broken or the hinges wrenched off."

That was a good idea, and proved triumphantly successful; for, on

arrival at Montreux, the Chancery Barrister's portmanteau turned up all

right, the key innocently reposing on the handle, and, as subsequent

investigation showed, the contents untouched.

Our Manufacturer had a still better way, though, as was urged, he comes

from Yorkshire, and we of the southern part of the island have no chance

in competition with the race. He lost his luggage somewhere between

Dover and Paris, and has ever since been free from all care on the

subject.

Perhaps it was the influence of these varied incidents that led to a

scene of some excitement on our arrival at Montreux station. There,

what was left of our luggage was disgorged, and of fourteen packages

registered, only nine were visible to the naked eye. It was then the

Patriarch came to the front and displayed some of those qualities which

subsequently found a fuller field amid the solitude of the Alps.

We call him the Patriarch because he is a grandfather. In other respects

he is the youngest of the party, the first on the highest peak, the

first down in the afternoon with his ready order for "tea for ten," of

which, if the party is late in arriving and he finds time hang heavy on

his hands, he will genially drink five cups himself. With the care of

half a dozen colossal commercial undertakings upon his mind, he is as

merry as a boy and as playful as a kitten. But when once aroused his

anger is terrible.

His thunder and lightning played around the station-master at Montreux

on the discovery of the absence of five packages. The Patriarch has a

wholesome faith in the all-sufficiency of the English language. The

station-master's sole lingual accomplishment was French. This

concatenation of circumstances might with ordinary persons have led to

some diminution of the force of adjuration. But probably the

station-master lost little of the meaning the Patriarch desired to

convey. This tended in the direction of showing the utter incapacity

of the Swiss or French nature to manage a railway, and the discreditable

incompetency of the officials of whatever grade. The station-master was

properly abashed before the torrent of indignant speech. But he had his

turn presently. Calmer inspection disclosed the fact that all the

fourteen packets were delivered. It was delightful to see how the

station-master, immediately assuming the offensive, followed the

Patriarch about with gesticulation indicative of the presence of the

baggage, and with taunting speech designed to make the Patriarch

withdraw his remarks--whatever they might have been. On this point

the station-master was not clear, but he had a shrewd suspicion that

they were not complimentary. The Patriarch, however, now retired upon

his dignity.

It was, as he said, no use arguing with fellows like this.

Les Avants sit high up among the mountains at the back of Montreux.

It seems madness to go there at a time when fires are still cheerful

and when the leaves have not yet put forth their greenness. But, as

was made apparent in due time, Les Avants, at no time inconveniently

cold, would be, but for the winds that blow over the snow-clad hills

surprisingly hot. To build an hotel here seems a perilously bold

undertaking. It is not on the way to anywhere, and people going from

the outer world must march up the hill, and, when they are tired of it,

must needs, like the Duke of York in his famous military expedition,

march down again. None but a Swiss would build an hotel here, and few

but English would frequent it. Yet the shrewdness of the proprietor has

been amply justified, and Les Avants is becoming in increasing degree

a favourite pilgrimage.

The hotel was built nearly twenty years ago. Previously the little

valley it dominates had been planted with one or two chalets which

for more than half a century have looked out upon the deathless snows

of the Dent du Midi. There is one which has rudely carved over the

lintel of its door the date 1816. Noting which, the Chancery Barrister,

with characteristic accuracy, observed that "five centuries look down

upon us."

Our landlord is an enterprising man. His business in life is to keep an

hotel, and the height of his ambition is to keep it well. Only a

fortnight ago he returned from a grand tour of the winter

watering-places, from the Bay of Biscay to the Bay of Genoa. The

ordinary attractions of the show places from Biarritz to Bordighera had

no lure for him. What he studied were the hotels and their various modes

of management. He told us, with a flush of pride on his sun-tanned

cheek, that he travelled as an ordinary tourist. There was no hint of

his condition or the object of his journey, no appeal to confraternity

with a view to getting bed and breakfast at trade prices, or some

reduction on the table d'hôte charges. He travelled as a sort of Haroun

al Raschid among innkeepers, haughtily paying his bills, and possibly

feeing the waiters. He is a very good sort of a fellow, attentive and

obliging, and it is odd how we all agree in the hope that he was from

time to time over-charged.

It is a fair prospect looked out upon from the bedroom window on our

arrival. Almost at our feet, it seems, is the Lake of Geneva, though

we remember the wearisome climb up the hill, and know it must be miles

away. On the other side are the snow-clad hills that reach down to

Savoy on the east, and are crowned by the heights of the Dent du Midi

on the west. On the left, flanking our own place of abode, rise up the

grim heights of the Roches de Naye, and, still farther back, the Dent

du Jaman--a terrible tooth this, which draws attention from all the

country round, and excites the wildest ambition of the tourist. The man

or woman resting within a circuit of ten miles of Montreux, who has not

touched the topmost heights of the Dent du Jaman, goes home a crushed

person. A very small proportion do it, but every one talks of doing

it---which, unless the weather be favourable, is perhaps the wiser

thing to do. It fills a large place in the conversation as well as in

the landscape, and it will be a bad thing for the Lake of Geneva if

this tooth should ever be drawn.

Lovely as was the scene in the fresh morning air, with the glistening

snow, the dark pines on the lower hills, the blue lake, and the

greyish upland, they did but serve to frame the picture of the

Patriarch as he sat upon the bench in the front of the hotel. A short

jacket of blue serge, knickerbockers of the same material, displaying

the proportions of a notable pair of legs, the whole crowned by a

chimney-pot hat, went to make up a remarkable figure. The Patriarch

had in his hand a blue net for catching butterflies. The Naturalist

had excited his imagination by stories of the presence of the

"Camberwell Beauty," a rare and beautiful species of butterfly, of

which he was determined to take home a specimen. In later days he

was fair to see with his hat thrown back on his brow, his net in his

hand: and his stout legs twinkling in their haste to come up with a

butterfly.

The Alps have witnessed many strange sights since first they uplifted

their heads to heaven. But it is calculated that the Patriarch was

the first who brought under their notice the chimney-pot hat of the

civilised Englishman.

This haste to be up on the first morning was a faithful precursor of

the indomitable vitality of the Patriarch. He was always first up and

first off, and, amongst many charming peculiarities, was his

indifference as to which way the road lay. We generally had a guide

with us, and nothing was more common in toiling up a mountain side

than to discover the guide half a mile to the left and the Patriarch

half a mile to the right, something after the fashion of the letter Y,

we being at the stem. We saw a good deal more of the country than we

otherwise should have done, owing to the constant necessity of going

after the Patriarch and bringing him back. Sometimes he got away by

himself, at others he deluded some hapless member of the company into

following him. One young man, just called to the bar, had a promising

career almost cut short on the second day. In the innocence of his

heart he had followed the Patriarch, who led him through an apparently

impassable pine forest on to the crest of a remote hill, whence he

crawled down an hour late for luncheon, the Patriarch having arrived

ten minutes before him, and having already had his knife into every

receptacle for food that was spread out, from the loaf of bread to the

box of sardines, from the preserved peaches to the cup without a handle

that held the butter.

Walking up the hill behind the hotel on the way to the Jaman, the Member

had a happy idea. "Why," he asked, "should not the Parliamentary Session

be movable, like a reading party? Say the Bankruptcy Bill is referred

to a grand committee. What is to prevent them coming right off here and

settling down for a fortnight or three weeks, or in fact whatever time

might be necessary thoroughly to discuss the measure?"

They might do worse, we agreed, as we walked on, carefully selecting

the shady side of the road, and thinking of dear friends shivering in

England. The blue haze under which we know the lake lies; the Alps all

around, their green sides laced with snow and their heads covered with

it; the fleckless blue sky; the brown rocks, and over all and through

all the murmuring music of the invisible stream, as it trickles on its

way down the gorge, would be better accompaniments to a good grind at a

difficult Bill than any to be found within the precincts of Westminster.

"You remember what Virgil says?" the Chancery Barrister strikes in.

Divers things of diverse character we have discovered invariably remind

the Chancery Barrister of Virgil or Horace, occasionally perchance of

an English poet. This is very pleasant, and none the less so because

the reminiscences come slowly, gathering strength as they advance, like

the Chancery Barrister's laugh, which begins like the pattering of rain

on leaves, and ends in the roar of a thunderstorm. The Chancery

Barrister takes his jokes gently to begin with: he sees them afar off,

and, closing one eye, begins to smile. The smile broadens to a grin, the

grin becomes a cachinnation, then, as he hugs the fun, the cachinnation

deepens to a roar of laughter, and the thing is complete.

It is thus with his quotations, though these are not always

completed--at least, not in accordance with recognised authorities. As

one of the ladies says, with that kindliness peculiar to the sex, "The

Chancery Barrister is most original when he is making a quotation."

"What's that Wolsey says about the pomps and vanities of this world?"

"'Vain pomps and vanities of this world,'" the Chancery Barrister

begins, and we know we are in for a quotation. "No, not pomps and

vanities. 'Vain pomps and glories of this world' (that's it)--"

"'Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye.

I feel my heart new opened. O how wretched

Is the poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt the smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have.'"

It's odd how one thing leads to another. By the time the Chancery

Barrister has got his quotation right, the Patriarch is half a mile

ahead in the wrong direction, and we all have to go and look for him.

The Col de Jaman is the salvation of many tourists. Not being regular

Alpine climbers, they start over the Dent and get as far as the Col,

rest awhile just under the great mountain molar, and come down. We had

a splendid day for our expedition. It had been freezing hard in the

night, and when we reached the snow region we found the pines frosted.

On the Col a beneficent commune has built some chalets furnished with

plentiful supply of firewood. Out of the sun it was bitterly cold, and

we were glad to light a fire, which crackled and roared up the broad

chimney and made a pretty accompaniment to the Chancery Barrister's

song about the Jolly Young Waterman. He sang it all in one key, and

that the wrong one. But it was a well-meant effort, and we all joined

in the chorus.

There's some talk to-day of a startling episode at an hotel up the

Rhone Valley. A Russian gentleman was sitting sipping his tea, when

there approached him a lady, who addressed him in three languages.

His replies not being satisfactory she shot him. This is cited by the

Chancery Barrister as showing the advantage of an early acquaintance

with foreign languages, and the desirableness of a pure accent.

It is quite agreed that if our Naturalist had been in the Russian's

place he would have been shot after the first question. This morning,

on ringing for his bath, he was answered by a chambermaid with a "Pas

encore." Why "not just yet" our Naturalist did not know. He was not

unusually early. But he had done his duty. He had tried to get up and

have his bath; it was not ready, so he might go back to bed with a

quiet conscience. Presently came another knock, and our Naturalist,

carefully robing himself, opened the door, and discovered the

chambermaid standing there with a plate, a knife, and a breakfast roll.

"What the dev----I mean qu'c'est qu'c'est?" he asked.

"Monsieur a demandé le petit pain," the girl replied, astonished at

his astonishment.

With great presence of mind he accepted the situation, took in the

bread, and did without his bath. The Member says that, coming upon him

suddenly amid the silence of the snow, he heard him practising the

slightly different sounds of pain and bain.

Nothing but snow between the Col and the Dent du Jaman, but snow at its

very best, hard and dry. Just before we reach the top we come upon a

huge drift frozen hard and slippery. We might have gone round, but we

decided to try and climb. The Patriarch of course was first, and

achieved the task triumphantly. Others followed, and then came the

Chancery Barrister. Another step, and he would have safely landed.

But unhappily a quotation occurred to him.

"This is jolly," he said, turning half round, with the proud

consciousness that he was at the crest and that with another stride all

would be well; "what's that Horace says about enjoying what you have?"

"'Me pascant olivae,

Me cichorea, levesque malvae,

Frui paratis, et valido mihi,

Latoe, dones, et, precor, integra

Cum----'"

Here the most terrible contortion appeared on the generally pleasant

countenance of the Chancery Barrister. He clutched desperately at the

ice; but his suspicion was too true. He had begun to move downwards

("When he got to cum he came," the Member, who makes bad jokes, says),

and with increasing impetus he slid down the bank. His face during the

terrible moments when he was not quite certain where he would stop, or

indeed whether he would ever stop, passed through a series of

contortions highly interesting to those on the bank above.

"Me pascant olivae!" cried the Member. "Olives are evidently no use as

a support in a case like yours, and diachylon would be more use to you

now than soft mallows."

The Chancery Barrister, who had happily reached the bottom, walked round

by a more accessible path, and nothing further either from Horace or

Virgil occurred to him for more than an hour.

Perhaps the difference in the weather had something to do with it, but

we found the Dent du Jaman not nearly so difficult to climb as the

Roches de Naye. After the scamper across the snow and the climb over

this little ice-collar down which the Chancery Barrister had slipped,

there is no more snow. We climb up by steps worn by the feet of many

adventurers. The top is a level cone with an area not much greater

than that of a moderate-sized dining-room. There was not a breath of

wind, and the sun beat down with a warmth made all the more delicious

by the recollection of the frozen region through which we had passed.

The Dent is only a trifle above six thousand feet high, but the prospect

as seen from it stretches far. Below is the Canton de Vaud, a portion of

the Jura chain of mountains, the far-reaching Alps of the Savoy, a bit

of the lake gleaming like an emerald under the white tops of the

mountains, a cloud on the southern horizon that the guide tells us are

the mountains of the Valais, and, still to the south just touched by the

sun, glitter the snow summits of the Great St. Bernard.

Coming down, we bivouac in the châlet, lighting up the fire again.

Here, twelve hundred feet lower down, it is bitterly cold, in spite

of, perhaps because of, the fire. The châlet is built with commendable

deference to the necessity for ventilation. The wind, smelling fire,

comes rushing over the snow, and we are glad to put on coat and caps.

The conversation turns to legal topics, and certain eminent personages

are discussed with great severity. Of one it is roundly asserted that

he is mad.

"I am quite sure of it," said the Chancery Barrister, who has recovered

his spirits with his footing, "and I'll tell you why. He seconded me

for the Reform Club, and----"

We all agree that this is quite enough; but the Chancery Barrister

insists on proceeding with his narrative, of which it seems this was

merely the introduction.

We found our Naturalist of very little use. We had expected he would

mount with us whatever heights we sought, and had pleasing views of

his explaining the flora as we went along. But he always had some

excuse that kept him on lower levels. One morning he declared he had

passed a sleepless night owing to the efforts of two Scotch lads who

occupied the room next to him. They had some taste for carpentering,

and were addicted to getting up in the dead of the night and doing odd

jobs about the room. At half-past five a.m. they left their couch and

began playing Cain and Abel. Only the Naturalist protested there is no

authority in Scripture for the fearful row Abel made when Cain got him

down on his back.

At other times our Naturalist had heard of a "Camberwell Beauty" in

the neighbourhood, and must needs go and catch it, which, by the way,

he never did. On the whole, we conclude our Naturalist is an impostor.

We reserved the Roches de Naye till the last day. It was rather a

stupendous undertaking, the landlord assuring us that four guides were

necessary. One led a horse that no one would ride, one carried the

indispensable luncheon-basket, and two fared forth at early morn to cut

steps in the snow. The sun was shining when we started on this desperate

enterprise, and it was hot enough as we toiled along the lower heights.

But when we reached the snow level, the sun had gone in, having just

shone long enough to make the snow wet. Then a cold bleak wind set in,

and we began to think that, after all, there was more in the Naturalist

than met the eye. Whilst we were toiling along, sometimes temporarily

despairing, and generally up to our waists in snow, he was enjoying the

comforts of the hotel, or strolling about in languid search of fabulous

butterflies.

Picking our way round a hill in which had been cut in the snow a ledge

about two feet wide, we came in face of the slope we were to climb. Up

at the top, looking like black ants, were the guides cutting a zigzag

path in the snow. The Member observed that if any one were to offer

him a sovereign and his board on condition of his climbing up this

slope, he would prefer to remain in indigent circumstances. As we

were getting nothing for the labour, were indeed paying for the

privilege of undertaking it, we stuck at it, and after a steady climb

reached the top, when the wind was worse than ever. It was past

luncheon time, and every one was ferociously hungry; but it was agreed

that if we camped here and lunched, we should never get to the top. So

on we went, through the sloppy snow, pursued by the keen blast that

cut through all possible clothing.

It was a hard pull and not much to see for it, since clouds had rolled

up from the west and hid the promised panorama. The wind was terrible,

and there was no shelter. But we could hold out no longer, and the

luncheon being laid upon the sloppy grass, the Patriarch, with his

accustomed impartiality, went round with his knife.

By this time we had induced him to take the sardines last, which he

obligingly did.

We ran most of the way back to the side of the hill where the snow had

been cut. The exercise made us a little warmer; and the genial influence

of the cold fowl, the hard-boiled eggs, the sardines and the thin red

wine beginning to work, we were able to enjoy the spectacle of the

Patriarch leading the first party down the perilous incline. We had

ropes, but didn't think it worth while to be tied. The party was divided

into two sections, half a dozen holding on to a rope. It must have been

a beautiful sight from many a near mountain height to watch the

Patriarch's chimney-pot hat slowly move downwards on the zigzag path.

"What's that Virgil says about ranging mountain tops?" said the Chancery

Barrister:

"Me Parnassi deserta per ardua dulcis

Raptat amor: juvat ire jugis, qua nulla priorum

Castaliam molli divertitur orbita clivo."

He had got in the centre of the second party, and with two before him,

three behind, and a firm grip on the rope, he thought it safe to quote

poetry.

We had eight days at Les Avants, of which this devoted to the ascent of

the Roches was the only one the sun did not shine upon. Whether on

mountain or in valley, what time the sun was shining it was delightfully

warm. The narcissi were not yet out, but the fields were thick with

their buds. How the place would look when their glory had burst forth on

all the green Alps we could only imagine. But already everywhere bloomed

the abundant marigolds, the hepaticae, the violets, the oxlips, the

gentians, the primroses, and the forget-me-nots.

CHAPTER XII.

THE BATTLE OF MERTHYR.

"Well, sir, it is, as you say, a long time ago, but it was one of those

things, look you, that a man meets with only once in his lifetime; and

that being so, I might call it all to mind if I began slowly, and went

on so as to keep my pipe alight to the end."

The speaker was a little, white-haired miner, who had been employed for

fifty years by the Crawshays, of Cyfarthfa. We were sitting in the

sanctum of his kitchen, the beautifully sanded floor of which smote me

with remorse, for I had walked up from Merthyr, and was painfully

conscious of two muddy footprints in the doorway.

Mrs. Morgan Griffiths, engaged upon the task of repairing Mr. Morgan

Griffiths's hose, was seated in the middle of the room opposite the

fireplace, having against the wall on either side of her a mahogany

chest of drawers in resplendent state of polish. Mr. Morgan Griffiths

sat beside the fireplace, with his pipe in one hand, the other resting

affectionately upon another mahogany chest of drawers, also

resplendently polished, standing in a recess at his left. The other side

of the fireplace was occupied by the visitor, who, if he had turned his

head a little to the right, might have seen his face reflected in the

resplendent polish of a third mahogany chest of drawers, which somewhat

inconveniently projected from the recess on the side of the fireplace.

Apparently, every well-to-do Welsh collier marks his status in society

by the possession of a mahogany chest of drawers--if mounted in brass

so much the better--which it is the pride and privilege of his wife to

keep in a state of resplendent polish. Mr. Morgan Griffiths having had a

long run of prosperity, and being of a frugal mind, had launched out

largely in the purchase of mahogany chests of drawers, and his kitchen

may be said to bristle with them. Each had its history, and it was to

the patient listening to the repetition thereof, and to the expenditure

of much appreciative criticism upon the varied styles of architecture

displayed in their construction, that I completely won Mr. Morgan

Griffiths's confidence, and overcame the cautious fencing with which

he met my first inquiries touching his recollection of the memorable

Merthyr Riots of 1831.

Perfect confidence reigned between us now, and I discovered that,

though it is exceedingly hard to get a Welsh miner to talk freely to

"a Saxon," when he opens his heart, and can look back for a period of

fifty years, he is a very interesting companion.

"Yes, it's a long time ago," Mr. Morgan Griffiths repeated, in short,

clipping intonation of the English language I will not attempt to

reproduce, "but I've often talked it over with Mrs. Morgan Griffiths,

and I can see it all now. Times was sore bad, and there was a deal

of poverty about. Bread was dear, and iron was cheap--at least so Mr.

Crawshay said when we went up to ask him if he couldn't give us

miners a trifle over the twelve or thirteen shillings a week we was

earning. Everybody I knowed was in debt, and had been in debt for

some time, and was getting further in every week. The shopkeepers

up at Merthyr were getting uneasy about their money, and besides

saying plump out to some of us that we couldn't have any more bread,

or that, without money down on the nail, they served out all round

summonses to what was called the Court of Requests. That was all

very well, but as we couldn't get enough to eat from day to day

upon our wages, it was pretty certain we couldn't go and pay up

arrears. But the summonses came all the same, and it was a black

look-out, I can tell you.

"One day, in the middle of the summer of this year 1831, there was

a great meeting out on Waun-hill of all the miners of the country.

I can't rightly tell you the day of the month, but it was about

three reeks after we rescued Thomas Llewellin, who had been sent

to gaol on account of the row at Mr. Stephens's. We talked over

our grievances together, and we made up our minds that we couldn't

stand them any longer, though we meant no more mischief than our

little Morgan who wasn't born then, me and Mrs. Morgan Griffiths

not being married at the time, nor indeed set eyes on each other.

After the row opposite the Bush Inn, I went back to my work till

such time as the petition we had agreed to send to the King was

written out by Owen Evans, and had come round to be signed by us

all. But there was others not so peaceably minded, and a lot of

them, meeting outside Merthyr, marched over the hill to Aberdare,

where they went to Mr. Fothergill's and treated him pretty

roughly. They ate up all the victuals in the house, and finished

up all the beer, and then took a turn round the town collecting

all the bread and cheese they could lay their hands on.

"A lad sent by Mr. Fothergill came running over the mountain with

a letter to the magistrates, telling them what was happening in

Aberdare, and pressing them to send off for the soldiers. It was

said the magistrates did this pretty quick, but we had no railways

or telegraphs then, and, ride as quick as you might, the soldiers

could not get here before morning. The men from Aberdare were back

here the same night, and marched straight for the Court of Requests,

where they made poor Coffin, the clerk, give up every scrap of book

or paper he had about the Court's business, and they made a bonfire

of them in the middle of the street. Then they came over here, and

swore we should all turn out and join them.

"I remember it well. I was just coming up from the pit to go to my

tea, when they came bursting over the tips, shouting and waving

their sticks, and wearing in their hats little bits of burnt paper

from the bonfire opposite Coffin's house. They were most of them

drunk, but they were very friendly with us, and only wanted us to

leave off work and go along with them. I was a young fellow then,

up to any lark, and didn't make much fuss about it. So off we

went to Dowlais, freed the men there, and we all had a good drink

together.

"Next day the soldiers came in earnest: Scotchmen with petticoats

on, and nasty-looking guns on their shoulders. I stood in a passage

whilst they marched down High Street from Cyfarthfa way, and didn't

like the look of things at all. But close upon their heels came all

our fellows, with bludgeons in their hands, and one of them, a man

from Dowlais, had tied a red pocket-handkerchief on a stick and waved

it over his head like a flag. The soldiers tramped steadily along till

they got just above the Castle Inn, and there they halted, our men

pressing on till they filled the open place below the Castle, as well

as crowding the street behind the soldiers, who looked to me, as I

hung on by the hands and legs to a lamp-post, just like a patch of red

in the centre of a great mass of black. The soldiers had some bread

and cheese and beer served out to them, but they were a long time

getting it; for as soon as any one came out of the Castle with a loaf

of bread and a piece of cheese some of our men snatched it out of

their hands and eat it, jeering at the soldiers and offering them bits.

"The soldiers never said a word or budged an inch till the Sheriff

looked out of the window and asked the little fellow who was their

commander-in-chief to draw them up on the pavement close before the

hotel. The little fellow said something to them; and they turned round

their guns so as the butt ends were presented, and marched straight

forward, as if our fellows were not on the pavement as thick as ants.

There was a little stoppage owing to the men not being able to clear

off because of the crowd on the right and left. But the thick ends of

the guns went steadily on with the bare-legged silent soldiers after

them, and in a few strides the pavement was clear, and the soldiers

were eating their bread and cheese with their faces to the crowd, and

a tight right-handed grip on their muskets.

"The Sheriff got on a chair in the doorway of the Castle, with the

soldiers well placed between him and us, and made a rigmaroling

speech about law and order, and the King; but he said nothing about

giving us more wages. Our master, Mr. Crawshay, was in the hotel too,

and so was Mr. Guest, of Dowlais. Evan Jones, a man who had come over

from Aberdare, got up on the shoulders of his mates and made a

rattling speech all about our poor wages.

"'Law and order's all very well," he said, "but can you live on twelve

shillings a week, Mr. Sheriff, and bring up a lot of little sheriffs?'

"Then we all shouted, and old Crawshay coming up to the doorway, I got

down from the lamp-post, not wishing to let him see me there, though I

was only standing on my rights. But Mr. William had a voice which,

something like an old file at work, could go through any crowd, and I

heard him in his quiet, stern way, just as if he was talking to his men

on a pay-day, say it was no use them crowding there with sticks and

stones to talk to him about wages.

"'Go home, all of you' he said; 'go to bed; and when you are sober and

in your senses, send us a deputation from each mine, and we'll see what

can be done. But you won't be sensible for a fortnight after this mad

acting; so let us say on this day fortnight you come with your

deputation. Now go home, and don't make fools of yourselves any more.'

"We always listened to what Mr. Crawshay said, though he might be a

little hard sometimes, and this made us waver. But just then

Lewis-yr-Helwyr, shouting out in Welsh, 'We ask for more wages and they

give us soldiers,' leaped at the throat of the Scotchman nearest to him,

and snatching the musket out of his hand, stuck the bayonet into him.

"In the twinkling of an eye the great black mass jumped upon the little

red patch I told you of, and a fearful struggle began. The attack was so

sudden, and the soldiers were at the moment so earnest with their bread

and cheese, that nearly all the front rank men lost their muskets and

pressed backward on their comrades behind. These levelled their pieces

over the front rank's shoulders and fired straight into the thick of us.

The little officer had hardly given the word to fire when he was knocked

down by a blow on the head, and a bayonet stuck into him, Our men

pressed stoutly forward and, tumbling over the dead, fell upon the

soldiers, who could move neither arm nor leg. The rear rank were, as

fast as they could bustle, filing into the hotel, but not before they

had managed to pass over their heads the little officer, who looked very

sick, with the blood streaming down his face.

"At last the soldiers all got inside the doorway of the hotel, where

they stood fast like a wedge, two kneeling down shoulder to shoulder

with their bayonets fixed, three others firing over their heads, and

others behind handing up loaded guns as fast as they fired. There was a

lane speedily made amongst us in front of the doorway; but we had won

the fight for all that, and cheered like mad when the soldiers turned

tail.

"In a few minutes we shouted on the other side of our mouths. Without

any notice the windows of every room in the hotel suddenly flew up, and

out came from each the muzzles of a pair of muskets which flashed death

down upon us at the rate of two men a minute; for as soon as the first

couple of soldiers fired they retired and reloaded whilst two others

took their places and blazed away. A rush was made to the back of the

hotel, and we had got into the passage, when the bearded faces of the

Scotchmen showed through the smoke with which the house was filled, and

the leaders of our lot were shoved back at the point of the bayonet. At

the same time the windows at the back of the house flew up as they had

done in the front, and the muzzles of the muskets peeped out as they

had done before.

"This was getting rather hot for me. Men dead or dying were lying about

everywhere around the Castle Inn. If I had been asked that night how

many were killed, I think I should have said two hundred; but when the

accounts came to be made up, it was found that not more than sixty or

seventy were shot dead, though many more were wounded. I was neither

hurt nor dead as yet, and I thought I had better go home if I wanted to

keep so. I was below the Castle Inn at the time, and not caring to pass

the windows with those deadly barrels peeping out I turned down High

Street, and walked through the town. It was raining in torrents, and I

never saw Merthyr look so wretched. Every shop was closed, and

barricades placed across some of the windows of the private houses; and

as I walked along, trying to look as if I hadn't been up at the Castle,

I saw white faces peeping over window blinds.

"Merthyr was trembling in its shoes that day, I can tell you; and it

came out afterwards that every tradesman in the place had got together

all the bread, cheese, meat, pies, and beer he could put his hands on,

ready to throw out to the mob if they came knocking at his door.

"It was late at night when I got home, having gone a long way round, and

I saw nothing more of our fellows; but I heard that the wounded soldiers

had been taken up to Penydarren House, which was fortified by their

comrades, and held all night against our men. Somehow the word got

passed round that we were to meet the next morning in a quiet place on

the Brecon road, and when I got there I found our gallant fellows in

great force. I, having neither sword nor gun, was told off with a lot of

others to get up on the heights that bank the turnpike road near

Coedycymmer, and roll down big stones, so that the fresh troops expected

up from Brecon could not pass. This we did with a will; and when, in the

afternoon, a lot of cavalry came up, we made it so hot for them, what

with the stones rolled down from above and the musketry that came

rattling up from our men who had guns, that they cleared off pretty

smartly.

"This cheered us greatly, and another lot of ours, who had been posted

on the Swansea road to intercept troops coming up in that direction,

soon after joined us, with news of a great victory, by which they had

routed the soldiers and taken their swords and muskets. We thought

Merthyr was ours, though I'm not sure that we quite knew what we were

going to do with it. When somebody shouted, 'Let's go to Merthyr!' we

all shouted with him, and ran along the road, intending to take

Penydarren House by storm. On the way we met Evan Price and some others,

who had been to see Mr. Guest, and had been promised fine things for the

men if they would give up their arms and go peaceably to work. Some

jumped at this offer and sneaked off; but I had got a sabre now, and was

in for death or glory. There was a good many in the same boat, and on we

went towards Penydarren House, enough of us to eat it up, if the walls

had been built of boiled potatoes instead of bricks.

"When we got in sight of the house, we found they were ready for us, and

had got a lot of those soldiers drawn up in battle array. There was a

deal of disputing amongst our leaders how the attack was to commence,

and whilst they were chattering the men were dropping off in twos and

threes, and in about an hour we were all gone, so nothing more was

done that night.

"We lay quietly in our own homes on Sunday, and on Monday had a great

meeting on Waun-hill again, colliers coming up by thousands to join up

from all parts around. Early in the forenoon we began to move down

towards Merthyr, everybody in high spirits, shouting, waving caps, and

brandishing swords. I saw one man get an awful backhanded cut on the

cheek from an Aberdare collier, who was waving his sword about like a

madman. Nobody knew exactly where we were going, or what we were going

to do; but when we got as far as Dowlais we were saved the trouble of

deciding, for there was Mr. Guest, with a great army of soldiers drawn

up across the road. Mr. Guest was as cool as myself, and rode forward

to meet us as if we were the best friends in the world. He made a good

speech, begging us to think of our wives and families, and go quietly

home whilst we had the chance. Nothing came of that, however, and he

pulled out a paper, and read an Act of Parliament, after which he

turned to the commander-in chief of the soldiers, and said he had done

all a magistrate could do, and the soldiers must do the rest.

"'Get ready,' shouts out the commander-in-chief; and the soldiers

brought their muskets down with a flash like lightning, and a clash that

made me feel uncomfortable, remembering what I had seen on the Friday.

"'Present!'

"There was ten murderous barrels looking straight at us. Another word,

and we should have their contents amongst our clothes. It was an awful

moment. I saw one black-bearded fellow had covered me as if I were a

round target, and I said to myself as well as I could speak for my lips

were like parched peas, 'Morgan Griffiths, twelve shillings a week and

an allowance of coal is better than this'; and I'm not ashamed to own

that I turned round and made my way through the crush of our men, which

was getting less inconveniently pressing at the end nearest to the

levelled barrels.

"There was, to tell the truth, a good deal of movement towards the rear

amongst our men, and when Mr. Guest saw this he rode up again, and,

standing right between the guns and the front rank of our men, said

something which I could not rightly hear, and then our men began running

off faster than ever, so that in about half an hour the soldiers had the

road to themselves.

"That was not the last of the riots, but it is all I can tell you about

them, for I had had quite enough of the business. There is something

about the look of a row of muskets pointed at you, with ball inside the

barrels and a steady finger on the triggers, which you don't care to see

too often.

"Anyhow, I went home, and there heard tell of more fighting all that

week on the Brecon road, of Merthyr in a state of panic, and at last of

Dick Penderyn and Lewis the Huntsman being taken, and the whole of our

men scattered about the country, and hunted as if they were rats.

"It was a bad business, sir--a very bad business, and I know no more

than them as was shot down in the front of the Castle Hotel how it came

about or what we meant to do. We were like a barrel of gunpowder that

had been broken up and scattered about the road. A spark came, and

poof!--we went off with a bang, and couldn't stop ourselves. Yes, this

is a bad business, too, this strike of to-day, and there's a good many

thousand men going about idle and hungry who were busy and full a month

ago. I don't feel the bitterness of it myself so much, because I have a

little store in the house. I had been saving it to buy another chest of

drawers to stand there, opposite the door, but it's going out now in

bread and meat, and I don't know whether I shall live to save up enough

after the trouble's over, for I'm getting old now, look you."

CHAPTER XIII.

MOSQUITOES AND MONACO.

Up to the end of October, in ordinary seasons, the mosquitoes hold

their own against all comers along the full length of the Riviera. For

some unexplained reasons they clear out earlier from Genoa, though the

atmosphere may be as unbearably close as at other points of the coast

which mosquitoes have in most melancholy manner marked as their own.

Perhaps it is the noise of the city that scares them. The people live

in the street as much as possible, and therein conduct their converse

in highly-pitched notes. I have a strong suspicion that, like the

habitation jointly rented by Messrs. Box and Cox, Genoa is tenanted by

two distinct populations. One fills the place by day and throughout the

evening up to about ten o'clock; after this hour it disappears, and

there is a brief interval of rare repose. About 2 a.m. the Cox of this

joint tenancy appears on the scene, and by four there is a full tide

of bustle that murders sleep as effectually as was ever done by Macbeth.

I do not wonder that the mosquitoes (who, I have the best reason to

know, are insects of the finest discrimination and the most exacting

good taste) quit Genoa at the earliest possible moment.

The most delightful spot in or near the city is, to my mind, Campo

Santo, the place where rich Genoese go when they die. The burial-ground

is a large plot of ill-kept land, where weeds grow, and mean little

crosses rear their heads. Round this run colonnades adorned with

statuary, generally life-size, and frequently of striking merit.

Originally, it is presumable that the sculptor's art was invoked in

order to perpetuate the memory of the dead. There are in some of the

recesses, either in the form of medallions or busts, life-like

representations of those who have gone before. But the fashion of the

day is improving upon this. In the newest sculptures there is

exceedingly little of the dead, and as much as possible of the living.

About half-way down the colonnade, entering from the right, there is a

memorable group. A woman of middle age, portly presence and expansive

dress, is discovered in the centre on her knees, with hands clasped.

The figure is life-size and every detail of adornment, from the heavy

bracelet on her wrist to the fine lace of her collar, is wrought from

the imperishable marble. On her face is an expression of profound grief,

tempered by the consciousness that her large earrings have been done

justice to. Standing at a respectful distance behind her is a youth with

bared head drooped, and a tear delicately chiselled in the eye nearest

to the spectator. He carries his hat in his hand, displays much

shirt-cuff; and the bell-shaped cut of the trouser lying over his dainty

boot makes his foot look preciously small.

These figures, both life-size, stand in an arched recess, and show to

the best advantage. Just above the arch the more observant visitor will

catch sight of a small medallion, modestly displaying, about half

life-size, the face of an ordinary-looking man, who may have been a

prosperous linendraper or a cheesefactor with whom the markets had gone

well. This is presumably the deceased, and it is difficult to imagine

anything more soothing to the feelings of his widow and son than to come

here in the quiet evenings or peaceful mornings and contemplate their

own life-sized figures so becomingly bereaved.

Mosquitoes do not meddle with woe so sacred as this; but at San Remo,

for example, which has no Campo Santo, they are having what is known in

the American language as a high old time. Along the Riviera the shutters

of the hotels are taken down in the first week of October. Then arrives

the proprietor with the advance guard of servants, and the third cook;

the chef and his first lieutenant will not come till a month later. In

the meantime the third cook can prepare the meals for the establishment

and for any chance visitor whom evil fate may have led untimeously into

these parts. Then begins the scrubbing down and the dusting, the

bringing out of stored carpets, and the muffling of echoing corridors

in brown matting. The season does not commence till November,

coincidental with the departure of the mosquitoes. But there is enough

to occupy the interval, and there are not wanting casual travellers

whose bills suffice to cover current expenses. On these wayfarers the

faithful mosquito preys with the desperate determination born of the

conviction that time is getting a little short with him, and that his

pleasant evenings are numbered.

There are several ways of dealing with the mosquito, all more or less

unsatisfactory. The commonest is to make careful examination before

blowing out the candle, with intent to see that none of the enemy

lingers within the curtains of the bed. This is good, as far as it

goes. But, having spent half an hour with candle in hand inside the

curtains, to the imminent danger of setting the premises on fire, and

having convinced yourself that there is not a mosquito in the inclosure,

and so blown out the candle and prepared to sleep, it requires a mind

of singular equanimity forthwith to hear without emotion the too

familiar whiz. At Bordighera the mosquitoes, disdaining strategic

movements, openly flutter round the lamps on the dinner-table, and

ladies sit at meat with blue gauze veils obscuring their charms. Half

measures were evidently of no use in these circumstances, and I tried

a whole one. Having shut the windows of the bedroom, I smoked several

cigars, tobacco fumes being understood to have a dreamy influence on

the mosquito. At Bordighera they had none. I next made a fire of a box

of matches, and burnt on the embers a quantity of insect powder. This

filled the chamber with an intolerable stench, which, whatever may be

the case elsewhere, is much enjoyed by the Bordighera mosquito. These

operations serve a useful purpose in occupying the mind and helping

the night to pass away. But as direct deterrents they cannot

conscientiously be recommended.

There is one place along the Riviera where the mosquito is defied.

Monaco has special attractions of its own which triumphantly

withstand all countervailing influences. Other places along the

coast are deserted from the end of June to the beginning of November.

But Monaco, or rather the suburb of it situated on Monte Carlo,

remains in full receipt of custom. In late October the place is

enchanting. The wind, blowing across the sea from Africa, making the

atmosphere heavy and sultry, has changed, coming now from the east

and anon from the west. The heavy clouds that cast shadows of purple

and reddish-brown on the sea have descended in a thunderstorm, lasting

continuously for eight hours. Sky and sea vie in the production of

larger expanse of undimmed blue. The well-ordered garden by the Casino

is sweet with the breath of roses and heliotrope. The lawns have the

fresh green look that we islanders associate with earliest summer. The

palm-trees are at their best, and along the road leading down to the

bathing place one walks under the shadow of oleanders in full and

fragrant blossom. The warmth of the summer day is tempered by a

delicious breeze, which falls at night, lest peradventure visitors

should be incommoded by undue measure of cold.

If there is an easily accessible Paradise on earth, it seems to be

fixed at Monaco. Yet all these things are as nothing in the eyes of

the people who have created and now maintain the place. It seems at

first sight a marvel that the Administration should go to the expense

of providing the costly appointments which crown its natural advantages.

But the Administration know very well what they are about. When man or

woman has been drawn into the feverish vortex that sweeps around the

gaming tables, the fair scene outside the walls is not of the slightest

consequence. It would be all the same to them if the gaming tables,

instead of being set in a handsome apartment in a palace surrounded by

one of the most beautiful scenes in Europe, were made of deal and

spread in a hovel. But gamesters are, literally, soon played out at

Monaco, and it is necessary to attract fresh moths to the gaudily

glittering candle. Moreover, the tenure of the place is held by slender

threads. What is thought of Monaco and its doings by those who have the

fullest opportunity of studying them is shown by the fact that the

Administration are pledged to refuse admission to the tables to any

subject of the Prince of Monaco, or to any French subject of Nice or

the department of the Maritime Alps. The proclamation of this fact

cynically stares in the face all who enter the Casino. The local

authorities will not have any of their own neighbours ruined. Let

foreigners, or even Frenchmen of other departments, care for themselves.

In face of this sentiment the Administration find it politic to

propitiate the local authorities and the people, who, if they were

aroused to a feeling of honest indignation at what daily passes beneath

their notice, might sweep the pestilence out of their midst.

Accordingly, whilst keeping the gaming rooms closed against natives

resident in the department, the Administration throw open all the other

pleasures of Monte Carlo, inviting the people of Monaco to stroll in

their beautiful gardens, to listen to the concerts played twice a day by

a superb band, and to make unfettered use of what is perhaps the best

reading-room on the Continent. Monaco gets a good deal of pleasure out

of Monte Carlo, which moreover brings much good money into the place.

The Casino will surely at no distant day share the fate of the German

gambling places. But, as surely, the initiative of this most desirable

consummation will not come from Monaco.

In the meanwhile, Monte Carlo, like the mosquitoes, is having a high

good time. Night and day the tables are crowded, beginning briskly at

eleven in the morning and closing wearily on the stroke of midnight.

There are a good many English about, but they do not contribute largely

to the funds of the amiable and enterprising Administration. English

girls, favoured by an indulgent father or a good-natured brother, put

down their five-franc pieces, and, having lost them, go away smiling.

Sometimes the father or the brother may be discovered seated at the

tables later in the day, looking a little flushed, and poorer by some

sovereigns. But Great Britain and Ireland chiefly contribute spectators

to the melancholy and monotonous scene.

As usual, women are among the most reckless players. Looking in at two

o'clock one afternoon I saw at one of the tables a well-dressed lady of

about thirty, with a purseful of gold before her and a bundle of notes

under her elbow. She was playing furiously, disdaining the mild

excitement of the five-franc piece, always staking gold. She was losing,

and boldly played on with an apparent composure belied by her flushed

cheeks and flashing eyes. I saw her again at ten o'clock in the evening.

She was playing at another table, having probably tried to retrieve her

luck at each in succession. The bank notes were gone, and she had put

away her purse, for it was easy to hold in her prettily-gloved hand her

remaining store of gold. It was only eight hours since I had last seen

her, but in the meantime she had aged by at least ten years. She sat

looking fixedly on the table, from time to time moistening her dry lips

with scarcely less dry tongue. Her face wore a look of infinite sadness,

which might have been best relieved by a burst of tears. But her eyes

were as dry as her lips, and she stared stonily, staking her napoleons

till the last was gone. This accomplished, she rose with evident intent

to leave the room, but catching sight of a friend at another table she

borrowed a handful of napoleons, and finding another table played on

as recklessly as before. In ten minutes she had lost all but a single

gold piece. Leaving the table again, she held this up between her finger

and thumb, and showed it to her friend with a hysterical little laugh.

It was her last coin, and she evidently devised it for some such

matter-of-fact purpose as paying her hotel bill. If she had turned her

back on the table and walked straight out, she might have kept her

purpose; but the ball was still rolling, and there remained a chance.

She threw down the napoleon, and the croupier raked it in amid a heap of

coin that might be better or even worse spared.

This is one of the little dramas that take place every hour in this

gilded hall, and I describe it in detail only because I chanced to be

present at the first scene and the last. Sometimes the dramas become

tragedies, and the Administration, who do all things handsomely, pay

the funeral expenses, and beg as a slight acknowledgment of their

considerate generosity that as little noise as possible may follow

the echo of the pistol-shot.

CHAPTER XIV.

A WRECK IN THE NORTH SEA.

One December afternoon in the year 1875, just as night was closing in,

the steam-tug Liverpool, which had left Harwich at six o'clock in the

morning, was seen steaming into the harbour with flag half-mast high.

It was quite dark when she reached the quay, but there was light

enough for the crowd collected to see rows of figures laid in the

stern of the little steamer, the faces covered with blankets. These

figures, as it presently was made known, were twelve dead bodies, the

flotsam of the wreck of the Deutschland. When the tug arrived at the

wreck she found her much as she had been left when the survivors had

been brought off the previous day. The two masts and the funnel were

all standing, the sails bellied out with the wind that blustered across

the sandbank. The wind was so high and the sea so rough that Captain

Corrington could not bring his tug alongside; but a boat was launched,

under the charge of the chief mate and Captain Brickerstein, of the

Deutschland. The chief officer and the engineer, with some sailors

from the tug, rowed out and made fast to the wreck. It was low water,

and the deck was dry. There were no bodies lying about the deck or near

the ship; but on going below, in the saloon cabin there were found

floating about eight women, a man, and two children. These were taken

on board the boat, and further search in the fore-cabin led to the

discovery of the dead body of a man, making twelve in all. One of the

bodies was that of a lady who, when the wreck was first boarded, had

been seen lying in her berth. She had since been washed out, and had

she floated out by the companion-way or through the skylight might

have drifted out to sea with others. Like all the bodies found, she

was fully dressed. Indeed, as fuller information showed, there was an

interval between the striking of the ship and her becoming water-logged

sufficiently long to enable all to prepare for what might follow.

According to the captain's narrative, the ill-fated vessel steamed out

of Bremenhaven on Sunday morning with a strong east wind blowing and

snow falling thickly. This continued throughout Sunday. All Sunday night

the lead was thrown every half-hour, the last record showing seventeen

fathoms of water. At four o'clock on Monday morning a light was seen,

which the captain believed to be that of the North Hinderfire ship, a

supposition which tallied with the reckoning. The vessel was forging

slowly ahead, when, at half-past five, a slight shock was felt. This

was immediately succeeded by others, and the captain knew he had run

on a bank. The order was passed to back the engines. This was

immediately done, but before any way could be made the screw broke

and the ship lay at the mercy of wind and waves. She was bumping

heavily, and it was thought if sail were set she might be carried

over the bank. This was tried, but without effect. The captain then

ordered rockets to be sent up and a gun fired.

In the meantime the boats were ordered to be swung out, but the sea was

running so high that it was felt it would be madness to launch them. Two

boats were, however, lowered without orders, one being immediately

swamped, and six people who had got into her swept into the sea.

Life-preservers were served out to each passenger. The women were

ordered to keep below in the saloon, and the men marshalled on deck to

take turns at the pumps. At night, when the tide rose, the women were

brought up out of the cabin; some placed in the wheel-house, some on the

bridge, and some on the rigging, where they remained till they were

taken off by the tug that first came to the rescue of the hopeless folk.

The whole of the mail was saved, the purser bringing it into the cabin,

whence it was fished out and taken on board the tug.

The passengers were all in bed when the ship struck, and were roused

first by the bumping of the hull, and next by the cry that rang fore and

aft for every man and woman to put on life-belts, of which there was a

plentiful store in hand. The women jumped up and swarmed in the

companion-way of the saloon, making for the deck, where they were met by

the stewardess, who stood in the way, and half forced, half persuaded

them to go back, telling them there was no danger. After the screw had

broken, the engines also failed, and the sails proved useless.

The male passengers then cheerfully formed themselves into gangs and

worked at the pumps, but, as one said, they "were pumping at the North

Sea," and as it was obviously impossible to make a clearance of that,

the task was abandoned, and officers, crew, and passengers relapsed into

a state of passive expectancy of succour from without. That this could

not long be coming happily seemed certain. The rockets which had been

sent up had been answered from the shore. The lightship which had helped

to mislead the captain was plainly visible, and at least two ships

sailed by so near that till they began hopelessly to fade away, one to

the northward and the other to the southward, the passengers were sure

those on board had seen the wreck, and were coming to their assistance.

Perhaps it was this certainty of the nearness of succour that kept off

either the shrieking or the stupor of despair. However that be, it is

one of the most notable features about this fearful scene that, with a

few exceptions, after the first shock everybody was throughout the first

day wonderfully cool, patient, and self-possessed. There was no regular

meal on Monday, but there was plenty to eat and drink, and the

opportunity seems to have been generally, though moderately, improved.

The women kept below all day, and, while the fires were going, were

served with hot soup, meat, bread, and wine, and seemed to have been

inclined to make the best of a bad job.

Towards night the horror of the situation increased in a measure far

beyond that marked by the darkness. All day long the sea had been

washing over the ship, but by taking refuge in the berths and on the

tables and benches in the saloon it had been possible to keep

comparatively dry. As night fell the tide rose, and at midnight the

water came rushing over the deck in huge volumes, filling the saloon,

and making the cabins floating coffins. The women were ordered up and

instructed to take to the rigging, but many of them, cowed by the

wildness of the sea that now swept the deck fore and aft, and shuddering

before the fury of the pitiless, sleet-laden gale, refused to leave the

saloon.

Then happened horrible scenes which the pen refuses to portray in their

fulness. One woman, driven mad with fear and despair, deliberately hung

herself from the roof of the saloon. A man, taking out his penknife, dug

it into his wrist and worked it about as long as he had strength, dying

where he fell. Another, incoherently calling on the wife and child he

had left in Germany, rushed about with a bottle in his hand frantically

shouting for paper and pencil. Somebody gave him both, and, scribbling a

note, he corked it down in a bottle and threw it overboard, following it

himself a moment later as a great wave came and swept him out of sight.

There were five nuns on board who, by their terror-stricken conduct,

seem to have added greatly to the weirdness of the scene. They were deaf

to all entreaties to leave the saloon, and when, almost by main force,

the stewardess (whose conduct throughout was plucky) managed to get them

on to the companion-ladder, they sank down on the steps and stubbornly

refused to go another step. They seemed to have returned to the saloon

again shortly, for somewhere in the dead of the night, when the greater

part of the crew and passengers were in the rigging, one was seen with

her body half through the skylight, crying aloud in a voice heard above

the storm, "Oh, my God, make it quick! make it quick!" At daylight, when

the tide had ebbed, leaving the deck clear, some one from the rigging

went down, and, looking into the cabin, saw the nuns floating about face

upwards, all dead.

There seems to have been a wonderful amount of unselfishness displayed,

everybody cheering and trying to help every other body. One of the

passengers--a cheery Teuton, named Adolph Herrmann--took a young

American lady under his special charge. He helped her up the rigging

and held her on there all through the night, and says she was as

brave and as self-possessed as if they had been comfortably on shore.

Some time during the night an unknown friend passed down to him a

bottle of whisky. The cork was in the bottle, and as he was holding

on to the rigging with one hand and had the other round the lady,

there was some difficulty in getting at the contents of the bottle.

This he finally solved by knocking the neck off, and then found

himself in the dilemma of not being able to get the bottle to the

lady's mouth.

"You are pouring it down my neck," was her quiet response to his first

essay. In the end he succeeded in aiming the whisky in the right

direction, and after taking some himself, passed it on, feeling much

refreshed.

Just before a terrible accident occurred, which threatened death to

one or both. The purser, who had fixed himself in the rigging some

yards above them, getting numbed, loosed his hold, and falling headlong

struck against the lady and bounded off into the sea. But Herrmann kept

his hold, and the shock was scarcely noticed. On such a night all the

obligations were not, as Herrmann gratefully acknowledges, on the one

side; for when one of his feet got numbed, his companion, following his

direction, stamped on it till circulation was restored.

From their perilous post, with waves occasionally dashing up and

blinding them with spray, they saw some terrible scenes below. A man

tied to the mast nearer the deck had his head cut off by the waves,

as Herrmann says, though probably a rope or a loose spar was the agent.

Not far off, a little boy had his leg broken in the same manner. They

could hear and see one of the nuns shrieking through the skylight, and

when she was silenced the cry was taken up by a woman wailing from

the wheelhouse,--

"My child is drowned, my little one, Adam!"

At daylight a sailor, running nimbly down the rigging, reached the poop,

and, bending over, attempted to seize some of the half-drowned people

who were floating about. Once he caught a little child by the clothes;

but before he could secure it a wave carried it out of his grasp, and

its shrieks were hushed in the roar of the waters. At nine o'clock, on

the second morning of the wreck the tide had so far ebbed that the deck

was clear, and, coming down from the rigging, the battered and shivering

survivors began to think of getting breakfast. A provident sailor had,

whilst it was possible, taken up aloft a couple of loaves of black

bread, a ham, and some cheese. These were now brought out and fairly

distributed.

An hour and a half later all peril was over, and the gallant survivors

were steaming for Harwich in the tug-boat Liverpool.

CHAPTER XV.

A PEEP AT AN OLD HOUSE OF COMMONS FROM THE LADIES' GALLERY.

"No," Mrs. Chiltern-Hundreds said when I asked, Was she in these days

a constant visitor at the House of Commons? "Chiltern, you know, has

accepted a place of profit under the Crown, and is no longer eligible

to sit as a member. It is such trouble to get in, and when you are

there the chances are that nothing is going on, so I have given it up.

I remember very well the first time I was there. I wrote all about it

to an old schoolfellow. If you are interested in the subject, I will

show you a copy of what I then jotted down."

I was much interested, and when I saw the letter was glad I had

expressed my interest. The copy placed at my disposal was undated,

but internal evidence showed that Mrs. Chiltern-Hundreds had paid her

visit in the session of 1874, when Mr. Disraeli had for the first time

in his history been returned to power as well as to office, and Mr.

Gladstone, crushed by an overwhelming defeat, had written his famous

letter to "My dear Granville," announcing his retirement from

political life. Looking down through the grille, the visitor in the

gallery saw many bearers of well-known names who have travelled far

since that date, some beyond the grave. Here are Madame's notes

written in her own angular handwriting:--

"Be in the great hall at four o'clock."

Those were Chiltern's words to me as he hurried off after luncheon,

and here we were in the great hall, but there was no Chiltern,

which was vexatious. True, it was half-past four, and he is such a

stickler for what he calls punctuality, and has no sympathy with

those delays which are inseparable from going out in a new bonnet.

One of the strings----but there, what does it matter? Here we were

standing in the great hall, where we had been told to come, and no

one to meet us. There was a crowd of persons standing before the

entrance to a corridor to the left of the hall. Two policemen were

continually begging them to stand back and not block up the entrance,

so that the members who were passing in and out (I dare say on the

look-out for their wives, so that they should not be kept here a

moment) might not be inconvenienced. It is really wonderful how

careful the police about Westminster are of the sacred persons of

members. If I cross the road at the bottom of Parliament Street by

myself I may be run over by a hansom cab or even an omnibus, without

the slightest compunction on the part of the police on duty there.

But if Chiltern happens to be with me the whole of the traffic going

east and west is stopped, and a policeman with outstretched hands

stands waiting till we have gained the other side of the road.

We were gazing up with the crowd at somebody who was lighting the

big chandelier by swinging down from somewhere in the roof a sort

of censer, when Chiltern came out of the corridor and positively

began to scold us for being late. I thought that at the time very

mean, as I was just going to scold him; but he knows the advantage

of getting the first word. He says, Why were we half an hour late?

and how could he meet us there at four if at that time we had not

left home? But that's nonsense. Chiltern has naturally a great

flow of words, which he has cultivated by close attendance upon

his Parliamentary duties. But he is mistaken if he thinks I am a

Resolution and am to be moved by being "spoken to."

We walked through a gallery into a hall something like that in which

Chiltern had kept us waiting, only much smaller. This was full of men

chattering away in a manner of which an equal number of women would

have been ashamed. There was one nice pleasant-looking gentleman

carefully wrapped up in an overcoat with a fur collar and cuffs.

That was Earl Granville, Chiltern said. I was glad to see his

lordship looking so well and taking such care of himself. There

was another peer there, a little man with a beaked nose, the only

thing about him that reminded you of the Duke of Wellington. He had

no overcoat, being evidently too young to need or care for such

encumbrance. He wore a short surtout and a smart blue necktie, and

frisked about the hall in quite a lively way. Chiltern said that he

was Lord Hampton, with whom my great-grandfather went to Eton. He

was at that time plain "John Russell" (not Lord John of course),

and has for the last forty-five years been known as Sir John

Pakington. But then Chiltern has a way of saying funny things, and

I am not sure that he was in earnest in telling us that this active

young man was really the veteran of Droitwich.

From this hall, through a long carpeted passage, catching glimpses

on the way of snug writing rooms, cosy libraries, and other devices

for lightening senatorial labours, we arrived at a door over which

was painted the legend "To the Ladies' Gallery." This opened on to a

flight of steps at the top of which was another long corridor, and

we found ourselves at last at the door of the Ladies' Gallery, where

we were received by a smiling and obliging attendant.

I expected to find a fine open gallery something like the orchestra

at the Albert Hall, or at least like the dress circle at Drury Lane.

Picture my disappointment when out of the bright light of the

corridor we stepped into a sort of cage, with no light save what

came through the trellis-work in front. I thought this was one of

Chiltern's stupid practical jokes, and being a little cross through

his having kept us waiting for such an unconscionable long time, was

saying something to him when the smiling and obliging attendant said,

"Hush-sh-sh!" and pointed to a placard on which was printed, like a

spelling lesson, the impertinent injunction "Silence is requested."

There was no doubt about it. This was the Ladies' Gallery of the British

House of Commons, and a pretty place it is to which to invite ladies. I

never was good at geometry and that sort of thing, and cannot say how

many feet or how many furlongs the gallery is in length, but I counted

fourteen chairs placed pretty close together, and covered with a hideous

green damask. There are three rows of chairs, the two back rows being

raised above the first the height of one step. As far as seeing into the

House is concerned, one might as well sit down on the flight of steps in

Westminster Hall as sit on a chair in the back row in the Ladies'

Gallery. On the second row it is tolerable enough, or at least you get a

good view of the little old gentleman with the sword by his side sitting

in a chair at the far end of the House. I thought at first this was the

Speaker, and wondered why gentlemen on the cross benches should turn

their backs to him. But Chiltern said it was Lord Charles Russell,

Sergeant-at-Arms, a much more important personage than the Speaker, who

takes the Mace home with him every night, and is responsible for its due

appearance on the table when the Speaker takes the chair.

In the front row you can see well enough--what there is to be seen, for

I confess that my notion of the majesty of the House of Commons is

mightily modified since I beheld it with my own eyes. In the first place

you are quite shut out of sight in the Ladies' Gallery, and I might have

saved myself all the trouble of dressing, which made me a little late

and gave Chiltern an opportunity of saying disagreeable things which he

subsequently spread over a fortnight. I might have been wearing a

coal-scuttle bonnet or a mushroom hat for all it mattered in a prison

like this. There was sufficient light for me to see with satisfaction

that other people had given themselves at least an equal amount of

trouble. Two had arrived in charming evening dress, with the loveliest

flowers in their hair. I dare say they were going out to dinner, and at

least I hope so, for it is a disgraceful thing that women should be

entrapped into spending their precious time dressing for a few hours'

stay in a swept and garnished coal-hole like this.

The smiling and obliging attendant offered me the consolation of knowing

that the Gallery is quite a charming place compared with what it used to

be. Thirty or forty years ago, whilst the business of Parliament was

carried on in a temporary building, accommodation for ladies was

provided in a narrow box stationed above the Strangers' Gallery, whence

they peered into the House through pigeon holes something like what you

see in the framework of a peep-show. The present Gallery formed part of

the design of the new Houses, but when it was opened it was a vastly

different place. It was much darker, had no ante-rooms worth speaking

of, and the leading idea of a sheep-pen was preserved to the extent of

dividing it into three boxes, each accommodating seven ladies. About

twelve years ago one of the dividing walls was knocked down, and the

Ladies' Gallery thrown into a single chamber, with a special pen to

which admission is obtained only by order from the Speaker. Still much

remained to be done to make it even such a place as it now is, and that

work was done by that much--and, as Chiltern will always have it,

unjustly--abused man, Mr. Ayrton. It was he who threw open the back of

the Gallery, giving us some light and air, and it is to him that we

ladies are indebted for the dressing-room and the tea-room.

This being shut up is one reason why I was disappointed with the House

of Commons. Another is with respect to the size of the chamber itself.

It is wonderful to think how big men can talk in a room like this. It

is scarcely larger than a good-sized drawing-room. I must say for

Chiltern that we got seats in the front row, and what there was to be

seen we saw. Right opposite to us was a gallery with rows of men sitting

six deep. It was "a big night," and there was not a seat to spare in

this, which I suppose was the Strangers' Gallery. Everybody there had

his hat off, and there was an official sitting on a raised chair in the

middle of the top row, something like I saw the warders sitting amongst

prisoners at Millbank one Sunday morning when Chiltern took me to see

the Claimant repeating the responses to the Litany. The House itself is

of oblong shape, with rows of benches on either side, cushioned in

green leather and raised a little above each other. There are four of

these rows on either side, with a broad passage between covered with

neat matting.

Chiltern says the floor is an open framework of iron, and that beneath

is a labyrinth of chambers into which fresh air is pumped and forced in

a gentle stream into the House, the vitiated atmosphere escaping by the

roof. But then the same authority, when I asked him what the narrow band

of red colour that ran along the matting about a pace in front of the

benches on either side meant, gravely told me that if any member when

addressing the House stepped out beyond that line, Lord Charles Russell

would instantly draw his sword, shout his battle-cry, "Who goes Home!"

and rushing upon the offender bear him off into custody.

So you see it is difficult to know what to believe, and it is a pity

people will not always say what they mean in plain English.

Midway down each row of benches is a narrow passage that turned out

to be "the gangway," of which you read and hear so much. I had always

associated "the gangway" with a plank along which you walked to

somewhere--perhaps on to the Treasury Bench. But it is only a small

passage like a narrow aisle in a church. There is a good deal of

significance about this gangway, for anybody who sits below it is

supposed to be of an independent turn of mind, and not to be capable

of purchase by Ministers present or prospective. Thus all the Irish

members sit below the gangway, and so do Mr. Macdonald and Mr. Charles

Lewis. It is an odd thing, Chiltern observes, that, notwithstanding

this peculiarity, Ministries are invariably recruited from below the

gangway. Sir Henry James sat there for many Sessions before he was

made Solicitor-General, and there was no more prominent figure in

recent years than that of the gentleman who used to be known as

"Mr. Vernon Harcourt."

On the conservative side this peculiarity is less marked than on the

Liberal, though it was below the gangway on the Conservative side

that on a memorable night more than a quarter of a century ago a

certain dandified young man, with well-oiled locks and theatrically

folded arms, stood, and, glaring upon a mocking House, told them that

the time would come when they should hear him. As a rule, the

Conservatives make Ministers of men who have borne the heat and

burden of the day on the back Ministerial benches. With the Liberals

the pathway of promotion, Chiltern says, opens from below the gangway.

Mr. Lowe came from there, so did Mr Goschen, Mr. Stansfeld, Mr.

Childers, Mr. Foster, and even Mr. Gladstone himself. The worst thing

a Liberal member who wants to become a Cabinet Minister or a Judge

can do is to sit on the back Ministerial benches, vote as he is bidden,

and hold his tongue when he is told. He should go and sit below the

gangway, near Mr Goldsmid or Mr. Trevelyan, and in a candid, ingenuous,

and truly patriotic manner make himself on every possible occasion as

disagreeable to the leaders of his party as he can.

I do not attempt to disguise the expectation I cherish of being some day

wife of the First Lord of the Admiralty, or at least of the President of

the Board of Trade; for there are few men who can, upon occasion, make

themselves more disagreeable than Chiltern, who through these awkward

bars I see sitting below the gangway on the left-hand side, and calling

out "Hear, hear!" to Sir Stafford Northcote, who is saying something

unpleasant about somebody on the front Opposition benches.

The front seat by the table on the right-hand side is the Treasury

bench, and the smiling and obliging attendant tells me the names of the

occupants there and in other parts of the House. The gentleman at the

end of the seat with the black patch over his eye is Lord Barrington,

who, oddly enough, sits for the borough of Eye, and fills the useful

office of Vice-Chamberlain. Next to him is Sir H. Selwin-Ibbetson,

Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department, and whom I have

heard genially described as "one of the prosiest speakers in the

House." Next to him, with a paper in his hand and a smirk of supreme

self-satisfaction on his face, is Mr. Cross, the Home Secretary.

He sits beside a figure you would notice wherever you saw it. The

legs are crossed, the arms folded, and the head bent down, showing

from here one of the most remarkable styles of doing the human hair

that ever I beheld. The hair is combed forward from the crown of the

head and from partings on either side, and brought on to the forehead,

where it is apparently pasted together in a looped curl.

This is Mr. Disraeli, as I know without being told, though I see him

now for the first time. He is wonderfully old-looking, with sunken

cheeks and furrowed lines about the mouth and eyes. But his lofty

brow does not seem to have a wrinkle on it, and his hands, when he

draws them from under his arms and folds them before him, twiddling

his thumbs the while, are as smooth and white as Coningsby's. He is

marvellously motionless, sitting almost in the same position these

two hours. But he is as watchful as he is quiet. I can see his eyes

taking in all that goes on on the bench at the other side of the

table, where right hon. gentlemen, full of restless energy, are

constantly talking to each other, or passing notes across each other,

or even pulling each other's coat-tails and loudly whispering

promptings as in turn they rise and address the House.

I observe that Mr. Disraeli does not wear his hat in the House, and

Chiltern, to whom I mention this when he comes up again, tells me

that he and some half-dozen others never do. Since Mr Gladstone has

retired from the cares of office he is sometimes, but very rarely,

able to endure the weight of his hat on his head while sitting in

the House; but, formerly, he never wore it in the presence of the

Speaker. The rule is to wear your hat in the House, and a very odd

effect it has to see men sitting about in a well-lighted and warm

chamber with their hats on their heads.

Chiltern tells me this peculiarity of wearing hats was very nearly

the means of depriving Great Britain and Ireland of the presence in

Parliament of Mr. John Martin. That distinguished politician, it

appears, had never, before County Meath sent him to Parliament,

worn a hat of the hideous shape which fashion entails upon our

suffering male kindred. It is well known that when he was returned

he declared that he would never sit at Westminster, the reason

assigned for this eccentricity being that he recognised no

Parliament in which the member for County Meath might sit other

than one meeting of the classic ground of College Green. But

Chiltern says that was only a poetical flight, the truth lying at

the bottom of the hat.

"Never," Mr. Martin is reported to have said to a Deputation of his

constituents, "will I stoop to wear a top hat. I never had one on my

head, and the Saxon shall never make me put it there."

He was as good as his word when he first came to town, and was wont to

appear in a low-crowned beaver hat of uncertain architecture. But after

he had for some weeks assisted the process of Legislature under the

shadow of this hat, the Speaker privately and in considerate terms

conveyed to him a hint that, in the matter of hats at least, it was

desirable to have uniformity in the House of Commons.

Mr. Martin, who, in spite of his melodramatic speeches and his strong

personal resemblance to Danny Man in the "Colleen Nawn," is, Chiltern

says, really one of the gentlest and most docile of men, straightway

abandoned the nondescript hat and sacrificed his inclinations and

principles to the extent of buying what he calls "a top hat." But he

has not taken kindly to it, and never will. It is always getting in his

way, under his feet or between his knees, and he is apparently driven

to observe the precaution of constantly holding it in his hands when it

is not safely disposed on his head. It is always thus held before him,

a hand firmly grasping the rim on either side, when he is making those

terrible speeches we read, in which he proves that John Mitchel is an

unoffending martyr, and that the English, to serve their private ends,

introduced the famine in Ireland.

Mr. Cowen, the member for Newcastle, shares Mr Martin's prejudices about

hats, and up to the present time has not abandoned them. As we passed

through the lobby on our way to the Gallery, Chiltern pointed him out to

me. He was distinguished in the throng by wearing a round hat of soft

felt, and he has never been seen at Westminster in any other. But at

least he does not put it on his head in the House; and it is much better

to sit upon than the tall hats on the top of which excited orators not

unfrequently find themselves when, hotly concluding their perorations

and unconscious of having left their hats just behind them, they throw

themselves back on the bench from which they had erewhile risen to "say

a few words."

The gentleman on the left of the Premier is said to be Sir Stafford

Northcote, but there is so little of his face to be seen through the

abundance of whisker and moustache that I do not think any one has a

right to speak positively on the matter. The smooth-faced man next to

him is Mr. Gathorne Hardy. The tall, youthful-looking man on his left is

Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, who, I suppose by instructions of the Cabinet,

generally sits, as he does to-night, next to Mr. Ward Hunt. The Chief

Secretary for Ireland is slim; not to put too fine a point on it, Mr.

Ward Hunt is not, and the two manage to seat themselves with some

approach to comfort. The First Lord of the Admiralty further eases the

pressure on his colleagues by throwing his left arm over the back of the

bench, where it hangs like a limb of some monumental tree.

The carefully devised scheme for the disposition of Mr. Ward Hunt on the

Treasury bench is completed by assigning the place on the other side of

him to Sir Charles Adderley. The President of the Board of Trade,

Chiltern says, is understood to have long passed the mental stage at

which old John Willet had arrived when he was discovered sitting in his

chair in the dismantled bar of the Maypole after the rioters had visited

his hostelry. He is apparently unconscious of discomfort when crushed up

or partially sat upon by his elephantine colleague, which is a fortunate

circumstance.

The stolid man with the straight back directly facing Mr Disraeli on the

front bench opposite is the Marquis of Hartington. The gentleman with

uncombed hair and squarely cut garments on the left of the Leader of the

Opposition is Mr Forster. The big man further to the left, who sits with

folded arms and wears a smile expressive of his satisfaction with all

mankind, particularly with Sir William Harcourt, is the

ex-Solicitor-General. The duck of a man with black hair, nicely oiled

and sweetly waved, is Sir Henry James. Where have I seen him before? His

face and figure and attitude seem strangely familiar to me. I have been

shopping this morning, but I do not think I could have seen behind any

milliner's or linendraper's counter a person like the hon. and learned

gentleman the member for Taunton.

Beyond this doughty knight, and last at this end of the bench, is a

little man in spectacles, and with a preternatural look of wisdom on his

face. He is the Right Hon. Lyon Playfair, and is said to have, next to

Mr. Fawcett, the most remarkably retentive memory of any man in the

House. Chiltern says he always writes his lectures before he delivers

them to the House, sending the manuscript to the Times, and so accurate

is his recitation that the editor has only to sprinkle the lecture with

"Hear, hears!" and "Cheers" to make the thing complete.

On the right-hand side of the Marquis of Hartington is Mr. Goschen. In

fact, at the moment I happen to have reached him in my survey he is on

his feet, asking a question of his "right hon. friend opposite." What a

curious attitude the man stands in! Apparently the backs of his legs are

glued to the bench from which he has risen, a device which enables him,

as he speaks, to lean forward like a human Tower of Pisa. He is putting

the simplest question in the world to the Chancellor of the Exchequer,

but if he were a junior clerk asking his employer for the hand of his

eldest daughter he could not look more sheepish. His hat is held in his

left hand behind his back possibly with a view to assist in balancing

him, and to avoid too much strain on the adhesive powers that keep the

back of his legs firmly attached to the bench. With his right hand he

is, when not pulling up his collar, feeling himself nervously round the

waist, as if to make sure that he is there.

Next to him are Mr. Dodson and Mr. Campbell-Bannerman, and, with these

planted between him and actual or aspirant leaders of the Liberal party,

sits Mr. Lowe. I cannot see much of his face from here, for he wears his

hat and at the moment hangs his head. A little later on I both saw and

heard him speak and a splendid speech he made, going right to the heart

of the matter, laying it bare. His success as a debater is a marvellous

triumph of mind over material influences. It would be hard to conceive

a man having fewer of the outward graces of oratory than Mr Lowe. His

utterance is hesitating, sometimes even to stuttering, he speaks

hurriedly, and without emphasis; his manner is nervous and restless, and

he is so short-sighted that the literary quotations with which his

speeches abound are marred by painful efforts to read his notes. Yet how

he rouses the House, moving it to cheers and laughter, and to the rapid

interchange of volleys of "Hear, hear" from opposite sides of the House,

which Chiltern says is the most exhilarating sound that can reach the

ear of a speaker in the House of Commons. Mr. Lowe sits down with the

same abruptness that marked his rising, and rather gets into his hat

than puts it on, pushing his head so far into its depths that there is

nothing of him left on view save what extends below the line of his

white eyebrows.

To the right of Mr. Lowe I see a figure which, foreshortened from my

point of view, is chiefly distinguishable by a hat and pair of boots.

Without absolute Quaker fashion about the cut of the hat or garments,

there is a breadth about the former and a looseness about the latter

suggestive of Quaker associations. Perhaps if my idea were mercilessly

analysed it would appear that it has its growth in the knowledge that

I am looking down on Mr. Bright, and that I know Mr. Bright is of

Quaker parentage. But I am jotting down my impressions as I receive

them. Mr. Bright does not address the House to-night, but he has made

one or two short speeches this Session, and Chiltern, who has heard

them, speaks quite sorrowfully of the evidence they give of failing

physical power. The orator who once used to hold the House of Commons

under his command with as much ease as Apollo held in hand the fiery

coursers of the chariot of the sun, now stands before it on rare

occasions with a manner more nervous than that in which some new

members make their maiden speech. The bell-like tones of his voice are

heard no more; he hesitates in choosing words, is not sure of the

sequence of his phrases, and resumes his seat with evident

gratefulness for the renewed rest.

Chiltern adds that much of this nervousness is probably owing to a

sensibility of the expectation which his rising arouses in the House,

and a knowledge that he is not about to make the "great speech" looked

for ever since he returned to his old place. But at best the matchless

oratory of John Bright is already a tradition in the House of Commons,

and it is but the ghost of the famous Tribune who now nightly haunts

the scene of his former glories. Mr Gladstone was sitting next to Mr.

Bright, in what the always smiling and obliging attendant tells me is

a favourite attitude with him. His legs were stretched out, his hands

loosely clasped before him, and his head thrown back, resting on the

cushion at the back of the seat, so that the soft light from the

illuminated roof shone full on his upturned face. It is a beautiful

face, soft as a woman's, very pale and worn, with furrowed lines that

tell of labour done and sorrow lived through.

Here again I am conscious of the possibility of my impressions being

moulded by my knowledge of facts; but I fancy I see a great alteration

since last I looked on Mr. Gladstone's face, now two years ago. It was

far away from here, in a big wooden building in a North Wales town. He

was on a platform surrounded by grotesque men in blue gowns and caps,

which marked high rank in Celtic bardship. At that time he was the

nominal leader of a great majority that would not follow him, and

president of a Ministry that thwarted all his steps. His face looked

much harder then, and his eye glanced restlessly round, taking in

every movement of the crowd in the pavilion. He seemed to exist in a

hectic flush of life, and was utterly incapable of taking rest. Now his

face, though still thin, has filled up. The lines on his brow and under

his eyes, though too deeply furrowed to be eradicable, have been

smoothed down, and there is about his face a sense of peace and a

pleasant look of rest.

Chiltern says that sometimes when Mr. Gladstone has been in the House

this Session he has, during the progress of a debate, momentarily

sprung into his old attitude of earnest, eager attention, and there

have been critical moments when his interposition in debate has

appeared imminent. But he has conquered the impulse, lain back again

on the bench, and let the House go its own way. It is very odd,

Chiltern says, to have him sitting there silent in the midst of so

much talking. This was specially felt during the debate about those

Irish Acts with which he had so much to do.

Chiltern tells me that whilst the debate on the Irish Bill was going on

there came from no one knows where, passed from hand to hand along the

benches, a scrap of paper on which was written this verse from "In

Memoriam":--

"At our old pastimes in the hall

We gambol'd making vain pretence

Of gladness, With an awful sense

Of one mute Shadow watching all."

Although the gangway has a distinct and important significance in

marking off nuances of political parties, it appears that it does not

follow as an inevitable sequence that because a man sits behind the

Ministerial bench he is therefore a Taper or a Tadpole, or that because

he takes up his quarters below the gangway he is a John Hampden. The

distinction is more strongly marked on the Liberal side; but even there

there are some honest men who usually obey the crack of the Whip. On the

Conservative side the gangway has scarcely any significance, and though

the Lewisian "Party," which consists solely of Charles, sits there, and

from time to time reminds the world of its existence by loudly shouting

in its ear, it may always be depended upon in a real party division to

swell the Ministerial majority by one vote. The Scotch members, who sit

chiefly on the Liberal side, spread themselves impartially over seats

above and below the gangway. The Home Rule members, who also favour the

Liberal side, sit together in a cluster below the gangway in defiant

proximity to the Sergeant-at-Arms. They are rather noisy at times, and

whenever Chiltern comes in late to dinner, or after going back stays

till all hours in the morning, it is sure to be "those Irish fellows."

But I think the House of Commons ought to be much obliged to Ireland for

its contribution of members, and to resist to the last the principle of

Home Rule. For it is not, as at present constituted, an assembly that

can afford to lose any element that has about it a tinge of originality,

a flash of humour, or an echo of eloquence.

That, of course, is Chiltern's remark. I only know, for my part, that

the Ladies' Gallery is a murky den, in which you can hear very little,

not see much, and are yourself not seen at all.

CHAPTER XVI.

SOME PREACHERS I HAVE KNOWN.

MR. MOODY.

I heard Mr. Moody preach twice when he paid his first visit to this

country. Borrowing an idea from another profession, he had a series of

rehearsals before he came to London. It was in the Free Trade Hall,

Manchester, and service opened at eight o'clock on a frosty morning in

December. I had to stand during the whole of the service, one of a crowd

wedged in the passages between the closely-packed benches. Every

available seat had been occupied shortly after seven, when the doors

were thrown open. The galleries were thronged, and even the balconies at

the rear of the hall were full to overflowing. The audience were, I

should say, pretty equally divided in the matter of sex, and were

apparently of the class of small tradesmen, clerks, and well-to do

mechanics; that was the general class of the morning congregation. But

it must not therefore be understood that the upper class in Manchester

stood aloof from the special services of the American gentlemen. At the

afternoon meeting, elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen, wearing

spotless kid gloves and coats of irreproachable cut, struggled for a

place in the mighty throng that streamed into the hall.

Punctually at eight o'clock the meeting was opened by one of the local

clergymen, who prayed for a blessing on the day and the work, declaring,

amid subdued but triumphant cries from portions of the congregation,

that "the Lord has risen indeed! Now is the stone rolled away from the

sepulchre, and the Kingdom of God is at hand." Mr. Moody, who sat at a

small desk in front of the platform, advanced and gave out the hymn,

"Guide us, O Thou Great Jehovah," the singing of which Mr. Sankey,

sitting before a small harmonium, led and accompanied, the vast

congregation joining with great heartiness.

"Mr. Sankey will now sing a hymn by himself," said Mr. Moody; whereupon

there was a movement in the hall, a rustling of dresses, and a general

settling down to hear something special.

The movement was so prolonged that Mr. Moody again stood up, and begged

that every one would be "perfectly still whilst Mr. Sankey sang." There

was another pause, Mr. Sankey waiting with marked punctiliousness till

the last cougher had got over his difficulty. Presently the profound

stillness was broken by the harmonium--"melodeon" is, I believe, the

precise name of the instrument--softly sounding a bar of music. Then Mr.

Sankey suddenly and loudly broke in with the first line of the hymn,

"What are you going to do, brother?"

Mr Sankey has a fairly good voice, which he used in what is called "an

effective" manner, singing certain lines of the hymn pianissimo, and

giving the recurrent line, "What are you going to do, brother?" forte,

with a long dwelling on the monosyllable "do." When he reached the

last verse, he, after a short pause, began to play a tune well known at

these meetings, into which the congregation struck with a mighty voice

that served to bring into stronger prominence the artificial character

of the preceding performance. The words had a martial, inspiriting sound,

and as the verse rolled forth, filling the great hall with a mighty

musical noise, one could see the eyes of strong men fill with tears.

"Ho, my comrades! see the signal

Waving in the sky;

Reinforcements now appearing,

Victory is nigh!

'Hold the fort, for I am coming,'

Jesus signals still;

Wave the answer back to Heaven,

'By Thy grace we Will.'"

The subject of Mr. Moody's address was "Daniel"--whom he once,

referring to the prophet's position under King Darius, dubbed "the

Bismarck of those times," and always called "Dan'l." One might converse

for an hour with Mr. Moody without discovering from his accent that he

comes from the United States. But it is unmistakable when he preaches,

and especially in the colloquies supposed to have taken place between

characters in the Bible and elsewhere.

He began his discourse without other preface than a half apology for

selecting a subject which, it might be supposed, everybody knew

everything about. But, for his part, he liked to take out and look upon

the photographs of old friends when they were far away, and he hoped his

hearers would not think it waste of time to take another look at the

picture of Dan'l. One peculiarity about Dan'l was that there was nothing

against his character to be found all through the Bible. Nowadays, when

men write biographies, they throw what they call the veil of charity

over the dark spots in a career. But when God writes a man's life he

puts it all in. So it happened that there are found very few, even of

the best men in the Bible, without their times of sin. But Dan'l came out

spotless, and the preacher attributed his exceptionally bright life

to the power of saying "No."

After this exordium, Mr. Moody proceeded to tell in his own words the

story of the life of Daniel. Listening to him, it was not difficult to

comprehend the secret of his power over the masses. Like Bunyan, he

possesses the great gift of being able to realise things unseen, and to

describe his vision in familiar language to those whom he addresses. His

notion of "Babylon, that great city," would barely stand the test of

historic research. But that there really was in far-off days a great

city called Babylon, in which men bustled about, ate and drank, schemed

and plotted, and were finally overruled by the visible hand of God, he

made as clear to the listening congregation as if he were talking about

Chicago.

He filled the lay figures with life, clothed them with garments, and

then made them talk to each other in the English language as it is

to-day accented in some of the American States.

On the previous night I had heard him deliver an address in one of the

densely populated districts of Salford. Admission to the chapel in which

the service was held was exclusively confined to women, and,

notwithstanding it was Saturday night, there were at least a thousand

sober-looking and respectably dressed women present. The subject of the

discussion was Christ's conversation with Nicodemus--whose social

position Mr. Moody incidentally made familiar to the congregation by

observing, "if he had lived in these days, he would have been a doctor

of divinity, Nicodemus, D. D, or perhaps LL D." His purpose was to make

it clear that men are saved, not by any action of their own, but simply

by faith. This he illustrated, among other ways, by introducing a

domestic scene from the life of the children of Israel in the Wilderness

at the time the brazen serpent was lifted up. The dramatis personae were

a Young Convert, a Sceptic, and the Sceptic's Mother. The convert, who

has been bitten by the serpent, and, having followed Moses' injunction,

is cured, "comes along" and finds the sceptic lying down "badly bitten."

He entreats him to look upon the brazen serpent which Moses has lifted

up. But the sceptic has no faith in the alleged cure, and refuses.

"Do you think," he says, "I'm going to be saved by looking at a brass

serpent away off on a pole? No, no."

"Wall, I dunno," says the young convert, "but I was saved that way

myself. Don't you think you'd better try it?"

The sceptic refuses, and his mother "comes along," and observes,

--"Hadn't you better look at it, my boy?"

"Well, mother, the fact is, if I could understand the f'losophy of it I

would look up right off; but I don't see how a brass serpent away off on

a pole can cure me."

And so he dies in his unbelief.

It seemed odd to hear this conversation from the Wilderness recited,

word for word, in the American vernacular, and with a local colouring

that suggested that both the sceptic and the young convert wore

tail-coats, and that the mother had "come along" in a stuff dress. But

when the preacher turned aside, and in a few words spoke of sons who

would not hear the counsel of Christian mothers and refused to "look

up and live," the silent tears that coursed down many a face in the

congregation showed that his homely picture had been clear as the

brazen serpent in the Wilderness to the eyes of faith before which

it was held up.

The story of Daniel is one peculiarly susceptible of Mr. Moody's usual

method of treatment, and for three-quarters of an hour he kept the

congregation at the morning meeting enthralled whilst he told how

Daniel's simple faith triumphed over the machinations of the unbeliever.

Mr. Moody's style is unlike that of most religious revivalists. He

neither shouts nor gesticulates, and mentioned "hell" only once, and

that in connection with the life the drunkard makes for himself. His

manner is reflected by the congregation in respect of abstention from

working themselves up into "a state." This makes all the more impressive

the signs of genuine emotion which follow and accompany the preacher's

utterance. When he was picturing the scene of Daniel translating the

king's dream, rapidly reciting Daniel's account of the dream, and

Nebuchadnezzar's quick and delighted ejaculation, "That's so!" "That's

it!" as he recognised the incidents, I fancied it was not without

difficulty some of the people, bending forward, listening with

glistening eye and heightened colour, refrained from clapping their

hands for glee that the faithful Daniel, the unyielding servant of

God, had triumphed over tribulation, and had walked out of prison

to take his place on the right hand of the king.

There was not much exhortation throughout the discourse, not the

slightest reference to any disputed point of doctrine. It was nothing

more than a re-telling of the story of Daniel. But whilst

Nebuchadnezzar, Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, Darius, and even

the hundred and twenty princes, became for the congregation living and

moving beings, all the ends of the narrative were, with probably

unconscious, certainly unbetrayed, art, gathered together to lead up to

the one lesson--that compromise, where truth and religion are concerned,

is never worthy of those who profess to believe God's word.

"I am sick of the shams of the present day," said Mr. Moody, bringing

his discourse to a sudden close. "I am tired of the way men parley

with the world whilst they are holding out their hands to be lifted

into heaven. If we're gwine to be good Christians and God's people let

us be so out-and-out."

"BENDIGO."

Bendigo, the erewhile famous champion of England, I one evening found in

the pulpit at the London Cabman's Mission Hall. After quitting the ring,

Bendigo took to politics; that is to say, he, for a consideration,

directed at Parliamentary elections the proceedings of the "lambs" in

his native town of Nottingham. Now he had given up even that

worldliness, and had taken to preaching. His fame had brought together a

large congregation. The Hall was crowded to overflowing, and the

proceedings were, as one of the speakers described it, conducted "by

shifts," the leaders, including Bendigo, going downstairs to address the

crowd collected in the lower room after having spoken to the

congregation in the regular meeting hall.

The service was opened with prayer by Mr. John Dupee, superintendent of

the Mission, after which the congregation vigorously joined in the

singing of a hymn. A second hymn followed upon the reading of a psalm;

and Mr. Dupee proceeded to say a few words about "our dear and saved

brother, Bendigo." With a frankness that in no wise disconcerted the

veteran prizefighter, Mr. Dupee discussed and described the condition

in which he had lived up to about two years ago. The speaker was, it

appeared, a fellow-townsman of Bendigo's, and his recollection of him

went back for nearly forty years, at which time his state was so bad

that Mr. Dupee, then a lad, used to walk behind him through the streets

of Nottingham praying that he might be forgiven. Now he was saved, and,

quoting the handbill that had advertised the meeting, Mr. Dupee hailed

him as "a miracle of mercy, the greatest miracle of the nineteenth

century," which view the congregation approved by fervent cries of

"Praise the Lord!" "Hallelujah!"

Whether Bendigo would stand steadfast in the new course he had begun

to tread was a matter which--Mr. Dupee did not hide it--was freely

discussed in the circles where the ex-champion was best known. But

he had now gone straight for two years, and Mr. Dupee believed he

would keep straight.

Before introducing Bendigo to the meeting, Mr. Dupee said his own

"brother Jim" would say a few words, his claim upon the attention of

the congregation being enforced by the asseveration that he was "the

next great miracle of the nineteenth century." From particulars which

Mr. Dupee proceeded to give in relation to the early history of his

brother, it would be difficult to decide whether he or Bendigo had

the fuller claim to the title of the "wickedest man in Nottingham."

A single anecdote told to the discredit of his early life must

suffice in indication of its general character. He was, it appeared,

always getting tipsy and arriving home at untimely hours.

"One night," said the preacher, "he came home very late, and was

kicking up an awful row in the street just before he came in. I

opened the window, and, looking out, said to him very gently, 'Now

Jim, do come in without waking mother.' And what d'ye think he said?

Why, he said nothing, but just up with a brick and heaved it at me.

That was Jim in the old days," he continued, turning to his brother

with an admiring glance. "He always was lively as a sinner, and

he's just the same now he's on his way to join the saints."

"Jim" even at the outset fully justified this exordium by suddenly

approaching the pulpit desk with his hands stretched out, singing the

"Hallelujah band." In the course of an address delivered with much

animation and filled with startling phrases, it became clear that

"Jim" had been the immediate instrument of the conversion of Bendigo.

He added considerably to the stock of information respecting the

early life of that personage, and told in detail how better things

began to dawn upon him.

At the outset of his new career Bendigo's enthusiasm was somewhat

misdirected, as was manifested at an infidel meeting he attended in

company with his sponsor.

"Who's them chaps on the platform?" said Bendigo to Jim.

"Infidels," said Jim.

"What's that?" queried Bendigo.

"Why, fellows as don't believe in God or the devil."

"Then come along, and we'll soon clear the platform," said Bendigo,

beginning to strip.

Jim's address lasted for nearly half an hour, and when at last brought

to a conclusion he went below to "begin again" with the crowd in the

lower room.

Mr. Dupee again appeared at the desk and said they would sing a verse

of a hymn, after which Bendigo would address them, and the plate would

be handed round for a collection to cover the cost of the bills and of

Bendigo's travelling expenses. The hymn was a well-known one, with, as

given out by the preacher, an alteration in the second line thus:

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow,

Praise Him for brother Bendigo."

This sung with mighty volume of sound, Bendigo, who had all this time

been quietly seated on the platform, advanced, and began to speak in a

simple, unaffected, but wholly unintelligent manner. He was decently

dressed in a frock-coat, with black velveteen waistcoat buttoned over

his broad chest. He was still, despite his threescore years, straight

as a pole; and had a fine healthy looking face, that belied the fearful

stories told by his friends of his dissipation. Except a certain

flattening of the bridge of the nose, a slight indentation on the

forehead between the eyebrows, and the crooked finger on his left hand,

he bore no traces of many pitched fights of which he is the hero, and

might in such an assembly have been taken for a mild-mannered family

coachman.

His address, though occasionally marked by the grotesque touches which

characterised the remarks of the two preceding speakers, was not without

touches of pathos.

"I've been a fighting character," he said, and this was a periphrastic

way of referring to his old occupation in which he evidently took great

pleasure; "but now I'm a Miracle. What could I do? I was the

youngest-born of twenty-one children, and the first thing done with me

was to put me in a workhouse. There I got among fellows who brought me

out, and I became a fighting character. Thirty years ago I came up to

London to fight Ben Caunt, and I licked him. I'm sixty-three now, and

I didn't think I should ever come up to London to fight for King Jesus.

But here I am, and I wish I could read out of the blessed Book for then

I could talk to you better. But I never learnt to read, though I'm

hoping by listening to the conversation around me to pick up a good

deal of the Bible, and then I'll talk to you better. I'm only two years

old at present, and know no more than a baby. It's two years ago since

Jesus came to me and had a bout with me, and I can tell you He licked

me in the first round. He got me down on my knees the first go, and

there I found grace. I've got a good many cups and belts which I won

when I was a fighting character. Them cups and belts will fade, but

there's a crown being prepared for old Bendigo that'll never fade."

This and much more to the same purport the veteran said, and then Mr.

Dupee interposed with more "few words," the plate was sent round, and

the superintendent and Bendigo went downstairs to relieve "brother Jim,"

the echo of whose stentorian voice had occasionally been wafted in at

the open door whilst Bendigo was relating his experiences.

"FIDDLER JOSS."

It was at another Mission Chapel in Little Wild Street, Drury Lane, that

I "sat under" Fiddler Joss. His "dictionary name," as in the course of

the evening I learned from one of his friends, is Mr. Joseph Poole. The

small bills which invited all into whose hands they might fall to "come

and hear Fiddler Joss" added the injunction "Come early to secure a

seat." The doors were opened at half-past six, and those who obeyed the

injunction found themselves in a somewhat depressing minority. At

half-past six there were not more than a score of people present, and

these looked few indeed within the walls of the spacious chapel. It is a

surprise to find so well-built, commodious, it may almost be added

handsome, a building in such a poor neighbourhood, and bearing so humble

a designation. It provides comfortable sitting room for twelve hundred

persons. There is a neat, substantial gallery running round the hall,

and forming at one end a circular pulpit, evidently designed after the

fashion of Mr. Spurgeon's at the Tabernacle--a building of which the

Mission Chapel is in many respects a miniature.

The congregation began to drop in by degrees, and proved to be of a

character altogether different from what might have been expected in

such a place on such an occasion. Out of ten people perhaps one belonged

to the class among which London missionaries are accustomed to labour.

But while men and women of the "casual" order were almost entirely

absent, and men of what is called in this connection "the working class"

were few and far between, there entered by hundreds people who looked as

if they were the responsible owners of snug little businesses in the

provision, stationery, or "general" line. An air of profound

respectability, combined with the enjoyment of creature comforts,

prevailed.

Whilst waiting for seven o'clock, the hour for the service to commence,

a voluntary choir sang hymns, and the rapidly growing congregation

joined in fitful snatches of harmony. Little hymn-books with green paper

backs were liberally distributed, and there was no excuse for silence on

the score of unfamiliarity with the hymns selected. At seven o'clock the

preacher of the evening appeared on the rostrum, accompanied by two

gentlemen accustomed, it appeared, to take a leading part in conducting

the service in the chapel. One gave out a hymn, reading it verse by

verse, and starting the tune with stentorian voice. This concluded, his

colleague prayed, in a loud voice, and with energetic action. "We must

have souls to-night," he said, smiting the rail of the pulpit; "we must

have souls--not by ones and twos--and we must have them to-night in this

place. There is a drunkard in this place. Give us his soul, O God! There

is a thief in this place; I do not know where he sits, but God knows. We

want to benefit God, and we must have souls to-night, not by twos and

threes, but in hundreds."

After this there was another hymn, sung even with increased volume of

sound. Energy was the predominant characteristic of the whole service,

and it reached its height in the singing of hymns, when the congregation

found the opportunity of joining their leaders in the devotional

utterance. There were half a dozen women in the congregation who had

solved the home difficulty about the baby by bringing it with them to

chapel. The little ones, catching the enthusiasm of the place, joined

audibly in all the acts of worship save in the singing. They crowed

during the prayers, chattered during the reading of the lesson, and

loudly wept at intervals throughout the sermon. But there was no room

for their shrill voices in the mighty shout which threatened to rend the

roof when hymns were sung.

Fiddler Joss, being impressively introduced by one of the gentlemen in

the pulpit, began without preface to read rapidly from the fifth chapter

of Romans, a task he accomplished with the assistance of a pair of

double eyeglasses. He formally appropriated no text, and it would be

difficult to furnish any connected account of his sermon. Evidently

accustomed to address open-air audiences, he spoke at the topmost pitch

of a powerful voice. Without desire to misapply rules of criticism, and

in furtherance of an honest intention to describe impressions in as

simple a form as may be, it must be added that the sermon was as far

above the heads of a mission-chapel congregation as was the pitch of the

preacher's voice. Its key-note was struck by an anecdote which Joss

introduced at the outset of his discourse. There was, he said, a

clergyman walking down Cheapside one day, when he heard a man calling

out, "Buy a pie." The clergyman looked at the man, and recognised in him

a member of his church.

"What, John," he said, "is this what you do in the weekdays?"

"Yes," said the man, "I earn an honest living by selling pies."

"Poor fellow," said the parson, "how I pity you."

"Bother your pity; buy a pie," retorted the man.

That, according to Fiddler Joss, is the way in which constituted

authorities in church and chapel matters deal with the poor man in

London and elsewhere. Mr. Methodist would not speak to Mr. Baptist, Mr.

Wesleyan would have nothing to do with Mr. Congregationalist, Mr. High

Church scoffed at Mr. Low Church, Mr. Low Church did not care what

became of any of the rest, and among them all the poor man was utterly

neglected.

"How we pity you," these people said to the poor man.

"Bother your pity," the poor man answered; "buy a pie."

Beyond this central argument, affirmation, or illustration, Fiddler Joss

did not get far in the course of the thirty-five minutes during which he

addressed the congregation. At this period he suddenly stopped, and

asked for the sympathy of his friends, explaining that he was subject to

attacks of sickness, one of the legacies of the days of sin, when he was

"five years drunk and never sober." After a pause he recommenced, and

continued for some five minutes longer, when he abruptly wound up,

apparently having got through only one half of his discourse.

It is only fair to regard the sermon as an incomplete one, and to

believe that the message which "Fiddler Joss" had entered St. Giles's to

speak to the poor and suffering lay in the second and undelivered

portion.

DEAN STANLEY.

On St. Andrew's Day, 1875, I was present at two memorable services in

Westminster Abbey. For many years during Dean Stanley's reign this

particular day had been set apart for the holding of special services

on behalf of foreign missions. What made this occasion memorable in the

annals of the Church was the fact that the evening lecture was delivered

by Dr. Moffat, a Nonconformist minister who, in the year after the

Battle of Waterloo, began his career as a missionary to South Africa,

and finally closed his foreign labours in the year when Sedan was

fought. As being the first time a Nonconformist minister had officiated

in Westminster Abbey, the event created wide interest, and lost none of

its importance by the remarkable sermon preached in the afternoon by

Dean Stanley.

The Dean took for his text two verses, one from the Old Testament, the

other from the New. The first was from the 45th Psalm, and ran thus:

"Instead of thy fathers shall be thy children, whom thou mayest make

princes in all the earth." The second was the 16th verse of the 10th

chapter of the Gospel of St. John: "And other sheep I have, which are

not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear My

voice; and there shall be one fold and one shepherd." Thus the verse

runs in the ordinary translation, but the Dean preferred the word

"flock" in place of fold, and used it throughout his discourse.

Referring to an address recently delivered by Mr. W. E. Forster on

"Our Colonies," the Dean observed that the right hon. gentleman had set

himself the task of considering the question, "What were to be the

future relations of the Mother Country to the Colonies?" The Dean

proposed to follow the same course, with this difference: that the

empire of which he had to speak was a spiritual empire, and the question

he would consider was what ought to be the policy of the Church of

England towards fellow-Christians separated from it on matters of form.

There were, he said, three courses open to the Church. There was the

policy of abstention and isolation; there was the policy of

extermination or absorption; and there was a middle course, avoiding

abstention and not aiming at absorption, which consisted of holding

friendly and constant intercourse with Christians of other Churches,

earnestly and lovingly endeavouring to create as many points of contact

as were compatible with holding fast the truth. The errors of all

religions run into each other, just as their truths do. There was, no

doubt, some exaggeration in the statement of the Roman Catholic

authority who declared that "there is but one bad religion, and that is

the religion of the man who professes what he does not believe." But

there was no reason why, because the Church of England had done in times

past and was still doing grand work, there should be no place for the

Nonconformists. Church people rejoiced, and Nonconformists might

rejoice, that the prayers of the Church of England were enshrined in a

Liturgy radiant with the traditions of a glorious past. But that was no

reason why there should be no room where good work was being done for

men who preferred the chances of extemporaneous prayer--a custom of

Apostolic origin, and perhaps (very daintily this was put) fittest for

the exigencies of special occasions.

If some of the extremer Nonconformists, desirous of wrapping

themselves in the mantle once worn by Churchmen, and possessed by a love

for uniformity so exaggerated that they would tear down ancient

institutions and reduce all Churches to the same level, there was no

reason why Churchmen should return evil for evil and repay contumely

with scorn. There was a nobler mission for Christians than that of

seeking to exterminate each other, a higher object than that of

endeavouring to sow the seeds of vulgar prejudice either against new

discoveries or ancient institutions.

DR. MOFFAT.

Dean Stanley preached his sermon within the chancel, and it formed part

of the customary afternoon service of the Church of England. Dr. Moffat

delivered his lecture in the nave, its simple preface being the singing

of the missionary hymn, "From Greenland's icy mountains."

The pioneer of missionary labour in South Africa was at this time close

upon his eightieth year, but he seemed to have thriven upon hard work,

and showed no signs of physical weakness. His full, rich voice, musical

with a northern accent, which long residence in South Africa had not

robbed of a note, filled every corner of the long aisle, and no section

of the vast congregation was disappointed by reason of not hearing.

Wearing a plain Geneva robe with the purple hood of his academic degree,

he stood at the lectern, situated not many paces from the grave where

his friend and son-in-law, Dr. Livingstone, lies.

Dean Stanley was one of many clergymen present, and occupied a seat just

in front of the lectern.

Dr. Moffat began by protesting that he was very nervous, because, having

been accustomed for fifty years or more to speak and teach and preach in

a language altogether different from European, he had contracted a habit

of thinking in that language, and sometimes found it momentarily

difficult to find the exact expression of his thoughts in English.

"If I might," he said, with a touch of dry humour that frequently

lighted up his discourse, "speak to you in the Betchuana tongue I could

get along with ease. However, I will do what I can."

The lecture resolved itself into a quiet, homely, and exceedingly

interesting chat, chiefly about the Betchuanas, with whom Dr. Moffat

longest laboured. When he arrived in the country, early in the present

century, he found the people sunk in the densest ignorance. Unlike most

heathen tribes, they had no idea of a God, no notion of a hereafter.

There was not an idol to be found in all their province, and one the

lecturer's daughter showed to an intelligent leader of the people

excited his liveliest astonishment. He was, indeed, so hopelessly

removed from a state of civilisation that he ridiculed the notion of any

one worshipping a thing made with his own hands.

Dr. Moffat seems to have been, on the whole, kindly received by the

natives, though they could not make out what he wanted there. A special

stumbling-block to them was, how it came to pass that when, as sometimes

happened, he and Mrs Moffat were disrespectfully treated, they did not

retaliate. This was satisfactorily explained to the popular mind by the

assertion of a distinguished member of the community that the foreigners

had run away from their country, and were content to bear any treatment

rather than return to their own people, who would infallibly kill them.

The great difficulty met by Dr. and Mrs. Moffat on the threshold of

their mission was their ignorance of the native language. There were no

interpreters, and there was nothing for it but to grub along, patiently

picking up words as they went. The Betchuanas were willing to teach them

as far as they could, occasionally relieving the monotony of the lesson

by a little joke at the pupils' expense. Once, Dr. Moffat told his

hearers, a sentence was written down on a piece of paper, and he was

instructed to take it to an aged lady, who was to give him something he

was in need of. He found the old lady, who was scarcely handsome, and

was decidedly wrinkled, and upon presenting the paper "she blushed very

much." It turned out that the missionary had been the unconscious bearer

of a message asking the old lady to kiss him, "which," Dr. Moffat added,

with a seriousness that appeared to indicate a sense of the awkwardness

of the position still present in his mind, "I did not want to do at

all."

But he mastered the language at last, and then his moral mastery over

the strange people amongst whom he had been thrown commenced. He found a

firm ally in the Queen, who, first attracted by the flavour of the pills

and other delicacies he was accustomed to administer to her in his

capacity of physician, became his constant and powerful friend. Under

her auspices Christianity flourished, and in Betchuana at the present

time, where once a printed book was regarded as the white man's charm,

thousands now are able to read and treasure the Bible as formerly they

treasured the marks which testified to the number of enemies they had

slain in battle. Peace reigns where once blood ran, and over a vast

tract of country civilisation is closely following in the footsteps of

the missionary.

Dr. Moffat concluded a simple address, followed with intense interest by

the congregation, by an earnest plea for help for foreign missions. "If

every child of God in Europe and America," he said, "would give

something to this mission, the dark cloud which lies over this neglected

and mysterious continent would soon be lighted, and before many years

are passed we might behold the blessed sight of all Africa stretching

forth her hands to God."

MR. SPURGEON.

In a lane leading from the station at Addlestone is a massive oak,

which, if the gossips of the neighbourhood be trustworthy, has seen some

notable sights. It is said that under its far-reaching branches

"Wycliffe has preached and Queen Elizabeth dined."

Here one summer evening I first heard Mr. Spurgeon preach. The occasion

was in connection with the building of a new Baptist Chapel, and when I

arrived the foundation stone was being utilised as a receptacle for

offerings, over which Mr. Spurgeon, sitting on the wall, and shaded from

the sun by an umbrella reverently held over his head by a disciple,

jovially presided.

After tea a pulpit was extemporised, upon the model of the one at the

Tabernacle, by covering an empty provision box with red baize, and

fastening before it a wooden railing, also with its decent covering of

baize. A pair of steps, constructed with a considerable amount of

trouble, were placed in position before the rostrum; but when, a few

minutes after seven o'clock, the preacher appeared, he scorned their

assistance, and scrambled on to the box from the level of the field,

grasping the rail as soon as he was in a position to face the

congregation, as if he recognised in it a familiar friend, whose

presence made him feel at home under the novel circumstances that

surrounded him. There might, when Mr. Spurgeon stood up, have been

some doubt whether his voice could be heard throughout the vast throng

gathered in front of the tree. But the first tones of the speaker's

voice dispelled uncertainty, and the congregation settled quietly down,

whilst Mr. Spurgeon, with uplifted hands, besought "the Spirit of God to

be with them, even as in their accustomed places of worship." A hymn was

sung, a portion of the 55th chapter of Isaiah read, another prayer

offered up, and the preacher commenced his Sermon.

He took for his text a portion of the 36th verse of the 9th chapter of

Matthew--"He was moved with compassion." At the outset he sketched, with

rapid eloquence, the history of Jesus Christ. The first declaration that

might have startled one not accustomed to the preacher's style of

oratory was his expression of a preference for people who absolutely

hated religion over those who simply regarded it with indifference.

These former were people who showed they did think, and, like Saul of

Tarsus, there was hope of their conversion.

"It is," he said, "a great time when the Lord goes into the devil's

army, and, looking around him, sees some lieutenant, and says to him,

'Come along; you have served the black master long enough, I have need

of you now.' It is astonishing how quietly he comes along, and what a

valiant fight he fights on the side of his new master."

Mr. Spurgeon had a protest to make against the practice of refusing to

help the poor except through the machinery of the Poor Law. Referring to

Christ's having compassionated the hungry crowd and fed them, he said:

"If Jesus Christ were alive now and presumed to feed a crowd of people,

He would be had up by some society or other, and prosecuted for

encouraging mendicancy. If He were alive in these days He would, I much

fear, have occasion to say, 'I was hungry, and ye fed Me not; thirsty,

and ye gave Me no drink; destitute, and you told Me to go on the

parish.'"

He thought tracts were very good things in their way, but should not be

relied upon solely as a means of bringing poor people to the Lord. "I

believe a loaf of bread often contains the very essence of theology, and

the Church of God ought to look to it that there are at her gates no,

poor unfed, no sick untended." He was rather hard on "the clergy of all

denominations," regretting to say that "as fish always stunk first at

the head, so a Church when it goes wrong goes bad first among its

ministers." He concluded by an eloquent appeal to his hearers to lose no

time in seeking salvation, calling "heaven and earth, and this old tree,

under which the Gospel was preached five hundred years ago, to bear

witness that I have preached to you the word of God, in which alone

salvation is to be found."

The sermon occupied exactly an hour in the delivery, and was listened to

throughout with profound attention. When it was over, Mr. Spurgeon held

a sort of levée from the pulpit, the people pressing round to shake his

hand, and it was nearly nine o'clock before the last of the congregation

had passed away, leaving Wycliffe's Tree to its accustomed solitude.

The next time I heard Mr. Spurgeon preach was in his famous church. The

Tabernacle will hold six thousand people when full, and on this night it

was thronged from door to door, and from floor to ceiling, with a

congregation gathered together to "watch" whilst the Old Year died and

the New was born. At eleven o'clock when Mr. Spurgeon, gownless and

guiltless of white neck-tie, or other clerical insignia, unceremoniously

walked on to the platform which serves him for pulpit, there was not a

foot of vacant space in the vast area looked down upon from the

galleries, for even the aisles were thronged. The capacious galleries

that rise tier over tier to the roof were crowded in like manner, and

the preacher stood, faced and surrounded by a congregation, the sight of

which might well move to the utterance of words that burn a man who had

within him a fount of thoughts that breathe.

There was no other prelude to the service than the simply spoken

invitation, "Let us pray," and the six thousand, declaring themselves

"creatures of time," bent the knee with one accord to ask the "Lord of

Eternity" to bless them in the coming year. After this a hymn was sung,

Mr. Spurgeon reading out verse by verse, with occasional commentary, and

not unfrequent directions to the congregation as to the manner of their

singing.

"Dear friends, the devil sometimes makes you lag half a note behind the

leader. Just try if you can't prevail over him to-night, and keep up in

proper time."

There is no organ, nor even a tuning-fork, in use at the Tabernacle. But

the difficulties, apparently insuperable under these circumstances, of

leading so vast a congregation in the singing of unpractised tunes is

almost overcome by the skilful generalship of the gentleman who steps

forward to the rails beside the preacher's table, pitches the note,

and leads the singing. The hymn brought to a conclusion, Mr. Spurgeon

read and commented upon a passage of Scripture from the 25th of Matthew.

Then another hymn. "Sing this verse very softly and solemnly," says the

pastor; and the congregation in hushed tones, that seem to thrill all

through the aisles and up through the crowded galleries, sing:

"Who of us death's awful road

In the coming year shall tread,

With Thy rod and staff, O God,

Comfort Thou his dying bed."

After another prayer from the pastor, and one from one of the deacons

who accompanied him on the platform and sat behind in the crimson velvet

arm-chairs, a third hymn was sung, and Mr. Spurgeon began his short

address.

He took for text the 42nd verse of the 12th chapter of Exodus: "It is a

night to be much observed unto the Lord for bringing them out from the

land of Egypt: this is that night of the Lord to be observed of all the

children of Israel in their generations." The night referred to in the

text was that of the Passover--"a night of salvation, decision,

emigration, and exultation," said the preacher, "and I pray God that

this night, the last of a memorable year, may be the same for you, my

friends. Oh for a grand emigration among you like that of the departure

of the people of Israel--an emptying out of old Egypt, a robbing of

Pharaoh of his slaves, and the devil of his dupes!"

It was understood that Mr. Spurgeon was labouring under severe

indisposition, and probably this fact gave to his brief address a tone

comparatively quiet and unimpassioned. Only once did he rise to the

fervent height of oratory to which his congregation are accustomed, and

that at the close, when, with uplifted hands and louder voice, he

apostrophised the parting year: "Thou art almost gone, and if thou goest

now the tidings to the throne of God will be that such and such a soul

is yet unsaved. Oh, stay yet a while, Year, that thou mayest carry with

thee glad tidings that the soul is saved! Thy life is measured now by

seconds, but all things are possible with God, and there is still time

for the salvation of many souls."

At five minutes to twelve the preacher paused, and bade his hearers "get

away to the Throne of Grace, and in silent prayer beseech the Almighty

to bless you with a rich and special blessing in the new year He is

sending you."

The congregation bent forward and a great silence was upon it, broken

only by half-stifled coughing here and there, and once by the wailing of

an infant in the gallery. The minutes passed slowly and solemnly as the

Old Year's "face grew sharp and thin" under the ticking of the clock

over the kneeling preacher and his deacons. The minutes dwindled down to

seconds, and then--

"Alack, our friend is gone!

Close up his eyes, tie up his chin

Step from the corpse, and let him in

That standeth at the door."

"Now, as we have passed into the New Year," said Mr. Spurgeon, advancing

to the rails as the last stroke of midnight died away, "I do not think

we can do better than join in singing 'Praise God from whom all

blessings flow.'"

No need now of instructions how to sing. The congregation were almost

before the leader in raising the familiar strain, with which six

thousand voices filled the spacious Tabernacle.

Then came the benediction, and a cheery "I wish you all a happy New

Year, my friends," from Mr. Spurgeon.

A great shout of "The same to you!" arose in response from basement and

galleries, and the congregation passed out into a morning so soft, and

light, and mild, that it seemed as if the seasons were out of joint, and

that the New Year had been born in the springtime.

IN THE RAGGED CHURCH.

The Ragged Church is one of the numerous by-paths through which the

managers of the Field Lane Institution strive to approach and benefit

the poor of London. It is situate in Little Saffron Hill, Farringdon

Road, the service being held in a barn-like room, which on weekdays

serves for school, and is capable of accommodating a thousand children.

No money has been expended in architectural embellishment, and no

question of a controversial character is likely to arise in connection

with accessories in the shape of altar, surplice, or candles. The Ragged

Church avoids these stumbling-blocks by the simple expedient of doing

without candles, surplices, or altar. It does not even boast a pulpit,

but draws the line so as to take in a harmonium, indispensable for

leading the tunes. At one end of the room is a platform, on which the

harmonium stands, and whereon the service is conducted.

It is the congregation rather than the preacher that I remember best in

connection with the Ragged Church. Half-past eleven is the hour for the

commencement of service, and was fixed upon chiefly to suit the

convenience of a portion of the congregation, who, having slept

overnight in the casual wards, are considerately detained in them till

eleven o'clock, by which time society is supposed to be comfortably

seated in its own churches, and is thus saved the shock of suddenly

coming upon Rags and Tatters going to church or elsewhither--Rags and

Tatters, it being well understood, not always showing themselves proof

against the temptation of improving the occasion by begging. At a

quarter to eleven there filed into the church threescore little girls,

all dressed in wincey dresses, with brown, furry jackets and little

brown hats, a monotony of colour that served to bring into fuller

contrast the red and black wool scarf each wore tightly tied round her

neck. They all looked bright, clean, and happy, and one noted a

considerable proportion of pretty-faced and delicately-limbed children.

How they were born, or with what parentage, is in many cases a question

to which the records of the institution supply no answer. They were

simply "found" on a doorstep, or arrested when wandering about the

street crying for the mother or the father who had cast them off. This

class of school-girl is generally distinguished by the fineness of her

Christian name, Blanche, and Lily, and Constance, being among the waifs

and strays who have found a refuge with the kindly matron of the Field

Lane Institution. There are others whose history is written plainly

enough in the records of the police-courts.

There is one, a prematurely aged little woman in her eleventh year, who,

previous to being sent here, passed of her own free will night after

night in the streets, living through the day on her wits, which are very

sharp. Another, about the same age, when taken into custody on something

more than suspicion of picking pockets, was found the possessor of no

fewer than seven purses. A third, who is understood to be now in her

ninth year, earned a handsome livelihood in the Haymarket by frequenting

the public houses, and with dramatic gestures singing the more popular

concert-hall songs. One of the most determined and head-strong young

ladies of the establishment was not privileged to be present at the

morning service, being, in fact, in bed, where she was detained with the

hope that amid the silence and solitude of the empty chamber she might

be brought to see in its true light the heinousness of the offence of

wilfully depositing her boots in a pail of water.

Conviction for offences against the law is by no means a general

characteristic of the girls. For the most part, destitution has been the

simple ground on which they have obtained admission to the institution.

The girls being seated on the front benches to the right of the

harmonium, the tramp of many feet was heard, and there entered by the

opposite side of the church some sixty boys in corduroys, short jackets,

and clean collars. They took up a position on the left of the harmonium,

and, with one consent, gravely folded their arms. Their private history

is, in its general features, much the same as that of the girls. All

are sent hither by order of the police-court magistrate, but

many have not committed any crime save the unpardonable one of being

absolutely and hopelessly homeless. It is not difficult, stating the

broad rule, to pick out from the boys those who have been convicted of

crime. As compared with the rest they are generally brighter looking,

and gifted with a stronger physique.

The distinction was strongly marked by the conjunction of two boys who

sat together on the front form. One who had stolen nothing less than a

coalscuttle, observed projecting from an ironmonger's shop in Drury

Lane, was a sturdy, ruddy-cheeked little man, who folded his arms in a

composed manner, and listened with an inquiring interest to the words

poured forth over his head from the platform. The boy next to him, a

pale-faced, inert lad, who stared straight before him with lack-lustre

eyes, had the saddest of all boys' histories. He was born in a casual

ward, his father died in a casual ward, and his mother nightly haunts

the streets of London in pursuance of an elaborately devised plan, by

which she is able so to time her visits to the various casual wards as

never to be turned away from any on the ground that she had slept there

too recently.

The foreground of the Ragged Church was bright enough, for whilst there

is youth there is hope, and in the present case there is also the

knowledge that these children are under guardianship at once kind and

wise. Presently the back benches began to fill with a congregation such

as no other church in London might show. Crushed-looking women in limp

bonnets, scanty shawls, and much-patched dresses crept quietly in. With

them, though not in their company, came men of all ages, and of a

general level of ragged destitution--a gaunt, haggard, hungry, and

hopeless congregation as ever went to church on a Sunday morning. Some

had passed the night in the Refuge attached to the institution; many had

come straight from the casual wards; others had spent the long hours

since sundown in the streets; and one, a hale old man who diffused

around him an air of respectability and comfort, was a lodger at

Clerkenwell Workhouse. His snuff-coloured coat with two brass buttons at

the back was the solitary whole garment visible in this section of the

congregation.

It was his "Sunday out" and having had his breakfast at the workhouse,

he had, by way of distraction, come to spend the morning and eat his

lunch at the Field Lane Institution.

One man might be forgiven if he slept all through the sermon, for, as he

explained, he had "passed a very bad night." He had settled himself to

sleep on various doorsteps, with the fog for a blanket and the railings

for pillow. But there appeared what in his experience was a quite

uncommon activity on the part of the police, and he had been "moved on"

from place to place till morning broke, and he had not slept a wink or

had half an hour's rest for the sole of his foot.

There were not many of the labouring class among the couple of hundred

men who made up this miserable company. They were chiefly broken-down

people, who, as tradesmen, clerks, or even professional men, had

gradually sunk till they came to regard admission to the casual ward at

night as the cherished hope that kept them up as they shuffled their

way through the day. One man, who over a marvellous costume of rags

carried the mark of respectability comprehended in a thin black silk

necktie tied around a collarless neck, is the son of a late colonel of

artillery, and has a brother at the present time a lieutenant in one of

her Majesty's ships. After leading a reckless life, he turned his

musical acquirements to account by joining the band of a marching

regiment. Unfortunately, the death of his grandfather, two years ago,

made him uncontrolled possessor of £500, and now he is dodging his

way among the casual wards of London, holding on to respectability and

his good connections by this poor black silk necktie.

Among the congregation was a bright-eyed, honest-looking lad bearing the

familiar name of John Smith. Three months ago he was earning his living

in a Yorkshire coal pit, when a strike among the men threw him out of

work. There being no prospect of doing anything in Yorkshire, he set out

for London, having, as he said, "heard it was a great place, where work

was plenty." With three shillings in his pocket he started from Leeds,

and walked to London, doing the journey in nine days. He had neither

recommendation nor introduction other than his bright, honest, and

intelligent face, and that seems to have served him only to the extent

of getting an odd job that occupied him two days.

The service opened with singing, of which there was a plentiful

repetition, the boys and girls in the foreground singing, the melancholy

throng behind standing dumb. Hymn-books were supplied to them, and if

they could read they might have found on the page from which the first

hymn was taken a hymn so curiously infelicitous to the occasion that it

is worth quoting a couple of verses. These are the two first:--

Let us gather up the sunbeams

Lying all around our path;

Let us keep the wheat and roses,

Casting out the thorns and chaff;

Let us find our sweetest comfort

In the blessings of to-day

With a patient hand removing

All the briars from the way.

Strange we never prize the music

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown,

Strange that we should slight the violets

Till the lovely flowers are gone;

Strange that summer skies and sunshine

Never seem one half so fair

As when winter's snowy pinions

Shake the white down in the air.

After the opening hymns Sankey's Sacred Song-Book, in which this rhymed

nonsense appears, was abandoned, and the congregation took to the

admirable little selection of hymns compiled for the use of the

institution, containing much less sentiment, and perhaps on the whole

more suitable. After prayer and a short address, the boys and girls

filed out as they had come in. Then the rest of the congregation rose,

and as they passed out received a large piece of bread, supplemented by

the distribution from a room on a lower storey of a cup of hot cocoa.

Stretching all down the long flight of stone steps, they drank their

cocoa and greedily munched the bread, and when it was done passed out

into the sabbath noon, to slouch about the great city till the doors of

the casual wards were open.

They had "gathered up all the sunbeams lying around their path" as far

as the day had advanced, and there was no more for them till, at eight

o'clock in the evening, the bread and tea should be set out before them

under the workhouse roof.

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Faces and Places, by Sir Henry W. Lucy

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE