Days of the past : a medley of memories

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DAYS OF THE PAST

DAYS OF THE PAST

a jHeDle^ of 0itmom^

BY

ALEXANDER INNES SHAND

AUTHOR OF 'old-time TRAVEL'

NEW YORK

E. P. BUTTON AND COMPANY

1905

SS^A.

CONTENTS

PAGE
I

I. THE RURAL REVOLUTION

II. THE CHANGES IN LONDON 15

III. THE EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL AND

RESTAURANT ....

IV. IN LONDON LODGINGS .

V. THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES .
VI. OLDER EDINBURGH

VII. OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM
VIII. SOME MILITARY MEMORIES

29

53
72

91
III

i-?6

IX. SOME FLUTTERS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE 159

X. LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS
XI. MORE LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS
XII. FRIENDS OF THE ATHENtEUM .

XIII. RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN

XIV. KEEPERS AND HILL SHEPHERDS
XV. THE SHEPHERDS AND THE POACHERS

XVI. THE LAST OF THE ROAD .

172

201

225
250

273
291

304

CZC:€\A -'S iTi

CHAPTER I

THE RURAL REVOLUTION

Lord Cockburn, in his Circuit Journeys, remarks
on the marvellous improvements he had seen on
his progresses through Aberdeenshire. Memory-
does not carry me quite so far back, though I
have seen his lordship seated on the bench, but
I can remember much of the devolution of the
transformation. Few of the semi-lowland shires
had to contend with crreater disadvantagfes. The
uplands were highland ; the midlands were hill
and moss ; and the eastern flats, with the bleak
coast of Buchan, are swept by bitter gales from
the Pole. In Buchan, trees and bushes were
shaved, as with a razor, when they rose above
the shelter of the 'dens.' The climate was severe
and the soil unkindly. Sand dunes fenced the
county from the Atlantic gales, yet a parish had
been buried there under the sand drift. The
ground was fertile in granite, yet it is a remarkable
fact that the venerable buildings of Old Aberdeen
were of imported freestone, which shows that the
Aberdonians of ancient days, if enterprising-, were
not resourceful. It was very different with the agri-
culturists in the nineteenth century, and especially

A

2 DAYS OF THE PAST

towards the middle of it. They bid, with the
Lothians, for a lead in high farming, and showed
the world the way in cattle breeding. They were
among the first to appreciate the value of guano,
and they found that their farms, freely manured,
reared such rich crops as were not to be seen else-
where. In a dry season in southern England the
worried partridges find no cover in either turnips
or mangolds. In Aberdeenshire you wade over
the knee ; you can only work with the most
powerful dogs, and the swedes after a morning
shower hold whole bucketfuls of water. So with
exuberant winter-feeding, Aberdeenshire breeders
invested money in shorthorns and the polled
Angus. Naturally they went in for enclosures.
In my own boyhood I can recollect on the crofts
and small farms — even now there are few farms
rented above ^200 — the barefooted herd-boys and
herd-girls shouting after the scraggy beasts they
had in charge, for ever encroaching on neighbours'
boundaries. Now, the boys and girls with shoe
leather and stockings are at the board schools ;
and, except to scare the crows from the crops, there
is no necessity for their services. When the fields
were being cleared for the plough, loose stone
enclosures, but substantially built, followed as
matter of course. The stones must be disposed
of somehow. The worst of those dikes was that
they became almost impregnable refuges for
vermin. Stoats, weasels, and rats, with the mis-

THE RURAL REVOLUTION 3

chievous rabbits, bid defiance to the keenest ferrets.
That clearing the ground was a costly business
for improving landlords. I have seen enormous
granite blocks, locally denominated 'haythens,'
occupy skilled men a day or two in drilling and
blasting.

Johnson declared there were no trees in East
Scotland, and Cockburn said much the same of
Aberdeen. He did not take count of the maofni-
ficent pines in the forests of Deeside, or the sylvan
' Paradise ' of Monymusk ; of the beeches and
elms round many an ancestral fortalice, and of
the clumps of wind-beaten ashes that screened
the cottage or the lonely homestead. But I have
seen sheltering plantations of spruce springing up
everywhere — they have drawn clouds of cushat-
doves, as destructive as the rabbits — and it is
only a pity that larches did not take the place of
the spruce or the silver fir. For larch always
commands a sale for fencing and building pur-
poses, whereas in the heavy 'windfalls,' after some
devastating gale, the spruce lies rotting, a drug
in the market.

Wheat was a delicate exotic and a speculative
crop. On the estates I used to shoot over, I only
remember a single field annually sown and stead-
fastly persisted with, and that was on the sunny
North Mains of Barra, near the scene of the first
decisive battle won by the Bruce over the
Comyns. But everywhere the skirts of the

4 DAYS OF THE PAST

heather were going back ; isolated patches of
morass were being reclaimed ; the grouse was
o-iving way to the partridge, and the snipe to
the landrail. But even the belated oat crops
were failures in cold, showery years, and the great
stand-by of progressive farmers with capital was
their cattle. M'Combie of Tillyfour, and Grant
Duff of Eden, the father of Sir Mountstuart, were
notable for their pedigree herds. The most famous
of all was Amos Cruickshank of Sittyton, the
quaker, who had grudged no money in purchases,
and had brought his herd of shorthorns almost to
perfection. He rented two of the best farms from
a cousin of mine. His steading was within half a
mile of the house where from my nursery days
I had always found a home. His annual sales of
bull calves drew admiring purchasers from all
Scotland, from England, and the Colonies. The
sale began with a parade of the superb fathers of
the herd. The mansion overflowed with guests
from the county, who came in vehicles of every
kind, and their horses found shelter in byres, the
stabling of the home-farm, or anywhere. The
sale was preceded by an early dinner at the farm.
But the quaker, who was a temperance man, stuck to
his principles, and, contrary to the universal practice
in the county, gave the visitors nothing stronger
than indifferent beer. On one of those occasions
he was scandalised when one of the gentlemen
from the house brought up half a dozen of port j

THE RURAL REVOLUTION 5

and as many of champagne for his own immediate
circle. Yet though the bidders came to the scratch
unprimed, the bidding was none the less spirited,
and the pick of the calves fetched what were then
considered inordinate prices. Cruickshank did
well and died in affluence ; but he cut his own
throat, for as his stock was disseminated his sales
fell off.

On the other hand, I saw how the ordinary
breeders gained with the opening of the railways.
Formerly they sent their cattle by road, losing
flesh and condition, to local markets that were
overstocked. The trucks on the rail opened easy
communications with the south, till the prime beef
from Aberdeen and Angus fetched the top prices
at Leadenhall, and arable land was broken up
for the ' grass parks ' which were more surely
remunerative.

At that time rents were rising fast, till they
actually boomed. Forty years ago, one of the
trustees on the personal estate of a wealthy iron-
master complained that though they were in-
structed to invest solely in land, they could not
buy at reasonable prices. The idea then was that
'the land could not run away,' and few were far-
sighted enough to foresee the prospective fall.
The shrewdest of Scots, with money in bank, were
inclined to discount a golden future. A relation of
my own age had a twenty years' minority. He
might, on coming of age, have come into a great

6 DAYS OF THE PAST

sum of ready money. He did not find a shilling
to his credit, but his estates were in grand con-
dition. The friendly and capable Writer to the
Signet who had administered them conscientiously
believed he had been acting for the best. Farm
steadings had been rebuilt or extended ; roads had
been made ; diking, draining, and ditching had
been carried out on a colossal scale. That was a
somewhat exceptional case ; the factor may have
overshot the mark, but, more or less, the same
thing was going on in many places. Some of the
cottages, or rather hovels, which were cleared
away were primitive in the extreme. Built of
loose stones, they were roofed with turf, and the
smoke partially escaped through an aperture over
the peat fire, where a cask roped with straw did
doubtful duty for a chimney. There were two
so-called rooms, 'a but and a ben,' and in the
bigger was the box-bed, where the bulk of the
family slept. One of these hovels, I remember,
was tenanted by an old gentleman, who had his
croft rent free for doing • orra jobs ' about the
mansion house. He used to drive cattle in a
flowing, flowered dressing-gown, which had been
passed on to him, and he only shaved his grey
beard at long intervals. One of my earliest re-
collections is seeing him bitincr off the tails of a
litter of terrier puppies in the courtyard. He was
a philosopher in his own way, and with the free
run of the servants' hall and butler's pantry, he

THE RURAL REVOLUTION 7

took life easily. He never complained. Once
when the landlord paid a morning visit, he splashed
from the drainage outside the door into a puddle
within where some ducklings were disporting
themselves, and the wet was dripping over him
from the blackened rafters. 'Why, John!' was
the exclamation, ' you are in a terrible state here,
we must have your roof overhauled.' 'Ay, it's
lettin' in some water,' was the quiet reply, ' but it 's
gey thick, and there are but antrim drops, and the
wife and I do weel eneuch in the bed under our
auld umbrella.'

Then the larger tenants universally had nineteen
years' leases, and would have liked them longer,
though the tenure was secure ; but a few of the
farms and the crofts had been passed on from
generation to generation, and the Lowlands, like
the Highland ' tacks', were run somewhat on the
patriarchal system. That was expressed in the
old phase and phrase of the 'kindly tenants.'
Part of the rent was invariably paid in ' kain and
carriages.' The kain was a certain number of
fowls, to be duly delivered, and under carriages,
the tenants were bound to do a certain amount of
carting of coals, etc. As to these old imposts, there
is a good story in Sir Walter Scott's Journal.
There was another restriction the tenants liked
less. They were ' thirled ' to the landlord's mill,
— that is to say, they had to bring all their corn
to be ground there at a fixed rate. The old mill

8 DAYS OF THE PAST

was a favourite resort of us boys. We used to
revel in the smell of the fresh meal, descending
in cascades, groping in it, wrist-deep, and devour-
ing it too, by handfuls. Then there was the deep
mill-lade under the great moss-grown wheel, with
the speckled trout shooting into darksome crevices,
and within gunshot was the sedgy dam, shrouded
with dark willow and alder, haunted by mallards,
teals, and waterhen.

There was a more serious grievance the tenants
brooded over, though they took it in acquiescent
silence. Reform, enlarging the roll of the ' old
freeholders,' had given them votes, but no shadow
of political power. The county was a safe Con-
servative seat, and though occasionally there was a
contested election, the result was a foregone con-
clusion. The politics of the landlords were known ;
they simply counted heads and brought their
tenants up to the hustings. To take a special
instance. A liberal-minded relative of mine took
great and justifiable credit for giving one of his
farmers leave to vote Liberal. But the man was
an educated vet, son-in-law of an invaluable old
bailiff, which extenuated what in other circum-
stances would have been an unpardonable act of
treachery to the order of the landlords. Retribu-
tion came in due course, with the ballot and the
passing of new reform acts. There was a reaction
with a vengeance, and for many a year the Tories
had never another chance.

THE RURAL REVOLUTION 9

If the farmers clung to the land, the farm hands
were always changing. The good ploughmen and
' horsemen ' had high wages, but the supply was
always in excess of the demand. Nor had they any
great attraction to any particular place, for their
living was everywhere coarse — brose and kail, por-
ridge and skim milk — and the quarters invariably
of the roughest. Thanks to close friendship with
an old keeper who pigged with the farm folk, I
paid frequent visits to their joint bedroom in one
of the most generously managed of home-farms.
It was a loft in which confusion was worse
confounded ; soaking and muddy garments were
tossed about, and the rough beds unmade in the
middle of the afternoon. The young woman who
cooked and did for the men had charoe of the
dairy as well, and she would have given them
even less attention, had not the arrangement been
far from conducive to morality. Rural morality,
indeed, was at a low ebb, though it is only fair to
say that the fair sinner generally ended as an
honest woman and settled down into sober matri-
mony. The farm servants were restless, and they
had periodical opportunity of changing places
at the ' feeing ' or hiring markets, held all over the
country. Great festive occasions these markets
were, combined with the cattle and sheep sales,
before the railway carried stock to central depots.
There were booths of itinerant merchants, travelling
shows, and above all, refreshment tents, flowing

lo DAYS OF THE PAST

with whisky and porter. Ere night fell, the most
sober of the men were concerned in liquor, and
the girls, stuffed with sweets and gingerbread,
were flaming forth in bright shawls and gaudy
ribbons, the gifts of temporarily devoted swains.

Then prosperity was the rule, rather than the
exception, though there might be wet autumns
and poor harvests. There was little question of
reduction of rents, till they had been abnormally
raised by the good times and lively competition.
I have often looked in on rent day, on the little
square room at the home farm, where the clerk of
the Edinburgh agent sat with a square decanter
of whisky at one elbow and the old grieve at the
other. Man after man walked in, handed over
his grimy notes, made the inevitable requests, did
a moderate amount of grumbling, swallowed a
bumper and walked out. At midday all sat down
to a substantial dinner, with toasts and steaming
toddy ad libitum. Every other occasion was
seized for a festivity — a coming of age, a wed-
ding, or sometimes even a funeral. It was amusing
to mark how the stereotyped speeches used to run
in the identical grooves, except with the parochial
clergy, who were florid and professional orators.
How eloquently they did flatter the laird, and
even remote connections of the family ! The
oldest tenant who proposed his health always
quoted the maxim of 'live and let live,' a shrewd
hint of what was expected by the canny Scots-

THE RURAL REVOLUTION ii

men, and the fiddles of the orchestra, according
to the county paper, invariably ' discoursed sweet
music' in the intervals.

The fiddlers feasted with the rest, but they
earned their money. There were local celebrities
like 'Wandering Willie,' who were everywhere in
request, and the quantity of toddy with which
they refreshed themselves was astounding. For a
ball invariably succeeded these special dinners.
The scene was a long loft, decorated with ever-
greens or flowers, where reels and country dances
alternated in endless succession. The gymnastics
grew more violent as the night went on. It was
tremendously hard work, and took it out of one
more than the longest day's shooting. I was hard
enough then, but often I have tumbled into bed in
the small hours, to wake towards noon, aching in
every limb. But these jovial rural carnivals have
been going out of fashion. Some of the straighter-
laced of the gentry said they were prejudicial to
morals, — which possibly was true, for as Christopher
North wrote, it was a perilous temptation for an
enamoured bachelor, seeing the belle of the ball
home across the bloominor heather. But the more
probable explanation is, that the ties between land-
lord and tenant have been loosening, and with
chronic reduction of rents, the shoe has been
pinching severely.

I had heard more than I saw of the old con-
viviality. I can only once recall a gentleman

12 DAYS OF THE PAST

committing himself in a drawing-room, where he
came a cropper over an ottoman and went a header
on the hearth-rug. And he was a genuine survival
of the old school, a boon companion of the fox-
hunting Lord Kintore of his time, and of the Lord
Panmure of Brechin, noted as one of the three
hardest drinking peers in the islands. His arbi-
trary hospitality was commemorated by ' Nimrod '
in The Northern Tour, when he firmly refused the
request of a brother-in-law, who, after the party
had been mixing their liquors for hours, humbly
' supplicated ' for a tumbler. My father was an
abstemious man, but he could speak of nights with
Lord Panmure at Brechin Castle, of which we find
almost fabulous reports in the Biography of Con-
stable— not the artist, but the publisher. And
at my father's own seat of the Burn, on the
North Esk, the summer houses on the romantic
walks along the overhanging banks were sections
of Madeira hogsheads, emptied at the entertain-
ments of Lord Adam Gordon, his predecessor in
the property.

If I saw any other signs of excess, it was at state
funerals. No doubt things had mended much
since the days of Duncan Forbes of Colloden,
Lord President of the Court of Session and the
most venerated of Scottish statesmen, when he set
the example of drinking so deep at the funeral of
his much-lamented mother, that when the proces-
sion reached the kirk, it was found the corpse had

THE RURAL REVOLUTION 13

been forgotten. But still, when the ceremony
came off in a chill winter day, the company, who
had gathered from far and near, expected generous
cheer, and did it ample justice. It was an odd
blending of mourning — more or less sincere — and
joviality. Friends were pleased to meet, and
there were long arrears of local gossip to be
discussed. All turned up with broad 'weepers' of
cambric, stitched on the coat cuffs. The dealing
out of scarves, hat-bands, and gloves, was followed
by the circulation of wine and cake, and that by
prayer and solemn words of exhortation. When
the cortege came back from the vault, which was
often miles away, though many families had their
private mausoleum within easy reach, the mourners
to a man were chilled and famished. Nothing
could be more welcome than the announcement of
the late luncheon, and sorrow served only to give a
keener edge to the appetite. The strong ale and
the wines flowed freely, and frequently there was a
melancholy contrast between the oblivious con-
viviality of the hungry guests and the efforts of
the grief-stricken entertainer to do the honours.

But on these melancholy occasions there were
invariably those from whom the bereaved family
was sure of sympathy. Domestic servants and
out-of-door retainers knew well when they were
well-off, and seldom left the situations in which
they had been bred and almost born. The boy
who was entered to knives and boots, often died

14 DAYS OF THE PAST

a grey-haired butler, with the keys and ca7'te
blanche over the cellar, and unlimited vicarious
authority. The housekeeper, who might have been
trusted with untold gold, was equally paramount
in her own department. They kept a saving eye
on details, and drove their subordinates with a
tight rein, but, like Caleb Balderstone, they made
the honour of the family their own, and prided
themselves on the profusion of the table. There
were no diners a la Russe, with finikin carving at
the side table ; and the board used to groan under
the load of good fare, with such trifles as pairs of
goslings and turkey poults for side dishes. So the
show of cold and rdchattffS on the sideboard at
next morning's breakfast was superb. But it
was at weddings or the funeral feasts that they
felt bound to surpass themselves. I have seen
one venerable retainer, a beloved friend of my
own, nerving himself manfully for his onerous
duties at a funeral luncheon, filling the glasses
indefatigably,whisperingrecommendationsof choice
dishes into the ears of his numerous acquaintances,
and then breaking down in sobs and retiring to
the pantry till he had pulled himself together
to resume his painful task. When the o-uests
were gone he took to bed, and only got out of it
to be retired on a pension.

CHAPTER II

THE CHANGES IN LONDON

The reign of Victoria saw marvellous transforma-
tion scenes in London. According to that once
popular novelist, G. P. R. James, Simon Reynard,
the intriguing Spanish ambassador, remarked epi-
grammatically that in the Tower he read the history
of Enoland. The Victorian era was a record of

o

imperial expansion with London for the loadstone.
The growth of the overcrowded metropolis ex-
ceeded the expansion of an empire which had been
casually annexing kingdoms and principalities.
When her accession was announced to the girl-
heiress at the semi-rural palace of Kensington,
England had barely found breathing-time after
the exhausting struggle in which she had fought
one half the continent and subsidised the other.
When she celebrated her jubilee, the Empress-
Queen, though latterly she had lived in retirement,
was the idol of a nation which under her rule had
been rapidly growing rich. The fleet assembled
at Spithead was the visible sign of supremacy on
the ocean. Battleships, armoured cruisers, and
torpedo boats were the watch-dogs of the com-
merce which had been bringing wealth to the port

i6 DAYS OF THE PAST

of London. London had been the centre of many
industries which till then had been indifferent
to foreign competition. The national credit had
never stood higher, and in the superabundance
of ofolden or eilt-edo;ed securities, Sam Weller's
' reduced counsels ' stood at an exceptional premium.
Floating on the flood of the swelling Pactolus,
London had at last begun to realise its responsi-
bilities. Private expenditure was stimulating public
munificence. The architect with ideas had a free
hand, and the speculative builder never had a better
time. Antiquated structures and squalid back
streets were swept away ; luxurious mansions and
decent dwellings were rising in their places. If
there was a dreary monotony in the stuccoed fa9ades
of new crescents and terraces, there was no denying
the improvement in the general effect, and still
more in substantial comforts. Punch miMit sneer
at the squirts in Trafalgar Square, and laugh at
the lions of the Nelson Column ; but there are points
of view, such as those of the Palladio-like Govern-
ment Offices from the water-bridge in St. James's
Park, which rival those from the Ponte Vecchio of
Florence, or the Schiavoni of Venice.

Though falling into the yellow leaf, memory does
not take me back to Queen Victoria's accession ;
but as a very small boy I can remember the birth
of the Princess Royal, the loyal excitement in
Edinburgh, and the salute from the Castle that
shook the town. Two years afterwards, on my

THE CHANGES IN LONDON 17

first visit to England, I sailed for Liverpool from
the Glasgow Broomielaw in the superb new steamer,
the Princess Royal — I forget her modest tonnage.
That summer I went no further south than Leam-
ington, where now I miss the avenue of noble elms
which then shaded the promenade. I was intro-
duced to Victorian London a few years later,
when wi|^rove by the Chevy Chase Coach through
the Border scenery from Edinburgh to take the
North-Eastern train at Newcastle. Dick Whitting-
ton never looked back so longingly to London as
I looked forward. I little thought how much I
should see of it later, and how well I should know
the flags in Pall Mall. Nor were my dreams of
golden-paved streets and gold to be had for the
gathering. Even then a voracious reader and
highly sensitive to casual associations, London
sights and London celebrities were to me at that
time a very loadstone of attraction. Our first sight
of London, our first impressions of the Continent, —
these are landmarks in the memory, never to be
obliterated. Byron seldom wrote a truer or more
melodious couplet than —

* There 's not a joy the world can give Uke that it takes away,
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.'

Novelty gave point to the excitement which was
sometimes calmed, but seldom satiated. I know
not what I enjoyed most — the sculptured tombs
of monarchs in the Abbey or the monuments of
fallen heroes in the Cathedral church — the survey

B

i8 DAYS OF THE PAST

from the caged summit of the Monument, the
pessimism of whose guardian had depressed Tom
Pinch, another young man from the country — the
esplanade at Greenwich Hospital, with the old
blue-coated pensioners crawling about like torpid
wasps, or the quaint Chinese junk, moored off
Blackwall, with its silken hangings and porcelain, its
carvings in jade and its uncanny idols. Then there
were the Zoological, and the Thames Tunnel, with
its dimly lighted bazaar, and Madame Tussaud s,
where we looked longingly at the forbidden door
of the Chamber of Horrors, and one even had fear-
some pleasure in the scientific Polytechnic, where
you were shocked by electric batteries, and had
the excitement of the descent in the diving-bell.
Verrey's, with its cakes and its ices, was nearly next
door. You felt agreeably lost in the whirl of the
Strand and Fleet Street, with the blocks of traffic,
and the show in the shop windows ; it was like visit-
ing the bazaars of Bagdad or Bassorah in company
of Haroun Alraschid and his vizier. The white-
aproned touts at the portals of Doctors' Commons
reminded you of David Copperfield and of old Mr.
Weller, let in for his rash matrimonial venture.

There were no omnibuses then to the north of
the Tweed, and the London four-wheeler, or the
dashing hansom, was a vast improvement on the
• minnibus ' of Edinburgh — a local speciality like a
covered Irish car, which was an exceedingly tight
fit for four, and which more than once broke down

THE CHANGES IN LONDON 19

ignominiously when taking me to catch an early
steamer at Granton Pier. And apropos of aquatics,
that was the golden age of cheap and quick con-
veyancing on the river. The Dahlias and Sun-
flowers, and the numbered ' Watermen,' were plying
perpetually from Putney to Greenwich, but most
industriously between Hungerford Stairs and
Paul's Wharf. Owing to their flying moorings
against the tide, they would smash their paddle
boxes like swift steamers on the rapid Danube, cast
off again, and, go on as if nothing had happened.
They had run the old wherrymen and scullers off
the Thames, and in fine weather were formidable
competitors to the omnibuses.

But all minor sensations were swallowed up in
the anxiety for a glimpse at the Queen. We had
pfone to Eton to draw a cousin in Dr. Goodford's
house — he was then Mr. Goodford — and the expedi-
tion was to include a visit to the castle where Her
Majesty was in residence. Often since then I have
admired the historical pile when pulling past on
the river, and thought how costly it would be to
take it over a repairing lease, but in that glorious
day in June, the glories of the palace-chateau were
lost upon me. My Eton cousin's mind was set
upon ices in the morning, a dinner at the White
Hart towards eve, the probable tip to follow. I
could think of nothing but the assurance that the
Sovereign was going for a drive at three, and that
I should actually see her in the body. Ever since

20 DAYS OF THE PAST

I have understood and sympathised with the loyal
enthusiasm of provincial crowds who flock in a
suffocating crush to cheer a royal progress. Pre-
ceded by its outriders, the open carriage left the
castle gates and swept down the Long Avenue.
I can see the youthful matron, as she was then,
sitting by her husband's side, bowing and smiling
graciously. Her hand was unconsciously caressing
the Princess Royal, who was standing and bending
over her mother's knee. Seated as she was, you
did not note the shortness of stature on which
Greville remarks in his flattering notice of her.
Quietly dressed, yet with some touch of coquetry
in the summer toilet, she seemed to me a dazzling
vision of grace and beauty. She was smiling again
when I saw her at her Jubilee, with grey in her hair
and furrows on her brow, but how much had she
done and seen and suff^ered in the interval !

With half the world I was in London again in
the Great Exhibition year. The Crystal Palace
enclosing some of the secular timber in Hyde
Park, conceived by the Prince Consort and planned
by the chief of the Duke of Devonshire's hot-
houses, was a monument of progress, fondly meant
as a cosmopolitan Temple of Concord, and the
symbol of a new departure in amicable commercial
relations. Never shall I forget the first stupefying
eff"ect on a youth who had scarcely dreamed of
such fairy-like splendour. With the courts dis-
playing the wares of the world, with the crash of

THE CHANGES IN LONDON 21

music and the blaze of colours, with the views
down the long vistas under Venetian streamers,
with the sculptures and groups of statuary scattered
along the aisles, with new enchantments awaiting
you at every turn, it was a vision of the Arabian
Nights from which you feared to awaken. One
crowd was pressing round Hiram Power's Greek
slave, another around the Koh-i-noor, securely
guarded by policemen. But the half-exhausted
mines of Golconda were outshone, for America
showed a towering obelisk of gold to advertise
the newly discovered treasures of California.

All nations had come up to the great show, as
Jews used to flock to the festivals of Jerusalem.
The scanty hotel accommodation was overcrowded :
Claridge's and other aristocratic resorts could pick
and choose among royalties and foreign princes.
But the oddest and most picturesque gatherings
were in Leicester Square and in Seven Dials.
Pu7ich and the new police paid special attention
to the troops of out-of-elbow strangers who had
found their way across the Channel. What they
came for, or how they paid their way, no one could
exactly say. They were attended by agents of
the Rue Jerusalem, by emissaries from St. Peters-
burg, Vienna, and Berlin, and shadowed by
detectives from Scotland Yard. I was taken one
evening to dine at a restaurant in Leicester Square
— I think it was Berthollini's, celebrated in the
parody of a popular song by Albert Smith — and a

22 DAYS OF THE PAST

queerer assemblage I had never set eyes on. At
that time when Mechi of Tiptree Hall and agricul-
tural celebrity was making a fortune by his razors,
everybody shaved, except scamps and cavalry
officers. In that gathering the absence of the
barber was more conspicuous than the neglect of
the washerwoman. Napkins were tucked under
collarless chins ; the fork was a casual auxiliary to
the knife ; the plates were carefully cleaned and
the sauces mopped up by use of a bread-crust ;
and in the guttural confusion of cosmopolitan
speech you might have been among the scattering
builders of Babel. The entente cordiale notwith-
standing, Ptmck was humorously satirical on our
French friends. Two of his sketches I well
remember. One presented a couple of briskly
Parisian badauds taken aback by the startling
surprise of a sponge and basin in the Exhibition.
' Tiens, Alphonse, qiiest-ce que cest que ga ? ' says
Jules to his comrade. Another was a night scene
from the top of the Haymarket, with ladies in crino-
line and a lavish show of silk stocking, inscribed :
' Some foreign produce we could very well spare.'

On the other hand, even when the Christmas
agricultural shows used to be held in Baker Street,
never before was the town so full of rustics,
bent upon brief enjoyment of life in London. On
frequented routes there was no getting a seat in
the omnibuses ; cabmen took outrageous liberties
with simple-minded country folk. It was not then

THE CHANGES IN LONDON 23

the custom to run plays in the theatres, but pieces
that had caught on were being given night after
nipfht at the leadinQ- houses. I remember how the
spectacular ' Princesses of the Alhambra ' drew at
the Princess's, not so much because the gorgeous
decorations anticipated the splendours of a future
generation, as because Flexmore the famous clown
played the Princesses' pet monkey. When he
caught his tail in a chest, and aggravated his
agonies by passionately stamping on the lid, all the
spectators were convulsed. In fact, we provincials,
trained upon travelling circuses and strolling com-
panies of actors, cared for sensations and sights
rather than refinements. We were as keen upon
Punch and Judy in the streets as Sampson Brass's
eccentric lodger in The Old Cttriosity Shop ; we
were always brought to a stop at the bottom of
Suffolk Street by the cage of the happy family,
where the owl blinked amiably at the cat lying
down with the mouse ; and we paid more than one
visit to Astley's, over Westminster Bridge, where
Mr. Widdycombe, as Napoleon, had been gratui-
tously advertised in the Bon Gaultier Ballads.
However the evening might be passed, ' it was
pretty sure to end at Evans's,' where the topical
songs were suited rather to the Georgian than to
the Victorian era. Chops and Welsh rabbits were
the order of the night, but the consumption of
shellfish there and at Scott's and other night-
houses in the neighbourhood of the Haymarket

24 DAYS OF THE PAST

was extraordinary. Lobsters and oysters were
unaccustomed delicacies to the cotton spinners of
the Palatinate and the men of the Midlands. Then
the oysters were so cheap, that, as old Mr. Weller
had observed to Mr. Pickwick shortly before, the
poor of Whitechapel, when tending to despair,
made a rush for the oyster stall instead of the gin
palace. Oysters and stout were still as natural a
sequel to the play as when Walter Scott, who
was being feasted everywhere and by everybody,
climbed the corkscrew stairs from the boxes in
the Old Adelphi to sup with Daniel Terry in his
' squirrel's cage.'

I had seen the Queen and Prince Consort on
my previous visit. Even as a boy it had struck
me that there was something of foreboding melan-
choly in the Prince's handsome face, and I was at
Gibraltar when the news of his death threw the
garrison into genuine mourning. In the Exhibi-
tion year, being comparatively at rest as to
Royalties, my ambition was for a sight of the
Iron Duke. I did see the national hero, and
followed him as he walked his horse up Con-
stitution Hill to the mansion that was given by
the eratitude of the nation. There the lower
windows were still closed by the iron shutters,
memorials of the fickleness of the mob, which
would have torn him from his saddle, had it not
been for the interposition of Peel's new police.
With abstracted face, gazing fixedly before him,

THE CHANGES IN LONDON 25

mechanically he kept raising his finger to the brim
of his hat, in answer to the incessant salutations
he rather expected than saw. A light-weight,
for he was spare of figure and stood barely five
feet seven, he sat his horse with the ease of the
habitual horseman, who used to strike across
country in southern France when hounds were
running, and breathe the best mounted of his
aides-de-camp in the gallop to visit his distant
outposts. The dress in the severe military style
was faultless ; the buttoned blue frock-coat, the
white ducks tightly strapped down, and the stock
with the silver buckle showing conspicuously
behind.

At that time the Duke, with his commanding
influence and his pre-eminence in politics, had
been singled out as the subject of endless cari-
catures which figured in the printshop at the
bottom of St. James's Street, side by side with
engravings of his numberless portraits. Two of
the caricatures I specially remember. One repre-
sented a stage coachman in heavy capes with great
bone buttons, subscribed, ' The man wot drives
the Sovereign ' — counterpart to another of Earl
Grey — ' The man wot drives the Opposition.' But
more artistically effective was a shadowy face, the
stern and determined features looming through a
haze, with the motto : —

' What seemed a head.
The image of a kingly crown had on.'

26 DAYS OF THE PAST

Even satire treated the Duke with the reverence
due to a heroic personality, and the caricatures
flattered the authority they sought to undermine.
When he was carried on the State car to
St. Paul's in the following year, some remorse
must have mingled with the general mourning,
and I was sadly disappointed that I missed the
memorable funeral. The many incidents were
vividly described by juvenile correspondents not
much in the way of letter-writing : all the world
from the highest to the lowest was in a state of
feverish excitement, and I recollect hearing among
other things how the old Duke of Cambridge
had galloped down St. James's Street at a break-
neck pace to clear up some passing confusion
among the guards before the palace.

Strangely enough, perhaps, I was almost as keen
about another celebrity, and was lucky enough
to see him in 'the Lords.' If the caricaturists
treated Wellington respectfully, with Brougham
both caricaturists and lampooners took the freest
flinor. Never had so sfifted a man laid himself
open to such scathing ridicule. Memories of his
younger days, revived by Lockhart's Life of Scott,
were still rife in the Edinburgh Parliament House ;
of those days when the audacious young advocate,
going on the Border Circuit, used to make poor
old Lord Eskgrove's life a burden. Eskgrove,
by the way, with his vacuous repetitions, was
undoubtedly the original of Sir Robert Hazlewood

THE CHANGES IN LONDON 27

in Guy Mannering. And the Nodes Ambrosiance,
in which Brougham had been praised and merci-
lessly scarified, were still in the flush of their
popularity. x'\ terror in debate, an encyclopaedia of
universal knowledge, all marvelled at the amazing
grasp of the genius which in the same day, as his
secretary told Greville, could flit from Chancery
suits to philosophy and mathematics, and after
correcting proofs for a ' Library of Useful Know-
ledge,' wind up with a tremendous philippic in
the House of Lords. There was no o-ettinof to
the bottom of his bodily strength ; there was no
overtaxing the power of his brain. Yet there was
so much of the monkey or the mountebank in that
universal genius that Sampson was for ever making
sport for the Philistines. Punch had just depicted
him standing on his head, flourishmg his legs
and the Blticher boots in the air — the Bluchers
Thackeray sketched in the Snob Papers, — with
the commentary, ' What he will do next.' The
piquancy of the eccentric contrasts made me
eager to see him, nor was I disappointed. Take
him all in all, he was one of the ugliest of mortal
men, and apparently he prided himself on setting
off his personal deficiencies. The lofty forehead
scarcely redeemed the mouth, the nose, the cada-
verous complexion, and the eyes under their
shaggy penthouses, that lent themselves so easily
to most diabolical scowls. Wellington was aus-
terely spick and span ; Brougham was one of the

28 DAYS OF THE PAST

worst-dressed men in the kingdom, in a day when
statesmen and legislators were still among the
dandies. He wore the famous plaid trousers : it
was said he had picked up a web of the stuff, sold
at a sacrifice, after spending fabulous sums on a
Yorkshire election. There was a catch-phrase in
those days of ' What a shocking bad hat ! ' But
Brougham's headpiece was the shabbiest it was
possible to conceive, a battered beaver with the
bristles rubbed the wrong way, which no old
clothesman would have picked out of the gutter.
His gestures were grotesque as those of Johnson,
and in his oratory he carried action to the heights
and depths of absurdity. He swung his arms like
a round-hitting prize-fighter, and bellowed like a
bull of Bashan. I had longed to see him, nor was
I surprised or disappointed. He was pretty much
what fancy had painted. Brougham was a luszis
nahirce, and Is still a psychological puzzle. Neither
I nor any one else is likely to look on his like
again.

CHAPTER III

THE EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL AND RESTAURANT

In the middle of last century, and for years after-
wards, few cities were so miserably supplied as
London with commodious hotels and decent
dining places. It is amazing now to contemplate
the spirit of contentment which acquiesced in
indifferent entertainment and resigned itself to
uncomfortable quarters. In the matter of hotels
the explanation is more simple, for till railways
and steamboats brought customers to town there
was little encouragement for enterprising inn-
keepers. But Londoners, like other people, had
to dine, and many of them must go out of doors
to look for a dinner. Ev^en young men of means
and some position were much at a loss. The clubs
were few, the membership was far more limited
than now, and moreover dining in those some-
what solemn establishments was left more or less
to elderly fogies. Of dining-rooms and popular
taverns there was no dearth, but the internal
arrangements, the attendance and the cooking,
left much to desire. For a year or two before
as a very young man I was balloted into the
Wyndham, I prowled the streets each evening

30 DAYS OF THE PAST

in search of food : after I was introduced to the
comforts of one of the most homelike of clubs,
still I often shared the adventurous fare of less
fortunate comrades left out in the cold. But
when I first came to the front, the days of rough-
ing it were going by, and the tavern had already
given way to the restaurant. No man need have
asked a better English dinner than that provided
at Simpson's in the Strand. Simpson was the
gastronomic Napoleon of a new epoch. A daring
speculator who always saw his way, in after years
he successfully ran Cremorne. I believe he was the
brother of the other Simpson who originated the
famous fish dinners at Billingsgate ; where in the
queerest company, with rough cooking and rude
cutlery, you fared sumptuously for the small charge
of eighteenpence. But Simpson's restaurant in the
Strand was attractively mounted ; the tables were
decked in snowy drapery, and the peripatetic
carvers, with aprons tucked up in their waist-
belts, were faultlessly attired in spotless white.
Peripatetics they were, for it was a conception of
genius to wheel the joints on small round tables to
your elbow and let you select your own cut. A
healthy appetite may have had something to say
to it, but never before nor since have I seen such
saddles or sirloins. Charles, the head waiter, was
omnipresent, ready, like deaf old M. Pascall of
Philippes's in the Rue Montorgueil, with recom-
mendations and suggestions. The marrow pud-

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 31

dinofs were features of the establishment, and the
GruyereandCamembert,then comparative novelties,
were ranged on the side table with the ripe Stiltons
and Cheshires. The liquors were of the best, but
after dinner you were not driven out of doors nor
were you bound to sit drinking for the good of
the house. Passing through a tobacconist's, you
mounted to a 'divan ' on the upper floor. If I re-
member rightly, you paid a shilling at the door,
for which you had coffee in a breakfast cup —
which was a mistake — a cigar and the use of
chess boards, backgammon boards, and the day's
journals.

Simpson's drew amazingly as it deserved, but it
soon found a formidable, though ephemeral, rival.
Greville in his Memoirs speaks contemptuously
of the Wellington, but the Cruncher was a fine
gentleman and hyperfastidious. Possibly, too,
his conservative sentimentality saw something of
sacrilege in turning Crockford's temple of vicious
fashion open to the profane vulgar. For the Well-
ington took possession of the palatial premises at
the top of St. James's Street, where the old fish-
monger kept open house for all and sundry who
were inclined to play the deuce with their fortunes
at the hazard table. There Disraeli had laid his
opening scene in Sybil, on the Derby eve when
Caravan was the favourite for the great race. There
Whyte Melville's Digby Crand threw his last dice
before adjourning in despair to pass the night upon

32 DAYS OF THE PAST

a bench in St. James's Park. There more reckless
gamblers had beggared themselves than at Watier's,
for Crockford's had had a far longer lease of
life. Crockford's in its time had been the resort
of every celebrity : of foreign statesmen like Talley-
rand and Metternich ; of warriors like Wellington
and Blucher ; of men of letters like Byron, Moore,
and Bulwer Lytton ; of wits and sybarites like
Luttrell and Alvanley, and of all the rabble rout of
loose men about town who followed in the train
of the leaders of society.

I do not know that we gave much thought to
those memories or conjured up the gay scenes of
that vanished past. What we liked were the lofty
rooms with their spacious windows, and the general
sense of luxury given by gilded cornices, somewhat
tarnished, and tall mirrors. Not that these would
have sufficed to allure us. But the English fare
was as good as at Simpson's ; there was greater
variety in the entrdes and entremets, and the table
appointments were in keeping with the surround-
ings. There were green glasses at your elbow,
suggesting ' hock,' for then the various growths of
the Rheingau and the Gironde were unscientifically
classified and seldom ordered. Then the ordinary
tipple was Burton bitter ale, frothed in frosted
tankards, supplemented by the modest half pint
of nutty sherry, with which Sydney Scraper solaced
himself at his club in the Snob Papers. The
march of luxury has been moving fast since then.

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 33

Now the sort of men who were content then
with sherry and beer, are become curious in
Champagnes, Leovilles and Liebfraumilchs, and
all the choicer second growths.

For port and beef-steaks there was no better
place than the Blue Posts in Cork Street. By the
way, there was another Blue Posts in the Hay-
market of much more questionable reputation. To
dine satisfactorily at the Cork Street house, you
had to be introduced by an habitud v^\iO had the ear
of the head waiter and the pass-key of the cellar.
It was a favourite haunt of Anthony Trollope,
and in The Claverings he has given a sympathetic
description of one of those snug little Blue Posts
dinners, which must have been answerable for a
good deal of gout and chronic indigestion. If the
Blue Posts was famous for its steaks, Clunn's in
Covent Garden was renowned for its Welsh mutton
and marrow bones. It was in the north-west
corner of the piazza, beside the portal which led
down to Evans's. It was a sombre house, and
you dined in a long dark slip of a room, with one
large window at the eastern end. But the dark
mahogany tables were miracles of radiant polish,
as in old country mansions, where they were the
pride of the chief butler, and at Clunn's the cloth
used to be swept off before the decanters were
brought in. The menu was good Old English,
and the head waiter a true-blue Conservative. I
used to ruffle him till he had got accustomed to my

c

34 DAYS OF THE PAST

eccentricities, by my predilection for legs of mutton
boiled with caper sauce. Roast was the rule of
that orthodox establishment. The mock turtle or
thick oxtail was followed by salmon, cod or turbot,
and marrow bones were the invariable sequel to
the mountain haunch. As for the marrow bones,
they might have been elephantine, except that
elephants, owing to some malformation, have no
marrow. There was always a suspicion that they
were fictitiously packed : be that as it may, they
tempted to a surfeit and were invariably corrected
by a caulker of Glenlivet. Then with the Stilton
and the devilled biscuits at dessert, carefully de-
canted port, as venerable as any from the bins at
the Blue Posts, was placed on the mahogany.
Now and again the landlord when in genial mood
was to be 'wiled,' like Meg Dods of the Cleikum,
out of a bottle of 1820. It came up shrouded in
the cobwebs. Clunn's, though essentially a dining
house, professed to be an hotel, and once when I
had run up to town for the night, I arranged to
take a bed there. The dining-room was darksome
enough, but it was brightened by good company
and good cheer. The fusty first-floor front smelt
like a charnel house when you had withdrawn to
its solitude from merry society, and getting into the
great fourposter with its sable hangings was like
stepping into a hearse. It may have been the
marrow bones, the Stilton or the port, but never had
I such a night of appalling nightmares.

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 35

The London in Fleet Street was a west central
reflection of the Wellington, chiefly frequented by
lawyers from Lincoln's Inn and the Temple, by
prosperous clerks and well-to-do tradesmen. The
St. James's Hall was opened when the Wellington
had closed. The Cafe de 1' Europe, next door to
the Haymarket Theatre, had a mixed and motley
clientele. Started by an actor from the Adelphi
who somehow found the capital, it had a strong
theatrical connection. Then fashionable patrons of
the drama, like Lord William Lennox, were mixing
on a familiar footing with the shining lights of the
stage. And the Cafe de I'Europe was cheek by
jowl with the Raleigh Club, where billiards and
broiled bones were the order of the night, towards
the small hours. So the cafe was patronised by a
rather fast set for dinners before the play and for
suppers subsequently. I fancy there was a room
on the upper floor where ladies were received with-
out awkward questions being asked as to their
marriage certificates. But the cafe was reputably
conducted and the French cookery was more than
fair. Of the second class French restaurants about
Leicester Square, in St. Martin's Lane, I can tell
nothing from personal experience. As I have said,
I paid a single visit to one of them and was
not tempted to repeat it. Berthollini's and
Dubourg's were sung by Albert Smith and Angus
Reach in topical lyrics, and described in their
shilling brochure (the Lounger in Regent Street,

36 DAYS OF THE PAST

or Sketches of London Life), which caught on
amazingly.

To the east of Temple Bar the classic taverns in
Fleet Street were still flourishing. Had some of
the most famous only held out a little longer, they
would surely have renewed their youth and re-
trieved their fortunes, with the extraordinary
impulse given to journalistic work. There were
Dick's and Anderton's and the Cheshire Cheese,
where you could superintend the cooking of steak or
chop and say for yourself when it was done to a
turn. There was a Mitre in Fetter Lane — not the
Mitre where Johnson moralised to Boswell and
mapped out the programme of his studies at Leyden.
All of these had their admirers who clung to them
from habit : most of them elderly gentlemen in the
yellow leaf, who loved solid fare and crusted port,
or struggling barristers who were content with
tankards of ale, with something hot and strong to
follow. On sentimental grounds I once sought the
Cock in Fleet Street, to be sadly disillusioned.
There was no sign of Tennyson's plump head
waiter, — perhaps he was peacefully sleeping in the
vaults of St. Clements Dane. A few purple-faced
old gentlemen were still clinging to the place, but
it was pervaded by a general air of drowsiness
which extended to the service and the smoulder-
ing fires. I ordered a steak as de rigueur : in vain I
waited, and after a volcanic explosion I fled and
chartered a hansom for Pall Mall. Now I see

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 37

there is a Cockerel in Shaftesbury Avenue, where
no doubt there is a very different clientele.

In those days, on my return from sojourning on
the Continent, there was nothing I enjoyed more
than the luncheon in the city. The contrasts
were so striking from the solitudes of the Alps, the
shores of Lake Leman, the dead-alive towns of
stagnating Germany, even from the comparatively
leisurely traffic of Brussels or Paris, to the roar of
crowded streets, and the endless blocks in funereal
procession of cabs and omnibuses. I used to hurry
off to look up a cousin on the Stock Exchange, the
best of good fellows, who was barely earning
enough to pay his errand boy, and the bustle and
scramble in Capel Court, the bellowing and bar-
gaining from the privileged interior worked like a
tonic. Under his guidance we dived into some dark-
some alley and turned aside into Reuben's or Joe's
or Ned's. How different from the Cafe Riche or
the Maison Doree, even from Champeaux in the
Place de la Bourse, where speculators and coulis-
siers would assemble at high noon to empty flasks
of burgundy or champagne and indulge in all
manner of meretricious delicacies ! In London men
hustled each other at a bar, or sat, packed pro-
miscuously at the small tables, with cloths that
hinted economy in washing bills. You had barely
elbow room to ply knife and fork, but if you were
not pressed for time, it was a most amusing scene,
though the manager looked askance at loiterers.

38 DAYS OF THE PAST

The steak or chop, served piping hot, was unexcep-
tionable ; the mealy potatoes in their wrinkled
jackets, were such a dream of perfection as is
never realised in watery Ireland, where they are
invariably waxy ; as the frothing tankards of ale or
stout were refreshing after a course of light wines,
and admirably adapted to the atmosphere. But
all these early dinner houses closed their doors
long before the shellfish shops in the Haymarket
thought of taking down their shutters. Once, with
a friend, in a fit of frugality, I went into the city
about six p.m. to dine economically. We drew all
the familiar luncheon coverts blank ; at one or two
an old charwoman was sweeping out the place, and
evidently suspected us of nefarious designs. In
point of economy the expedition was a failure, but
we might have been worse off. For Painter's in
Leadenhall Street was round the corner, and there
one could feast luxuriously. The window of the
Ship and Turtle, like that of Chevet in the Palais
Royal, was always an entrancing sight, with the
shellbacks from the Caribbean Sea or Ascension
floating in the tanks, an agreeable change for them
from the painful deck passage under tropical sun-
blaze, and all unconscious of their impending-
doom. And mystery lent a halo of romance to the
treasures of calipash and calipee in the cellarage.

You breathed calipash and calipee as you
climbed the thickly carpeted staircase, and you
were never kept waiting. Half a dozen oysters

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 39

from Prince's in the Poultry, or Sweeting's in
Cheapside, and the silver tureen with its fragrant
contents was on the table. Hobson Newcome's
brother-in-law remarked that Pendennis dining in
Bryanston Square did not 'ave twice of turtle.
At Painter's I am ashamed to remember that we
used to 'ave twice or thrice of it, and that it rather
whetted the appetite for the subsequent beefsteak.
If port was associated with Clunn's or the Blue
Posts, madeira and old East Indian sherry were
the specialties at the Ship. But if the Ship were
the house for a turtle dinner, it was to Birch's in
Cornhill you gravitated for a turtle lunch. Birch's,
between the Guildhall and the Mansion House,
maintaining the gastronomic credit of the Guilds,
was the city counterpart of Farrance's at Charing
Cross, which had it all its own way in ices, pastry,
and light refreshments, and prided itself on the
graces of its pretty waitresses.

It is strange that Blackwall should have abso-
lutely dropped out of the running among down-
river dining places, though, perhaps, it is stranger
that it should ever have been a popular resort, for
the purlieus were the reverse of inviting. But as
the Chevalier Beaujeu of the Fortunes of Nigel
used to say, I have memory of the great bow
window at Lovegrove's or the Brunswick, sus-
pended over the river. It reminded you of a box
on the grand tier in the opera house, or of the
salo7t on the entresol of the Cafe de Paris, on the

40 DAYS OF THE PAST

Boulevards, where, sitting breast high above the
pavement, you watched the high tide of Parisian
Hfe. But the aquatic panorama passing Blackwall
was more characteristic of the great tideway of
commerce, and infinitely richer in cosmopolitan
romance. The towering East Indiaman, with high
poop and spacious stern galley, the swift Aberdeen
clipper, aspiring to beat the record in the tea trade,
went lumbering by in tow of snorting and puff-
ing tugs, mingled with 'passenger pakidges,' as
Mrs. Gamp would have termed them, bound for
Flemish and French ports from the Tower Wharf.
Sails and cordage were then in the ascendant ;
there were no steel masts and wire shrouds ; and
when the clipper cleared the river and swept down
channel, under a press of billowing canvas, from
sky-scrapers to flying jib, she was a sight still
cherished by nautical sentimentalists like Mr. Clark
Russell. I remember more than one Blackwall
dinner, where the other tables were occupied by
officers of the mercantile marine, who prided them-
selves on being the smartest of seamen. They
were giving themselves a send-off" to the far East,
or celebrating a happy return. What strikes me
most forcibly now, in looking back, was the number
of sprightly midshipmen, full of spirits doomed to
be depressed, and of ambitions destined to be
blighted. They were dressed in spruce uniforms
of blue serge, and they tossed on to a side-table
caps with a gold-laced band, embroidered with the

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 41

Union Jack. The crack ships in Green's or other
great mercantile firms carried a dozen or so of

o

decently born and educated boys. What became
of them all ? Even if they climbed to the cross-
trees there was but a single command for a score of
aspirants.

Greenwich was then in its glory : like Richmond
it has declined since rail and train have made
transit cheap and common. Whyte Melville has
thrown himself heartily from vivid personal remin-
iscences into the description of the banqueting and
the driving down in the drags, when his Tilbury
Nogfo fouoht the old waterman and got knocked
out of time for his pains. Then from the begin-
ning of the whitebait season, Ship, Trafalgar,
and Crown and Sceptre were crowded to over-
flowing. It is long since the Trafalgar struck
its colours — a sign of the melancholy collapse.
Then if you did not take a sixpenny steamer, —
the pleasantest way of a summer evening, when
the river was not as high as a haunch of over-
hung venison, — you rattled down by street and
road in some sort of conveyance. It was awkward
work coaching a four-in-hand, or even piloting a
lively pair in a phaeton among the crowds of
coster barrows ; and it was a crucial test of nerve
coming home of a Saturday night, if you could not
confide in the skill and sobriety of your coachman.
In those palmy days there were as many ostlers,
helpers, and hangers-on about the hotels as waiters

42 DAYS OF THE PAST

— engaged for the short season — which is saying a
great deal. There were as many carriages of all
kinds, in the yards and before the door, as in the
shops of Long Acre or the Baker Street bazaar.
While you were kept waiting for dinner, as belated
guests dropped in, the mudlarks scrambling for
coppers under the balconies must have earned a
working-man's wages. But the trains upset the
jovial carriage traffic : steamers were chartered for
special companies, like Her Majesty's ministers or
the Fox Club, assembled for ministerial, political,
or scientific banquets, and the Greenwich dinner
gradually became more conventional and common-
place. Moreover, the gratifying development of
industry had a good deal to do with it : with the
smoke from workshops and factories the summer
evenings were clouded with a murky haze like a
thin London fog, and the atmosphere, flavoured
with unsavoury odours, became foul as the water in
which the whitebait were fattened.

In those early days an outing to Greenwich
in June or July was delightful and refreshing.
I fondly remember a little room at the Ship, to
which, if possible, we always resorted. Panelled
in heart of oak, it resembled a semi-circular galley-
cabin. Half a dozen of us would seat ourselves
facing the semi-circular open window. We did
not go in for Lucullus-like luxury : there was a
careful selection from the elaborate menu^ with
champagne or cyder cup, as the case might be,

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 43

according to the condition of our purses. But
those modest gatherings of friends came to be
popular in a certain set, like the literary breakfasts
of Rogers or Lord Houghton ; and there was no
sort of difficulty in recruiting for them. Some-
times we picked up chance acquaintances, while
zigzagging from pier to pier in steaming down
river from Hungerford. I recollect a young soldier
thus getting a lift in his profession by meeting
a distinguished Indian officer who took a fancy to
him, and forthwith took him on to his staff. And
at one of the first of those visits to the Ship, I
remember one of the cheeriest of companions
sitting so brooding and self-absorbed, that we
naturally rallied him. Plucky to foolhardiness,
I had seen him plunge into a backswirl under a
Highland waterfall, simply because he was told
the insuck meant death. He had been jubilating
for a week before because he was ordered to the
Crimea in charge of a draft of artillery ; that
evening he was under the shadow of a foreboding,
and when he thanked us for giving him a joyous
send-off, he said gravely that he should never
come back to us. His gloomy forebodings were
realised, for on his first day in the trenches, a shell
cut him in two.

I never hear anything of Purfleet now : in the
olden time there used to be capital dining there
near the powder mills, and on far more frugal
terms than at Greenwich. And I fancy the Falcon

44 DAYS OF THE PAST

at Gravesend must have fallen upon evil times ; in
any case it must have changed its clientele. Steam
has left the Falcon high and dry, as it knocked up
the old posting-houses. In the days of the sails,
all the East and West Indiamen, the Australian
and Chinese clippers, when towed down the river,
used to cast out their anchors off the town, and
wait a night to pick up passengers and pilot. It
has been a marvel to me that Dickens, who loved
Gravesend so well, never made the Falcon the
scene of one of his Christmas stories. Dickens
had his home at Gadshill ; for three years I had a
house at Farningham, and the Falcon had always
a fascination for me. To compare great men with
small, Dickens and I were both great walkers, and
many a day we must both have lunched at the
Falcon or at the Leather Bottel at Cobham. The
Leather Bottel, with its low-roofed dining-room,
its old oaken chairs and quaint engravings, was
sacred to Dickens himself, to the memories of
Tupman patching up a broken heart over a roasted
fowl and a brimming tankard. But the Falcon was
most ordinarily the inn of sad partings, and far
less often of joyous reunions. There the outward-
bound, sung by Mrs, Hemans, dropped anchor to
have their last communications with the land. The
old panes of cloudy glass in the coffee-room
were scratched with initials of the dead and
gone, and with all manner of inscriptions. The
least sentimental of mortals could hardly look out

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 45

on the river without an uneasy impression that,
Hke Harvey, he was meditating among the tombs.
Joys and sorrows are invariably intermingled,
and within a mile or two of Gravesend was
Rosherville, persistently obtruded on public notice
as 'the place to spend a happy day.' When I had
friends staying with me at Farningham, we often
drove over to dine at the Falcon, and the sequel
was a visit to Rosherville Gardens. Of a gala
night they were a veritable carnival of Cockney-
dom : a vulgar travesty of the more fashionable
Cremorne, with promenades illuminated by varie-
gated lamps, with shaded alleys, where the young
folk keeping company could lose themselves, with
gin, punch, and beer for champagne and liqueurs,
and with the inevitable bouquets of fireworks to wind
up the evening. But Rosherville had one advantage
over Cremorne in the really romantic background.
The hermit at Cremorne had a cave constructed
specially for him ; the Rosherville recluse retired
like the ascetics of the Thebaid to a cavern in the
crumbling chalk, worn by the weather of the ages,
or worked by the rude tools of prehistoric man.
There you strolled about among the queerest
contrasts of suggestive antiquity and modern
vulgarity. Researches in the sequestered recesses
of the chalk cliffs would have given Darwin or
Professor Owen matter for speculation ; in the
foreground was an omnium gatherum of plaster
and stucco, interesting in its way as the art

46 DAYS OF THE PAST

treasures of the Vatican, and much more likely
to be appreciated by the holiday makers who paid
their shillings and took their choice.

The metropolitan environs were then both rural
and romantic. From Greenwich Observatory you
looked over the Essex marshes to the rolling hill I
landscapes, with rarer visitations of obscuring fog,
and from the terrace at Richmond there was the
unrivalled view of the most enchanting of English
valley scenery. In essentials I do not fancy that
Richmond had greatly changed since John, Duke
of Argyll and Greenwich, drove Jeanie Deans
down to petition Queen Caroline, when the Scottish
dairy-lass was chiefly impressed by the sleek kine
grazing in the southern meadows. For the splash
of paddles and the blowing off of steam, when going
to Greenwich or Gravesend, one recalls the cheery
echoes of light hoofs as the horses trotted home in
the moonlight which silvered the secular oaks in
Bushey Park, and irradiated casual glances of the
winding river. For when a pleasant party had
been got up beforehand, you went to Richmond by
road. It might be on a drag, tooled by some
expert whip, when the merry company was seated
on the roof, and the grooms were carried as inside
passengers. Or with sundry vehicles of various
kinds, but all tolerably horsed, keeping well to-
gether, and rather given to racing in friendly
rivalry. There was the appetising lounge on the
hill before dinner, or the stroll in the park among

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 47

the deer and the bracken. The dinners, indeed,
at the Star and Garter left something to desire ;
and in the old establishment, since burned down,
everything was on a modest scale, except the
charges. In those days there were no cheap teas
on the hill, at eighteenpence a head, to attract
trippers and holiday-excursionists. The Star and
Garter traded on its fashionable repute, but at
the Castle, which has closed its doors, at the
Talbot, or the Roebuck, you could dine more
reasonably, and at least as well. Yet, if you cared
for literary associations, there was this to be said
for the Star and Garter, that it had figured in
many a famous society novel. Lord Beaconsfield
and Lord Lytton, Thackeray, Whyte Melville,
Wilkie Collins, and Anthony Trollope had all
taken down personally conducted parties to dine
there. The Greville Memoirs and the Creevey
Pape7's abound in Richmond reminiscences. When
a scapegrace was running headlong on the race to
ruin, or when an eligible was involving himself in
an undesirable entanglement with some light of
the stage or star of the ballet, their steps on the
fatal down-grade invariably tended to Richmond.
As for other hostelries up the river, I shall advert
to them in the next chapter.

Fifty years ago the greatest metropolis of the
world was the worst provided with hotels. Not
many travellers from the Continent found their
way thither, and they were for the most part

48 DAYS OF THE PAST

impecunious refugees or of the classes who
were content with poor accommodation. Foreign
princes and nobles, diplomatists en voyage, or
wealthy country gentlemen, paying flying visits
to the town, were sumptuously housed at the
Clarendon or Mivart's. Fladong's, much fre-
quented by naval officers in the war time, had been
closed, and the Old Slaughter's in St. Martin's
Lane, patronised by Major Dobbin and George
Osborne, was a forgotten memory. Gay gentle-
men of the army forgathered in Long's and
Limmer's ; houses where night was turned into
day, and where, with the free and easy manners of
the mess ante-room, no ordinary article of furniture
was put to its proper use. It used to be said that
at Limmer's — where John Collins, the head waiter,
bequeathed his name to a seductive drink — the glass
of gin and soda had the honours of the chair, while
the man who gave the order sat on the mantel-
piece. If a country cousin from the provinces had
ventured into these hotels, or a noiiveau riche had
risked himself in the coffee-room of the Claren-
don, he would have found himself strangely out of
his element. Civilians of the middle classes had
to shift as best they could, though, unless there was
something going on, such as the Great Exhibition,
or the Christmas Cattle Show in Baker Street,
they found fair comfort in cramped quarters.
Morley's in Trafalgar Square trembled on the
verge of the fashionable ; and the Golden Cross

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 49

round the corner, of coaching fame, where Steer-
forth renewed acquaintance with ' little Copper-
field,' was a comfortable house. I was once
recommended by a man in an Oxford set who
patronised it to the British in Cockspur Street.
Carlyle of Inveresk mentions it in his reminis-
cences of one hundred and fifty years ago ; but I
was never tempted to go there again. The whole
place, with its dark passages and stifling bedrooms,
might have been conveniently accommodated in one
of the grand saloons of the Metropole or Carlton.
But I have still pleasant recollections of Hatchett's,
the old White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, where
in former days all western coaches from the city
pulled up. Partly because, although much in the
rough, it evoked memories of those coaching times.
There was a sanded floor in the carpetless coffee-
room, and you breakfasted — one never dreamed
of dining there — in the old-fashioned boxes, like
uncovered bathing machines. There was always
a certain scramble and bustle, though the break-
faster might have a long idle day before him, as
if the Bristol mail or the Exeter Quicksilver were
to draw up, sharp to time, in fifteen minutes.
Coffee and muffins came in with a rush ; the toast
had apparently been scorched on the surface ;
and the invariable beefsteak, though juicy, was
thin, as if cut to be passed in haste over a
glowing gridiron. Cox's in Jermyn Street, with
its sundry suites of small private rooms, was

D

50 DAYS OF THE PAST

crowded with families from the country. I imagine
that Anthony Trollope had it in his eye when he
sketched Pawkins' — that 'capital, good house' — \
where Lord de Guest entertained his young friend
Johnnie Eames, and Pawkins in person, in the
solemn old style, brought in the silver soup-tureen.
Lane's, up a cul-de-sac to the west of the Hay-
market, was much affected by officers in the
Company's service, and many a rather recherchi
little dinner was given me there by a cousin, who
oscillated between that and the Blue Posts, and
who worked hard for rheumatism, chronic liver
complaint, and winters in southern Europe by
his weakness for old port and for wading in his
Deveron salmon water. Nor should I forget
Fenton's in St. James's Street, much patronised
by prosperous men of business from the provinces.
But Covent Garden was still the centre of the
unsophisticated stranger's gay life in London.
There were many hotels there, and some have
renewed a youth which dates from the period of
Sir John Fielding and the scarlet-vested Bow
Street runners. Year after year I used to resort
to the Tavistock, flourishing still, although utterly
transmogrified. The servants seemed to have
taken out a lease of immortality. The porter in
the hall — Pickwick we used to call him — never
forgot a friend or a face ; he welcomed you with
a broad smile, handing over any letters that might
be waiting. The boots rushed out, grinning recog-

EVOLUTION OF THE HOTEL 51

nition, and the grey-haired head waiter consulted
your tastes and anticipated your orders, Hke John
at the Slaughter's when Major Dobbin turned up
from Madras. It must be owned that the back
bedrooms were gloomy, and that in the brighter
front rooms rest might have been broken by the
bustle in the Market, but at that age one slept
sound. I liked the primitive larder on the first
landing place, with the uncooked joints, the
salmon, the lobsters, and the fruit tarts : I liked
the six o'clock table d'hote — a convenient hour
for the theatre-goers, with everything of the
choicest, from the mulligatawny or oxtail to the
Stilton and celery : above all, it was pleasant to
come down to the cheery breakfast-room, where
for the moderate fixed charge you could call for
anything you pleased in reason, and where the
side-tables were loaded with Scottish profusion.
As lavish was the provision of the Times and
other morning journals : the newsboys came to-
wards midday to sweep them up and pass them
on. Characteristic of the room were the basin
breakfast cups without handles, the plates of
water-cress, the luscious buttered toast and muffins.
At the Tavistock they never bothered you with a
bill : the sum total was inscribed on a tiny card,
and if you cared to check it, there were the books
in the clerk's box. I fancy no one ever did care
to check it : there was confidence between host
and guests. To this day, when in sentimental

52 DAYS OF THE PAST

mood, I love a stroll under the piazza, inhaling
the odours of crushed oranges and rotting^ cabbage
leaves.

The railways brought the revolution. The
growing influx of visitors was to be accommodated,
and the railway companies saw their way to en-
couraging traffic. What were then considered
o-reat caravansaries were built at Paddino^ton and
Euston, and they paid. They not only attracted
travellers but London residents. An old bachelor,
a connection of mine, was among the first, per-
manently to engage a bedroom at the Great
Western, locked up for him when he went his
annual round of visits, for he was welcome in
many a country house. Now, as we know, in the
matter of hotels, London shows the way to the
capitals of Europe.

CHAPTER IV

IN LONDON LODGINGS

In London below the upper bridges, the changes

are transformation. When I first knew it as a

temporary resident, the hotels, as I said, were poor

and few, or aristocratic and ruinously expensive.

The bachelor quarters were in St. James's, between

Piccadilly and Pall Mall. There you were within

a stone's throw or a short cab-fare of the clubs,

the dining places, and the theatres. For twenty

years I had my pied a terre \n Bury Street. The

\ man who took me in and did for me was a typi-

; cal representative of a class. Retired butlers or

i saving footmen united themselves in wedlock with

housekeepers or ladies' maids, and went in for

! keeping lodgings. When frugal and intelligent,

I they generally did well : many of them, as indeed

j is often the case now, had a good country connec-

j tion, like Mrs. Ridley who entertained the Rev.

j Charles Honeyman and was victimised by Fred

Bayham. My friendly host had been a courier,

\ and had made a wide circle of acquaintance in

I'the course of innumerable foreiorn tours. He was

'a man of substance, used frequently to consult me

I about his small investments, and though I never

54 DAYS OF THE PAST

tried It, as I happen to know, he could afford to
give long credit when he could reckon on the
essential solvency of his lodger. Everything was
managed on a liberal scale, and as the friend who
recommended me to the place remarked, you
might change your boots four times in the day
and never hear a grumble. The courier's wife
had been a lady's maid, but had she been a cordon
bleu the kitchen could not have been better con-
ducted. He did not profess to get up dinners,
though when he could be persuaded the guests
had no cause of complaint. As for the breakfasts,
it would have been difficult to beat them, and I
believe the special dishes were the work of his
own hands. For an inveterate continental rover
like myself, he had a special kindness ; and when
he brought in the tray with the morning's Times, I
always looked out for an awakening of associations.
\ plat of macaroni transported you to Naples, and
Fortnum and Mason round the corner were laid
under contribution to carry you to Rhineland, to
Pithiviers or the Gironde. The consequence was
that his rooms were run upon. I always paid a
retaining fee for my own, a modest but spacious
apartment ati troisicme, with a curtain screening
off the bed and the bath. There when I made
up my traps for a foreign tour, I left the rest of
my worldly belongings for Brown — as I may call
him — to pack ; and he used to buy endless second-
hand portmanteaus for their stowage. He struck

IN LONDON LODGINGS 55

at last and amicably told me I must make a clear-
ance, and indeed it was high time. He called up
one of these peripatetic merchants in old clothes,
who used to go prowling along Bury Street, shout-
ing down the area railings, and I left them busied
over the bargaining, for which he would insist on
honourably accounting.

One day, dining in Edinburgh with an old
acquaintance, I met his elder brother, who had
come home from India with a fortune. He asked
me about London lodgings. I saw how he
appreciated the oyster soup and the crimped
salmon, and recommended him to try Brown's. He
came, he saw, he took the second floor, and there
he remained for a dozen of years, dying in the
grim four-poster in the back bedroom. Lodgings
in Bury Street are not a lively place to die in,
listening to the chimes of the clock of St. James's,
Piccadilly, and bethinking yourself when the bell
will toll for your own departure. But the lonely
invalid's passage was made as smooth as might
be, by the affectionate attentions of the courier
and his helpmate. The first floor for four-fifths
of the year was the residence of a young aristocrat
who had done a good deal of aesthetic decoration
there on his own account. That is to say, it was his
residence when at home, for he was perpetually
absent on rounds of visits. And in the season he
invariably migrated to more fashionable quarters
in Half-Moon Street, for Piccadilly then drew a

56 DAYS OF THE PAST

sharp dividing line between fashion and affluent

or respectable Bohemianism. The day came when

poor Brown died himself; and the announcement

of the news gave me a sad shock, when I drove

up one morning from the Tower Wharf where the

Baron Osy from Antwerp had landed me. The

widow flitted ; the house was sold ; and so I lost

the only home I have ever known in London. In

after years I went from sentimental motives to

take a bed there, and thought myself happy in

securing the familiar bedroom. The house had

been burnished up externally ; a brisk butler

opened the door with the bright brass plate, and

a flaunting maid brought a tarnished flat candle

and a jug of tepid water, when I came in to dress

for dinner. Now I was only a night casual and

No. 9, and I had every opportunity for meditating

on the changes through the night watches. Never

even in Sicily or Syria have I been worse worried

by families of bugs of all ages and sizes. The

sheets and chintz curtains were splashed with gore.

When getting into a pair of badly blackened

boots, I recalled the mirror-like polish by which

you might have shaved, and took a last farewell of

the desecrated lodgings.

Everywhere about the capitalist or the specula-
tive builder has been busy. There are piles of resi-
dential chambers in Duke Street and Bury Street,
and the old directory maker would be as much abroad
as the o\d flaneur, if he took a stroll up Piccadilly.

IN LONDON LODGINGS 57

There were no clubs to the west of St. James's
Street, till the Junior Athenaeum was started at
the corner of Down Street and Piccadilly. In
comparatively recent years, the Berkeley, among
the first of the sumptuous new restaurants, with its
set dinners and recherchd luncheons, was reared
on the site of the White Horse Cellar. Lady
Palmerston was still receiving the dlite of the
Whig party, and recruiting for it in receptions at
Cambridge House, which has since become a
succursale of the Junior and the Rag. Apsley
House — I can remember the iron shutters, the epi-
grammatic retort of the Duke to the violence of an
oblivious rabble — had not been overtopped by the
golden palace of the Rothschilds. Hamilton Place
was a quiet cul-de-sac, only disturbed by the echoes
of the congested traffic between St. George's
Hospital and the narrows leading to Park Lane.
The houses in the Lane itself, though suggestive
of luxury and affluence, so as to point the diatribes
of the demagogues who smashed the railings of
the Park, were comparatively unpretentious. The
landowners were still the aristocracy of wealth,
for it was before the multi-millionaires had struck
oil in America, or exploited the gold treasures
of Australia and the Transvaal.

Since then the ornamental gardener has done
much to beautify the Park with flower beds,
blazing with tulips, geraniums, and pelargoniums.
But I liked it better when it was less carefully

58 DAYS OF THE PAST

tended, for comparative neglect reminded one of
the simplicity of the country. And since then
many a stately tree has come down, both there
and in Kensington Gardens, and quaint summer-
houses, where sentimental lovers had assignations
for summer evenings, have disappeared. The gates
were guarded against public conveyances, and so far
the democracy had a genuine grievance. On the
other hand there was no church parade, and they
missed the opportunity of staring at celebrities,
with whose looks and domestic habits the illus-
trated and society journals have since made them
familiar. When I first knew the Park, few people
turned out to ride of a fine morning, except for
fresh air and exercise. Then the before-breakfast
ride became the fashion ; and a very good thing it
was, for it got the young folk out of bed, after
late dances and midnight suppers. It freshened
their complexions through the season, and kept
them going till they changed the scene to the
country or the continental baths.

But my brightest recollections of the Park of
those days are of an exceptionally severe winter.
The frost was as intense, if not so enduring, as
when the Thames was hard-frozen from bank to
bank. I had just come south from Scotland in
time to change curling stones for skates, and
seldom have I gone in for such prolonged exertion,
as was only possible in the exhilarating cold.
After skating all the day on the Serpentine, with

IN LONDON LODGINGS 59

perhaps an occasional suburban excursion to the
Welsh Harp, or the ponds at the Crystal Palace,
you came back with ravenous appetite for a hasty
dinner at the club, with a pint of champagne or a
flask of burgundy. Then shaking off somnolence,
like a giant refreshed, you were whirled in a
hansom behind a slipping horse to the passage
hard by the Knightsbridge Barracks. The Park
was lighted with a lurid glare, the reflection
of hundreds of smoking torches. For several
clays the ice was in perfect condition, for the
orange peel and the debris of other comestibles
were regularly swept away by gangs of frozen- out
sweepers. It was a saturnalia where all sorts and
conditions were mingled ; from the ragged vaga-
bond who screwed on your skates, to the beggar
who appealed to your charity when you sought
temporary rest on a chair. You could even afford
to be in charity with the pickpockets who hustled
you, for as at the prize fight you had wisely left
your valuables at home, and if they found any
small change by searching your pockets, you made
them heartily welcome to it.

To go back to the pleasant summer mornings,
we used often to prolong the ride from Rotten
Row to Lords'. Then the arrangements were as
primitive as when the fielders turned out in tight
raiment and top-hats, and batters and wicket-
keepers took no special precautions against the
steady underhand bowling. You rode in, took

6o DAYS OF THE PAST

your seat on a backless bench, and held your
own horse who stood quietly grazing behind you.
St. John's Wood was still a suburban solitude, of
doubtful reputation, but with Cytherean retreats
where apocryphal respectability often led a double
existence. I remember one forenoon pulling up
face to face with an elderly acquaintance, coming
out of one of those elig^ible cottap^e residences.
He was a doctor in fashionable practice who might
have been visiting a patient anywhere, and had
it not been for his blushing and embarrassment,
I should never have dreamed of suspecting evil.
As it was, he gave himself so thoroughly away,
that I believe I could have blackmailed him to
any extent.

Eastward from the Union Club the changes
have been so great that I have wellnigh forgotten
how things used to be. One of my boyish recol-
lections is of Farrance's on the south side, famous
for ices and pastry, and for the fascinating young
women behind the counters. There was but one
narrow thoroughfare southward — the crossing-
sweeper found it almost as lucrative as that before
the Bank — where now are the multiplicity of
spacious crossways on the slope, as perilous to
pedestrians as the Place de la Republique, with
the incapable Paris coachmen. Northumberland
House, the last of the great historic mansions of
the Strand, had not yet been sold for a million,
more or less ; and the Percy lion on the roof,

IN LONDON LODGINGS 61

with rampant tail, always attracted little groups
of country gazers. Nothing could be quieter or
duller than the side streets, ending on the mud-
banks of the tidal river, as they were then. They
were chiefly populated by lodging-house keepers
like Mrs. Lirriper, by rather shady private hotels, by
struggling solicitors with a sprinkling of usurers, and
by cook-shops. It was an innovation when George
Smith started the Pall Mall Gazette, a West End
journal, 'written by gentlemen for gentlemen,'
bringing life and briskness into Northumberland
Street, which nevertheless was still a czd-de-sac.
Since the brothers Adam built the Adelphi, which
proved a financial failure, the builder and educated
architect had found little to do in that quarter.
Even the Government Offices were disgraceful
survivals. I remember often groping my way
about the old War Office, as much a warren of
winding passages and darksome rooms as the
venerable Savoy before it was pulled down.
Naturally such a dilapidated rookery was a nest
of abuses, and if youths of fashion might grumble
at uncomfortable quarters, they consoled them-
selves by being seldom looked up and having
next to nothing to do. And I fancy things must
have been managed in a singularly free and easy
fashion. Once I had come to town for a con-
tinental tour with a captain in a light cavalry
regiment. He had some interest and a good
record, and counted so confidently on getting a

62 DAYS OF THE PAST

month or six weeks' leave that all our plans were
settled. The answer to his written application
was a curt refusal. Intensely disgusted, he did
not despair. He went next day to interview an
underling, who told him it should be all right, and
he would come to dine with us and report. So he
did and so it was, and we had a jovial evening at
the Rag.

Hard by was another decrepit survival of the
past, Hungerford Market, a wooden construction
of low bulging buildings, with galleries and over-
hanging eaves. It was fragrant with the smell of
stale shellfish and the odours from the booths and
stalls of small tradesmen. It was there that David
Copperfield or young Charles Dickens served his
apprenticeship to the blacking warehouse. But it
was a bustling place all the same, for there was
constant coming and going to the floating pier
and the penny river boats. Moreover, turning
to the stairs on the right, for another penny or
a halfpenny, you could cross the river by the
slender suspension bridge which now spans the
Avon opposite Clifton Hot Wells.

Hungerford Market was disreputable, though
not unpicturesque in its decay, yet evidently
doomed. But Leicester Square was simply a
scandal ; and it was a marvel how that dreary
abomination of desolation could be left in the
midst of the wealthiest city in the world. There
was a headless statue in a wilderness of weeds,

IN LONDON LODGINGS 63

and the silence of the night was disturbed by the
caterwauHng of starving cats on the rampage.
From time to time the jungle had been cleared
for dioramas and exhibitions of various kinds, but
they invariably came to grief, for the place seemed
accursed. And the morals of the vicinity left every-
thing to desire, for it was a modern sanctuary — a
preserve for political and criminal refugees from
continental justice, always shadowed by agents of
the secret police and the objects of urgent demands
for extradition. In comparison the female society
of the Haymarket was pure and refined. I have
said something of the company you saw in the
restaurants. Berthollini's had a great renown in its
time among English Bohemians ; it was celebrated
in verse by Albert Smith in his ' Pottle of Straw-
berries ' ; and as you wandered away into the back
streets towards Soho and Clerkenwell, the eating-
houses shaded down from the cheap and mean to
the villainous.

Then a great reformer and philanthropist came
to the rescue. Albert Grant had cast his Jewish
gabardine and adopted a Christian name ; he had
begged or bought a German title ; and by his rare
skill in promoting and company running had laid
the shaky foundations of a colossal fortune. But
his credit had been blown upon, as he protested, by
calumny, and in the art of self-advertising he was
far in advance of the age. It occurred to him as a
happy stroke of business to present a renovated

64 DAYS OF THE PAST

Leicester Square to London. The Metropolitan
Board of Works rose readily to the offer ; the
scheme was carried out regardless of cost, and a day
was fixed for the opening ceremony. I happened
to be dining with Mr. Delane of the Times, when
he asked me to go and report the proceedings.
I went accordingly, and a queer scene it was, both
to see at the time and to look back upon after
the collapse of the Machiavelli of finance. The
Baron, sleek, smiling, and sandy-haired, ruddy of
complexion like David, and swelling with satisfied
pride and self-importance, stood forward on the
platform. A capital speech he made, for he was a
born orator, and he showed when he fought his
own case in the courts, and was highly compli-
mented by the judge, that had he turned his
attention to the law, he might have aspired to seat
himself on the Woolsack. The most characteristi-
cally suggestive point was his remarking casually
that he had brought his boys up from Eton to assist
at a scene they would long remember. As perhaps
they might, though with mingled feelings. For
the public benefactor had his bitter enemies, and
all about, outside the garden railings, newsboys
were shouting over satirical broadsheets, illustrated
with grave-slabs and headstones, commemorative
of the Baron's fatal fiascoes which had ruined con-
fiding investors by the thousands. Anyhow,
whatever the donor's motive, the gift has done
a world of good to the neighbourhood, giving

IN LONDON LODGINGS 65

a recreation ground to the feeble and sickly, and
a play garden to the children of the slums. More
than that, the enterprising promoter gave a start
to speculations by which he was not to benefit.
The square associated with Newton and Reynolds,
with Dr. Burney and the mysterious authorship of
Evelina, is now a centre of the theatrical world,
and adorned by music halls of Moorish architec-
ture, paying dividends from twenty to thirty per
cent.

I might be tempted to ramble on to the top of
the Haymarket, and to Shaftesbury Avenue, where
the transformations have been more striking than
anywhere else, but I may as well travel eastwards,
and sample the city. Forty or fifty years ago, few
self-respecting men dreamed of taking an omnibus
— omnibuses were slow, they were filthy, they
were not cheap, for sixpence was the fare from
Pall Mall to St. Paul's — and the eternal stoppages,
with the squaring of complacent policemen, were
standing subjects of satire in P2mch. The crawling
four-wheeler was an intolerable trial of the patience,
and was chiefly relegated to old parties with
heavy boxes, or to the sight-seeing country cousins
who were ruthlessly and remorselessly victimised.
Hansoms were less common then than now, and
you gained little by taking them, for they were
always being caught up in crushes, and could
seldom put on the pace. If you safely shot the
cross currents at Charing Cross, there was always

E

66 DAYS OF THE PAST

a long block at Temple Bar, and indefinite delays
at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. Then you had
to negotiate crowded Cheapside, for there was no
broad thoroughfare through Cannon Street. Con-
sequently when the weather was fine, and I seldom
went cityward except under favourable weather
circumstances, I generally took the penny boat
at Hunorerford.

There was no place I visited more habitually
than the old East India House in Leadenhall
Street : to my fancy it was always enveloped with
a gorgeous halo of oriental romance. The reason
of my going and of my free admission was that a
bosom friend was a confidential clerk and private
secretary to his father, a director with sundry
stars to his name in the catalogue of stockholders,
and repeatedly chairman in critical circumstances.
It was that gentleman who was at the helm when
Lord Ellenborough was recalled. A keen sports-
man, he used to take me out snipe-shooting as
a boy. He had the oddest trick of throwing his
hand to his hat, before raising his gun ; but when
he did brino- the ^un to his shoulder he seldom
missed, for he had served an apprenticeship in
the rice swamps of Bengal. I well remember his
telling his brother, when sitting down to luncheon
on the skirts of an Aberdeenshire bog— his brother,
also a stockholder, was advising caution — that his
mind was made up, that the viceroy must come
back, and that he was ready to carry the war into

IN LONDON LODGINGS 67

the enemy's camp. He spoke as if he had the
directorate in his pocket, and I verily believe he
had, for he was a man of no ordinary sagacity, and
of indomitable will.

He and that brother of his were typical men.
In the palmy days of the Company, it was not
only on shore that fortunes were to be made by
civilians shaking the pagoda tree. Both had been
in the Company's naval service. One married
early and retired in comfortable circumstances ;
the other held on a few years longer and retired
comparatively rich. Then the Lady Melville or
the Lord Clive was a cross between a castle and a
floating warehouse, with its Dutch-built poop, its
quarter galleries and its capacious holds. On the
homeward voyage the holds were always richly
freighted : there were bars of bullion, there were
bales of silks and cases of indigo, and sealed pack-
ages of diamonds were locked away in the captain's
cabin. The captain had his commission on the
value of the cargo, and with his officers, according
to their degree, was privileged to ship a certain
quantity of goods. His venture was compact and
precious ; and through friends in India to whom he
could do many a good turn, he had always means
of investing his savings to the best advantage.
Many a quaint souvenir of their voyages they had
brought home. There were roots fantastically
fashioned with slight touches, into beasts, birds,
and fishes ; idols in ivory, silken hangings, and

68 DAYS OF THE PAST

emblazoned scrolls ; with carvings in jade, picked
up for a song in the bazaars of Shanghai or Canton,
which would fetch a great price nowadays.

So it may be imagined what wealth of treasure
was stored in the India House. It was a museum,
besides, of trophies won in memorable battles and
sea-fights, and of the offerings which humbled
potentates had brought to the feet of the merchant
adventurers. There were costumes of state, and
antiquated suits of chain armour ; an arsenal of
semi-barbarous weapons from gingals, matchlocks
and stinkpots to sabres, swords and daggers of the
finest tempered steel, with sheaths inlaid with
Canarese gold work, and hilts, made for small,
nervous hands, rich with uncut gems. There was
always a scent, or one fancied there was, of sandal-
wood and oriental spices, which lent a halo of
romance to the drudgery going forward, conducted
with as business-like methods as at Lloyd's or the
Bank of England. Yet you were brought back to
the present when you crossed in the passages boys
bearing trays which were not laden with oriental
sweets, but with chops from the pot-house round
the corner, flanked with pewters of bitter or stout.
The most imposing man on the premises was the
gold-laced giant who mounted guard at the portal.
As my visits were frequent when in town, I thought
it well to tip him ; but I can never forget the
hesitation with which I tendered the douceur, or my
relief when he smilingly condescended to accept it.

IN LONDON LODGINGS 69

That porter must have been pensioned when the
rule of the Company was transferred to the Crown.
But in after years my connection with the East
was renewed when I made acquaintance with
sundry directors of the Peninsular and Oriental.
Leadenhall Street was still the centre of East
Indian trade, and notably of the passenger traffic.
But already its practical monopoly was being
threatened by engineering science and keen com-
petition. When I went out to the opening of the
Suez Canal on the Delta with other guests of the
Khedive, it was already reconstructing its fleet
and reconsidering its arrangements. The old
Delta was one of the last of the paddle steamers,
and a comfortable and roomy craft she was. We
had a placid passage from Marseilles to Alexandria,
and not a soul failed to turn up at every meal. I
may remark, parenthetically, that the idea was to
leave her at Alexandria, as it was doubted whether
she did not draw too much water for the new
canal ; but afterwards the directors decided that
they ought to show their flag in the Red Sea, and
they dared the passage successfully. Meantime,
after a kindly offer of a shake-down on the deck of
his crowded steam yacht from Sir John Pender,
associated with regenerating Egypt by electrical
enterprise, I transhipped myself to the Newport,
the Government surveying ship, where they turned
out a beer cask to make room for a bed in the
saloon. The Newport, commanded by my connec-

70 DAYS OF THE PAST

tion, Captain Nares — the Sir George of the Arctic
Expedition— was overcrowded with captains and
flag officers of the Mediterranean fleet. Many of
them have since been admirals, and more than one
found a watery grave with Tryon, who, I think,
was one of our company.

Ships of the Delta class were built for the com-
fort of passengers ; freight was by no means a
secondary consideration, but then it was of great
value in small bulk. Silks and spices could be
compactly stowed away. In the newer vessels,
cargoes of cotton were consigned to capacious
holds, and the Suez Canal would never have paid
had it not been for the simultaneous introduction
of the compound engine. At the same time, more
severe competition lowered the passage money,
and stricter economy became the word of com-
mand. In the palmy days the Company charged
pretty much what they pleased, and in all the
commissariat arrangements there was a princely
disregard of detail. At the many meals, sherry and
claret were served ad libitztm ; you might douche
yourself with brandy and soda or Bass as you
lounged in the camp chair under the awnings on
deck. Now the fares are cut down ; the second-
class accommodation is infinitely improved ; and
though you may call for what liquor you like, you
have to pay for it. These changes may be all for
the better, but one loved the old sense of luxurious
pleasure yachting. What is more questionable

IN LONDON LODGINGS 71

is the substitution of Lascars for Europeans in
the crews, though I remember Morris, one of the
oldest captains in the service, warmly advocating it,
when he showed me over what he considered his
model steamer at Alexandria. But Morris was an
enthusiast. Often after that Egyptian trip, I en-
joyed the hospitality of the Board in their head-
quarters in Leadenhall Street at luncheon time ;
and a privilege it was to lunch in such intellectual
company, with a rare variety of oriental experi-
ences. But at these simple luncheons frugality
reigned, and the Board of that wealthy and pro-
sperous Company, all men of affluence or ample
means, set their subordinates a laudable example
of economy.

CHAPTER V

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES

It is a natural transition from London hotels to
the Thames. What pleasant times we used to
have up the river, when the house-boat was a
rarity and when the swans were never scared by
the steam launch. The swan hopper's barge, slow
and stately, with its gorgeous display and its
associations with the venerable city guilds and
immemorial custom, was a different thing alto-
gether and suited to the suburban river scenery
as the Bucentaur to Venetian canals. Among my
brightest recollections is that of a July and August
spent cruising between old Windsor and Kingston.
It was a singularly dry summer, intensely hot, and
we lived in flannels. There was no fear of the rain
upsetting the daily arrangements. We were four :
two to pull, one to steer, and the supernumerary to
go along the bank at a dog-trot, with a terrier and
a gaunt mongrel, who had attached himself to the
party and fattened on good living. Our quarters
were at the nautically named Ship of Lower
Halliford, and if the accommodation was some-
what cramped, we could not have been more
comfortable. The day began with a dip in the

72

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES ^o

river, when one of the Rosewells, a family of
Halliford boatmen, who punted us to the bathing-
place, took the opportunity of examining his eel
pots, and the results were not without a personal
interest for us. Breakfast in the little parlour,
with the window wide open over the riverside
road, was not the least enjoyable hour of the day.
There was a pretty clean sweep of the well-spread
table, and especially the crusts of home-baked
loaves disappeared, the crumb being left to make
into toast, which never was made, or was given
away in generous charity. After breakfast, and
over pipes, Mr. Stone, our worthy host, was called
into consultation as to the more solemn business
of dinner. The fish cart used always to come up
punctually, at a canter, when we made our own
selections, ranging- from salmon to smelts. That
weighty matter off our minds, the long summer
day was devoted to relaxation. When we were
equally divided as to going up or down, the
question was settled by the spin of a shilling.
Really, it mattered little, though perhaps it was
more satisfactory to begin with the pull against the
stream, drifting downwards with the current as the
shadows were declining. Either way, you could
not go wrong. The Thames has a placid beauty of
its own, and everywhere the banks, even when
from the boat you lost sight of the beauties, were
brightened by associations. Upwards there was
Shepperton, at an inconvenient distance and too

74 DAYS OF THE PAST

near to Halliford, for Mrs. Steer who kept the
inn was famous for her cookery. It used to be
a favourite resort of Albert Smith, who had a
cottage at Chertsey ; and in the garden we made
acquaintance with the great showman's mother.
The old lady had rather gone off her head, but the
worthy landlady made her welcome for the sake of
old times. In unconventional costume, we used
regularly to attend morning service of a Sunday in
the picturesque old church, and seldom have I
profited more than by the ministrations of the
excellent parson. It was luxurious to listen to the
songs of praise and words of power, to see the
glorious sunshine filtering through the panes of
stained glass, and to know that in the afternoon
you would be worshipping in the sunshine of
the open.

In those days Mr. Lindsay, a great shipowner,
who was an authority in the House of Commons
on seafaring and commercial subjects, had a charm-
inof maritime residence there, and the borders that
fringed his lawns were blazing with geraniums and
fuchsias. He used to have Cabinet ministers down
with him for the ' weeks' ends,' which had not then
come into general observance, and more than once
we were indiscreet enough to pull * easy all ' when
we recognised Mr. Gladstone, then Chancellor
of the Exchequer, in confidential talk with him.
Chertsey and the neighbourhood were associated
with the burglarious expedition of Bill Sikes and

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 75

flash Toby Crackit, and Laleham, the suburban
seat of Lord Lucan, with memories of Dr. Arnold
and Tom Broivns School Days ; for at Lale-
ham we were naturally reminded of Rugby, and
one of the quartette was an old intimate of Tom
Hughes. In after years I knew ' Tom Brown ' toler-
ably well, and had many a pleasant chat with him in
the subterraneous smokingr-room of the Atheneeum.
Also at Margate, where he swore by the invigorat-
ing air, and whither I often took my walks, by way
of Broadstairs and Kingsgate from Ramsgate. And
there were few men I loved more than his brother
George, with whom I golfed and forgathered,
season after season, at Pau, and with whom, and
our common friend, Ferdinand St. John, we have
whipped the water, rather than caught trout, in
many a tempting emerald-coloured stream of the
Pyrenees. But the evening chat — we never retired
early — more than atoned for the disappointments
of the day. St. John had been everywhere, knew
everybody, was at home in all useful European
languages, and had brilliant talents which should
have raised him to high distinction, had he not,
to his subsequent regret, perversely wrapped
them up in a napkin. As raconteur and carcsevr, he
scarcely yielded to Charles Lever, who suggested
that he should give his autobiography to the world
under the title of ' Devious Ways and Loose Re-
collections.' George Hughes was more reserved,
but he brimmed over with appreciative humour,

76 DAYS OF THE PAST

and had a happy turn for amateur theatricals and
charades. He never hinted at- it, but I have reason
to believe that he collaborated with his brother
in the Rugby book which has made Thomas an
Engflish classic.

Lord Lucan was the lord of the manor where
we used to lie, after luncheon, and smoke under
the trees. As it chanced, when it was my habit
to lunch at the Carlton, as an early bird — indulging
in something like a French ddjeu7ier — I always
secured the corner table at a window on Pall Mall,
and his lordship invariably occupied the next one.
The gallant old field marshal, the hero of the Heavy
Cavalry Charge, cared little about Arnold, but had
a love for his family seat and the scene of the
doctor's early labours. He was a delightful and
informing acquaintance, but it was difficult to draw
him on the subject of the Crimean campaign,
though he discussed atisine and other subjects with
knowledgeable zest. But though instructive, he
was the most embarrassing of neighbours. Pain-
fully deaf, he spoke in stentorian tones, and ex-
pected any modest man he was conversing with to
respond in similar key. Once I happened to be
relating a dramatic incident of saving- a kitten from
a bull-dog at Laleham, when our terrier and mongrel
had cut into the fight. That day the dining-room
was extraordinarily crowded, as a great debate was
coming on, and it was one of the rare occasions
when Lord Beaconsfield had condescended to drop

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES ^^

in with Mr. Montague Corrie for lunch. As I
began to retell the tale in a louder voice, there
chanced to be a lull, so I had more of an audience
than I desired or expected.

But this is one of my innumerable digressions.
At Chertsey we would diverge from the river to
the Cricketers ; at Staines we used to pull up at
the Packhorse ; its name suggestive of traffic in the
olden time, when the Berkshire roads were sloughs
and the lanes were flooded. It was a quaint and
modest hostelry, in high repute for its ale and
mutton chops. Experts in ale — and we were all
of us familiar with the Trinity Audit — used to swear
by the beer at the Bells of Ouseley. To me it
always seemed a trifle hard, suggesting the cider
they used to serve from the cask in earthenware
jugs at the Brittany tables d'hote. I may have been
mistaken, for no haunts on the river were more
frequented by connoisseurs of all classes than the
taproom and parlours of that somewhat sequestered
inn. Bargemen and swell boating men gathered
on the benches before the door, and it was largely
patronised by gipsies from caravans on the adjacent
commons, and by the passing tramp. I recollect
one free fight in which we interposed at great per-
sonal risk, when two Romany ladies took to pulling
bonnets, and their swarthy mates, who at first looked
indifferently on, began to show an interest in the
affair which threatened serious hostilities. But
considering that the rural constabulary were con-

78 DAYS OF THE PAST

spicuous by their absence, and that rough chaff was
constantly flying about, it was wonderful how little
trouble there was on the river. The temper of the
bargees had not been soured by steam-launches
interfering with their steering, or house-boats
getting foul of the towing-ropes. Alongside of
the fragile outrigger in the locks they always made
themselves pleasant — in the expectation of the price
of a pint — though still morbidly sensitive to the
time-honoured query of, ' Who ate the puppy-pie
under Marlow Bridge ? '

Maidenhead and Marlow were the objects of
more distant excursions, with the Red Lion at
Henley as a goal, where we sometimes passed a
couple of nights. There was no greater contrast
than that between the Henley of the Regatta and
the Henley of other weeks of the year. The
drowsy little town was nodding, if not asleep. No
longer were the echoes awoke by the horns of the
coach guards, or by the shouts down the stable
yards for 'first and second pairs out' But you
seldom failed in a fine season to find company at
the Lion, of the best sort and inclined to be sociable.
Skindle's at Maidenhead, with its verdant lawn
and beds of geraniums, was a delightful place to
lounge away an afternoon, till the lotus-eating torpor
grew on you, and you were loath to slip the painter.
There was no club hard by and no noisy racket,
though of a Sunday it was rather a place to be
shunned, for hard-worked men of letters from the

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 79

borders of Bohemia were apt to hold high festival
there with their ladies.

There is many a picturesque mansion on the
river banks, but perhaps none is more attractive
than Bisham. We had the fortune to find hospi-
table welcome there — one of us was heir-presump-
tive to the Abbey and estates — and the hospitality
was free and easy as any boating man, whose
ordinary wear was loose flannels, could desire.
On the great oaken table in the ancient hall were
the massive tankards of home-brewed ale, which
rather stimulated thirst, while professing to quench
it. There were no rules as to strictly correct cos-
tume for dinner, always served punctually to the
hour, when the guests walked in to take their
seats, though the master might be late, as was
very often the case. The venerable mansion was
associated with the two great baronial families who
had transmitted their names and manors to ' the
last of the barons,' There was of course a ghost,
dating from Elizabethan days, for one of the
Hobdays walked, and though I forget the details,
I do remember that there was some odd association
with child murder and a blotted copy-book. The
lady never disturbed my slumbers, and when we
rose it was to take a header into the Thames from
a bathing-house shrouded in luxuriant shrubbery.
From the square, grey tower — there was a tradi-
tion that a cat had been tossed from the battle-
ments to alight safely on its feet on the gravel

8o DAYS OF THE PAST

walk — there was an enchanting view over hill,
dale, and valley, and the long sweep under the
sheltering ridge of the amphitheatre of beech-
woods. There Shelley had boated through many
a summer's day, meditating sonnets to the sky-
larks, as they soared skyward, or dreaming over
The Revolt of Islam, which he composed in great
part while, dropping his sculls off Bisham, he left
the boat to drift. The exile, on one of his returns
to England, had his home at Marlow, across the
river, and the proscription of the atheist and
socialist was so general, that his only friend and
acquaintance was Love Peacock, whom he had
tempted to Marlow — a poet like himself and the
author of those inspired snatches of song in The
Misfortunes of Elphin and Maid Marian. Lapped
in the folds of the beechen amphitheatre, on its
sloping lawn, stood the vicarage, where Peacock's
Dr. Opimian might have been content to settle
down, renouncing dreams of deaneries and
bishoprics. If the parson were foolish enough to
change the scene in summer, he could always let
that ideal Paradise for a fabulous rent — from thirty
to forty guineas a week. As for the old-fashioned
Dutch garden of the Abbey, scarcely above the
river level, with its encircling moat Hooded in
any overflow, with the old-fashioned hollyhocks,
dahlias, and sunflowers, it was a blaze of brilliant
colour. Nowhere have I seen brighter or fresher
tints on the gladiolas, save at Inverewe in Western

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 8i

Ross-shire, where the terraces were watered by
balmy rains tempered by the genial flow of the
Gulf Stream.

Scarcely less attractive was the downward pull
from H alii ford to Kingston, the county town of
Surrey. Again you were among the suburban
haunts of more or less illustrious men, who had
their summer residences near to town before the
days of the railway. Love Peacock and Leigh
Hunt had lived at Halliford : on a garden terrace
just below the village used to sit wrapt in her
book a girl in a scarlet jacket, who was pointed
out as Hunt's granddaughter. One of the homes
of Harold Skimpole, where, like the poet of the
Seasons, he may have nibbled, with hands behind
his back, at the sunny sides of the peaches,
must have been still in the family. At Walton,
with its long, low bridge of many arches, stretching
over marshy strips of meadowland, periodically
submerged — a scene often transferred to the walls
of the Academy — Mr. Sturgis, a partner in
Baring's, then in the full flush of high credit and
cautious prosperity, kept open house for Trans-
atlantic guests, who hunted up the history and
romance of the old country from Windsor Forest
to Hampton Court. Then there was Sunbury,
reminding one of Gilbert White's notes upon
swallows and their hybernation — the birds were
always flashing by the boat and twittering over the
reed beds, while the great black swifts flew scream-

F

82 DAYS OF THE PAST

ing round the church tower — and of Barham of
the Ingoldsby Legends, who had often rowed there
before us. There was Thames Ditton, where we
would land to lunch at the Swan, associated with
Scott's correspondence with Lord Montague, and
with Theodore Hook, who was fond of going punt
fishing there, with sufficient ground-bait for him-
self on board, and superfluity of claret and cold
punch. There was Moulsey Hurst, of renown in
the palmy days of the prize-ring, when chariots
and four, bedecked with the colours of Cribb or
Molyneux — Captain Barclay or Berkeley Craven
seated beside the bruisers they had trained or
backed — brought the swells of St. James's to the
scene of old English 'sport,' which, when not
interrupted by the presence of some officious
magistrate, often ended in a fight more free than
was contemplated. I was versed in the vivid
descriptions of those days by the amusing Memoh's
of Archibald Constable the publisher, when his
partner Hunter, who had the quarrel with Scott,
drove down with ' Maule,' afterwards Lord Pan-
mure, and ' the Bailie,' which was the sobriquet
of Hunter's sire. But forty years ago the glories
of the ring were gone — as Borrow remarks in
Lavengro, rottenness had crept into the heart of
it — the once popular Bell's Life was on the
decline, and the office of the umpire was even
more perilous than it had always been, now that
' crosses ' were common, and the whips that strove

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 8

o

to keep the ring- could hardly hold boisterous
roughs in order. Yet it still published columns
of challenges, intimating houses where money was
to be put down at a series of convivial meetings,
and where the office was to be obtained by the
initiated on the eve of the battle. Ben Caunt was
at home at the Coach and Horses ; Jem Burn,
who was in the way of dropping into poetry like
Silas Wegg-, had 'lush to cool you, when your
coppers were hot,' at the Rising Sun ; and Nat
Langham, champion of the middle weights, was
giving lessons to the nobility and gentry in the
noble art of self-defence. But the police were
ever on the trail of those half-tolerated law-
breakers ; the forlorn gentlemen of the fancy
were forced to find their way at unholy hours to
the fogs of the Essex marshes, when the con-
sumption of fiery liquors before the ordinary
breakfast hour was portentous. However dark
the impending affair might have been kept, those
outings of East-end roughs often ended in a fiasco,
and treachery hedged unsatisfactory bets by play-
ing into the hands of the common enemy. To my
shame, be it said, I once made one of such a party,
when the fight was a cross, and the expedition
in every sense 'a sell.' I had been wise enough
to leave watch and gold at home, but my loose
silver had escaped through a cut in the trouser
pocket, and I lost a breast pin which would not
have fetched a shilling when it was pawned.

84 DAYS OF THE PAST

Moulsey Hurst, by the way, has other memories.
It was almost as old a ofolfinor oround as Black-
heath, if it had no Royal Club and was not so
generally frequented, being less accessible from
the city. When Garrick had his villa at Hampton,
Jupiter Carlyle, with John Home, the author of
Douglas and confidential man-of-all-work to the

o

omnipotent Lord Bute, drove down with a party
of Scots to spend a day with the great actor.
They met the rector, Mr. Black, who owed his
benefice to having initiated the Duke of Cum-
berland in the game. Before adjourning to play
a foursome on the Hurst, Carlyle astonished the
natives by the skill with which he sent a ball
through an archway under the highroad intersect-
ing the garden. Garrick was so delighted by the
feat that he begged the club as a memento.

Hampton, where Trollope laid the scenes of his
Three Clerks, by far the best in his opinion as he
once told me, of his earlier novels, used to boast the
sobriquet of ' Appy.' That came from the annual
race meeting, a veritable cockney carnival. To
the turf it was much what the Epping Hunt was
to the chase ; it was a civic caricature of the Derby,
with the Derby humours parodied and exaggerated.
No one except the bookmakers and a sprinkling
of legs and fiats seemed to give a thought to the
running of the horses. There were shows and
booths of every description : Short and Codlin,
Jerry with his performing dogs, were all there;

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 85

there were caravans with giants, dwarfs and other
freaks, nigger minstrels, when they were rather a
novehy ; and notably troops of frolicksome young
women with tambourines, who chanted free and
easy songs, making unblushing advances to up-
roarious bachelors who had freighted their car-
riages with champagne hampers. I have seen
nothing like it before or since, except in ' Sausage
Alley ' in the Viennese Prater at Easter or Whit-
suntide. But there was more bitter beer and
brandy than champagne, which marked the tone
of the gathering. Of course there was some bet-
ting on the races and a drawing of sweeps, but the
genuine excitement was in the gambling tents.
Charlie Lyley and other notorieties did literally a
roaring trade. Heaps of gold and silver, and occa-
sionally a flutter of ' flimsies ' changed hands with
the spinning of the ball. It was in one of these
canvas hells that Charles Dickens laid the scene
of Sir Mulberry Hawk's quarrel with his pupil and
dupe, and such quarrels were likely enough to
come off, when men were flushed with wine and
fretted by losses.

Hotels of famous repute have had their day,
apparently decaying like the most fashionable
Parisian restaurants of last century of something
like dry rot and eclipsing themselves from no
visible cause. When I knew Hampton Court, the
Toy, commemorated by Scott in one of his letters,
had gone ; he had driven down with a select

86 DAYS OF THE PAST

party of poets to dine with his son the Major,
whose regiment was in quarters there. So had
the hog-backed wooden bridge, with timbers of
extraordinary length, felled, as Gilbert White tells
us, in the Hanger of Selborne. But it had been
succeeded by a capital house, looking out on the
river, where we dallied over many a quiet little
dinner, when waiting for the rising moon to light
us home to Halliford. Sometimes we would send
portmanteaus by train, and shifting from flannels
to evening dress, accept the hospitality of the regi-
ment of light cavalry. The lot of the youngsters in
the corps seemed always in those days especially
enviable. They did their duty no doubt, but they
were full of spirits and flush of money, however
they came by it, and in the season or out of it, they
were always on the rampage between the gaieties
of West London and the tranquil Court.

Nothing could be gayer than the palace gardens
on a fine Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and if
you sympathised in the pleasures of humble folk,
you could hardly fail to have a good time. The
rail was circuitous, slow and decorous, and most of
the merry excursionists came down by van. Albert
Smith, the cockney novelist par excellence, has
painted the cockney assemblage with the realistic
detail of a Paul de Kock or a Zola. There were
any number of Sprouts playing the cavaliers to
good-looking Bessies flaunting in all the hues of
the rainbow; and red-faced 'jolly men' were there

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES Sy

by the dozen. It was worth while getting your-
self lost in the leafy labyrinths of the Maze,
for at each turn you came upon loving couples,
the gentleman always taking the lady's arm when
his was not round her waist, and in that ideal
solitude actino" as if there were no onlookers
except the sparrows or the robins.

Hampton Court was crowded of a holiday, and
the river of a Sunday was lively from Maidenhead
downwards ; the only bother was the delay at
the locks, and that was lightened by the friendly
interchange of chaff. Immemorial privileges were
so seldom abused, that there was little enforce-
ment of riverine rights. The house-boat had
hardly made its appearance, and when one did
show, its occupants like the early navigators were
on their best behaviour, and never made themselves
obnoxious. On the contrary, they were rather
welcome to the natives, for their hands were
generally in their pockets. Here and there a
quiet party would land for lunch : now and again
they took up their quarters under canvas, drawing
on the neighbourhood for supplies. The thread of
blue smoke rising from the camp fire gave a grace-
ful touch to the sylvan landscape, and the worst
damage was widening a gap in the hedge when
oatherinof a few fallen branches for fuel. The
farmers sold their chickens and dairy produce, and
the cottage children were delighted to run on
errands before the days of compulsory school

88 DAYS OF THE PAST

attendance. Now with all regard for the recreations
of the public, I am inclined to sympathise with the
landowners who stand on rights of way, and come
down upon aggressive excursionists for trespass
on the rare occasions when they get the chance.
For these amphibious trespassers are slippery as
eels and elusive as the reckless motor-car drivers
who are the terror and horror of our roads.

Down to Twickenham and Richmond you could
dream away the time when you shipped the sculls
or lay on the oars : you could indulge in romantic
meditation on the many masters of song who have
wedded the beauties of the river to immortal verse.
The swans, undisturbed by the rush of the steam-
launch, left it to you to avoid a collision, and
seldom troubled to get out of the way. The punt
fisher, with bait- can, beer-jar, and luncheon-basket,
hung himself up between the * rypecs ' on some
quiet reach of backwater where he could practise
patience in perfect peace, and no watcher thought
of disturbing him : even the otters and the water-
hens, who had still their haunts in the sedges or
under the willow roots, had no great reason to
complain. But before taking leave of the non-
tidal Thames, I must fondly recall one enchant-
ing resort of mine. It was the Wharfe Farm on
the Hedsor estate, rented by an old friend of
mine and one of our boating crew, the brother-
in-law of Lord Boston. The name commemorated
the time when there was busy barge traffic on the

THE THAMES ABOVE BRIDGES 89

Thames ; when the barges tied up there to land
coal or lime, and to load up with fruit and vege-
tables for the London markets. The way to enjoy
the quiet was to have a week's hard grinding in
town over heavy dinners and in crowded drawing-
rooms. You took the key of the fields on a
Saturday, with a return ticket from Paddington,
and at Maidenhead chartered a crawling fly.
Shot out on the terrace at the door of the
Wharfe, the transformation scene was exquisite
and enchanting. We dined with windows opening
on the little lawn, and the music, which I generally
detest at dinner, was the chattering of starlings
and the twittering of sparrows. And the swallows
were circling and dipping on the river, till the bats,
streaming out from under the tiled roof, gave them
warning it was time to retire. When you went
to your own bed, you were lulled to rest by the
jug-jug of rival nightingales, and were wakened
prematurely by the early thrush, whose challenge
was answered from shrubbery and coppice, and
whose solo was soon lost in a chorus. You heard
the crow of the pheasant from the Hedsor woods
and the gabble of water-loving birds from the
reed-beds. With sunshine and freshening air
streaming in through the latticed casement, the
laziest of mortals could not have lain long in bed.
Then your boat was on the shore, or rather the
punt was in readiness, and the boatman had been
impatiently waiting to punt you out for your bath

90 DAYS OF THE PAST

and to inspect his eel-baskets. You took your
header under the hanging woods of CHeveden, erst
the bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love, secure
from intrusion as Diana and her nymphs — though,
by the way, they were once surprised — as in the
loneliest of Highland tarns.

CHAPTER VI

OLDER EDINBURGH

Edinburgh in these latter days has flourished by
law, physic, and divinity, above all by law. It
lives in a legal atmosphere, and every second man
you meet is a lawyer. In its legal aspect it is in-
timately associated with the two biographies of the
language — 'Qosw&W s Jo/mso7t and Lockhart's Scott.
Boswell distinguished himself by failing at the
Scottish Bar, after heading the mob that broke
the judges' windows, while Lockhart abandoned it
to edit the Quarterly. Lockhart before he left gave
inimitable descriptions of the legal celebrities of
his time in Peter s Letters to His Kinsfolk. Scott
had painted the habits of earlier generations in
the Waverley Novels : when Pleydell devoted the
week end to buffoonery and high jinks at Cleri-
hugh's ; when the host of the Hawes Inn was proud
of his ' ganging plea ' in the Parliament House,
and when Peter Peebles deemed the notoriety of
the suit that beggared him the height of earthly
grandeur. In fact the Scots, who in the Baron
of Bradwardine's words were made up of martial
septs, betook themselves to fighting in the law
courts when feuds had been put down with the

91

92 DAYS OF THE PAST

strong hand. Dandie Dinmont, who would have
rather settled his neighbourly dispute with cudgel
or broadsword, wellnigh quarrelled with Coun-
sellor Pleydell for not lending him a lift towards
insolvency. So when the lairds were impecunious
and British colonies in their infancy, law was the
most thriving of professions. Gentlemen of high
descent could take to it without derogating : the
heir, after a course of the Dutch universities, put
on the wig and gown in the rash presumption that
it would train him to manage the family estate :
the cadets preferred a possible competency in the
gay capital to the chances of adventure, with the
certainty of hardships, in the Hudson Bay Com-
pany's service or our East Indian possessions. The
aristocracy of the robe was the aristocracy of the
Northern Island, With few exceptions, the judges
of Session took sonorous titles from hereditary
estates ; they set the social fashions, and the
fashions were peculiar. They dined early and
drank deep. In the courts, which were darksome
dens, they refreshed themselves from decanters of
port at their elbows, and found their recreation in
supping in some squalid tavern, where with talk
that was sometimes brilliant and always loose,
they prolonged conviviality into the small hours.
They had often to be helped home by the ' cadie '
in waiting ; but nevertheless they got through a
vast deal of head-work and drudgery when the
pleading was chiefly carried on by pen and ink.

OLDER EDINBURGH 93

When I settled down in Edinburgh some fifty
years ago, the old order had passed away alto-
gether ; the decencies of high position were strictly
observed, and a judge would as soon have thought
of supping in a tavern, or hotel, as of dancing 2Lpas
setU in his ermine in the Parliament Close. But
celebrities still survived— the Whigs were then in the
ascendant — who had fought the battles of popular
freedom against the autocracy of Dundas and had
listened to the savage sentences of Braxfield.
There were men who had curiously looked on
at the marvellous drinking feats of such famous
four-bottle legislators as Hermiston or Kilkerran.
Jeffrey had long resigned the editorship of the
Edmburgh, but he was still seated in the Inner
House. I remember the reverence with which I
regarded the wrinkled old litUratettr, whose name
had become a household word all the world over.
Political animosities had calmed down with the
passing of the Reform Bill, and Whig and Tory
now met on neutral ground, though the struggle
for place and promotion was fierce as ever in the
Parliament House. Jeffrey extended his hospi-
talities to both parties. Craigcrook, his picturesque
residence, under the northern slopes of Corstor-
phine Hill, where he used to play leap-frog on the
lawn when a few years younger, was then really in
the country. There the landlord still gave weekly
welcome to legal or literary cronies and contem-
poraries, and there was generally a gathering on

94 DAYS OF THE PAST

Saturdays and Sundays. Some had battled and
suffered together in adverse times ; others had run
to extremities of anti-patriotism through the Penin-
sular War; not a few of the cronies were to drop off
almost simultaneously. There was Lord Cockburn,
whosQ Memoirs, though embittered by prejudice and
political animus, give the most vivid pictures of
the men and manners and abuses of his early days.
No man was more beloved by his friends and
family, or with better reason, but for years he had
been generating gall in the cold shade of political
ostracism. As Jeffrey had set up his tabernacle
under Corstorphine, so Cockburn had his home at
Bonaly, beneath the Pentlands. There was Mon-
crieff, whom Cockburn loved and laughed at —
' Crieffie,' as he familiarly calls him — who inherited
the talents he transmitted to his descendants.
There was Lord Murray, chiefly famed as host
and bon vivant, who appreciated the claret and
amine of Craigcrook ; there were Lords Cunning-
hame and Rutherfurd. On the death of the latter
I bought his set of Session Cases, sumptuously
bound in calf, to be resold very shortly, and sub-
sequently to be replaced by another set which in
their turn went to the sale room.

When I went to Edinburgh to try my fortunes
in the law, decentralisation and democracy were
already beginning to affect the lawyers. Yet there
was still a survival of the immemorial state of
things described by ' Peter ' in his Letters. All

OLDER EDINBURGH 95

cases of importance came for settlement to the
Supreme Courts ; the advocates were still some-
thing- of a landed aristocracy ; and most of them,
when they had landed possessions and rose to the
Bench, took the honorary title from their estates.
Very embarrassing it sometimes was when they
went touring on the continent with their untitled
wives, and punctilious landlords, not understanding
the connection, rudely turned them away from
the door.

Birth and family connection were even more
profitable to the Writers to the Signet. Fortunate
firms had transmitted lucrative business from
father to son. When I was entered for the run-
ning, serving my time in a Writer to the Signet's
office, about ^500 was paid for me, in shape of
apprentice fees, government stamps, etc., I got a
trifle of it back in copying papers at threepence a
page, which brought in a professional income of
about ^50. That was nearly all I gained in an
apprenticeship of monotonous routine. Moreover,
though I had fair connections, prospects were
being overcast. Hitherto fortunate writers had
taken things easily ; they managed all the great
estates, and without giving any guarantee for the
rents, earned a five per cent, commission by simply
collecting them. In these days the Bar not only
offers every man a fair field, but, as in England,
the best chance of a clever aspirant is to be con-
nected with firms of solicitors ; and the jurisdiction

96 DAYS OF THE PAST

of the county courts having been enlarged, many
once profitable suits are settled far away from the
Parliament House. Birth and descent count for
very little. But it is the Writers to the Signet
who have most reason for grumbling. The lairds
were always an impecunious class, but under
pressure of falling rents and growing mortgages,
they had learned to look more closely to their out-
givings. They grudged the Edinburgh agents
their easy gains, and found local men to do their
work for what old Trapbois would have called a
small consideration. A kinsman of my own, of
moderate estate, to whom I had looked to help me
towards affluence, said he saved ^150 a year by
the change. I dare say he did, but it was money
out of my pocket, so I decided to turn my talents
to the higher branch of the profession.

If I never become Lord President or Lord
Justice- Clerk, perhaps I have only myself to
blame. I passed the preliminary trials with credit,
and then devoted a dozen of years to sport, con-
tinental travel, and other distractions. When I
came back to put on the wig and gown, my con-
temporaries had got as many years ahead of me,
and I was not the man to come on with a rush and
make up the leeway. Nevertheless, I did a deal
of pedestrianism in the long and lofty hall of the
ancient Parliament House. Edinburgh has the
pull of London in that respect, for the advocate in
embryo is always on show. He has not to sit

OLDER EDINBURGH 97

waiting for mythical briefs in a sequestered garret in
some Inn of Court. There are agents to be stalked,
button-holed, and flattered, and the cynic sees a con-
siderable amount of unsophisticated human nature.
In the year I paced the boards, I picked up a few
guineas for formal motions, and some stray five
pound notes for assisting at technical proceedings,
but found no opportunity of distinguishing myself.
Had I had the chance, I doubt whether I should
have availed myself of it, for I cannot flatter my-
self I cut a figure in legal debates in the Juridical
Society. The orator is shaky on his legs, when he
knows next to nothing of his subject. So, after a
twelvemonth, I shook the dust off my feet and
came south. Yet though that year became in-
tolerably tiresome as it drew to a close, I have
rather pleasant recollections of it. The hall itself,
with its high timbered roof and dim religious light,
was rich in historical associations of the troublous
times of distracted Scotland. There were old
briefless advocates who had made them their study,
and were always ready to impart their knowledge,
enthusiastic as Dickens's Jack Bamber over
lonely chambers in the Inns of Court. There
were still scintillations of the sparks Lockhart
tells of, when there were gatherings of the
junior briefless round the great fireplaces, where
gossip and jest and repartee went round ; where
Scott with his toupet, christened by the facetious
Peter Robertson, * Peveril of the Peak,' had tossed

G

98 DAYS OF THE PAST

back the clinging sobriquet of ' Peter of the
Paunch.'

By the way, in naming notable judges, I forgot
the humorous Peter. In my time he was still well
to the fore and as keen after fun and jollity as ever.
With some of the officers in garrison, we once
gave a picnic and dance at Roslin, just after war
had been declared with Russia. Lord Robertson
arrived late, but came in time to take the chair at
supper, and characteristically brought a couple of
bottles of kiimmel. The last we should have, he
pathetically remarked, so we had better make the
most of them. By the way, at the sale of his
lordship's books, I bought his set of the Waverley
Novels, most of them first editions. They were
scrawled over with his pencil notes, some of them
serious, others sneering. One of them is : * Easy

writing, Master Walter, is d d hard reading.'

In another, where Scott in The Bride of Lammer-
moor preaches patience as the best alleviation of
human ills, the remark is, * Very true, Walter ; I
trust I shall always remember that.'

I might have held out longer, but for the sense
of living under the microscope and being con-
strained to be hypocritical in spite of yourself.
Every one knew and talked about what everybody
else did. If you put the foot in a stirrup it was
a professional scandal ; in common prudence you
had to sneak out of the stable-yard and head for
the beautiful country by back streets. Happily

OLDER EDINBURGH 99

golf was not only tolerated but encouraged. At
one o'clock, if — Heaven save the mark — he had
no pressing business, the youthful advocate was
supposed to be free, and could betake himself to
the Links with unruffled conscience. To the links
of Musselburgh or North Berwick, the decaying
guild of the caddies had transported itself When
Colonel Mannering visited Edinburgh, a caddie
guided him to Pleydell's lodgings, and Pleydell
put Dominie Sampson in charge of another. The
caddies, like the Gallegans, the water-carriers of
Madrid, were a Highland confraternity with some
of the barbaric virtues, but with neither prin-
ciples nor morals. They sold themselves to their
employer for the time, and charged themselves
with the most questionable missions. They knew
every close and den in the Old Town, and as it
was their business to gather scandalous gossip,
they were the most serviceable of spies — and
worse. No Figaro was more tactful in conveying
a billet-doux, and the fraternity were always able
and ready to help each other. When society
shifted to the New Town, their occupation was
wellnigh gone. Forty years ago there was still
a remnant of them to be seen, lounging on benches
at the street corners, with the leathern straps,
which were the badge of office, on their shoulders.
They carried bundles of papers for the ' writers ' or
baggage for the casual tourist. They spoke broken
Scotch in a guttural Gaelic accent, and in their

loo DAYS OF THE PAST

faces you could see that whether business was
brisk or slack, they were good customers to the
public round the corner. But the veritable caddie
had betaken himself to carrying golf clubs. If he
were sharp and something of a performer, there
he was sure of regular employment, for golf was
the solitary recreation, except a walk, in which
any man might indulge without losing caste or
credit. I have seen myself the Lord Justice-Clerk
playing a round with an ex-Moderator of the
General Assembly. Indeed divines of the olden
time like Robertson prided themselves on their
performances with the clubs as on their pulpit
eloquence. Still on Bruntsfield Links, immune
from building desecration, and overlooked by
Heriot's Hospital, burghers as grave as ' Jingling
Geordie * might be seen doing the daily round in
scarlet bleached by sunshine and storm. No one
I ever heard of played on Leith Links, where
James of York and Cumberland, 'the butcher of
Culloden,' used to take their pleasure, as golfing
tradition was still proud to tell. But Mussel-
burgh was the great resort, and, owing to the press
of business engagements, the links, save on a
Saturday, were seldom overcrowded. I cannot
say so much for the parlour at Mrs. Foreman's,
near Drummore, so often mentioned in Jupiter
Carlyle's Reiniitiscences, where each party on its
rounds made a point of lunching on the simple
fare of grilled haddocks and poached eggs.

OLDER EDINBURGH loi

Apropos of caddies and luncheons at Mrs. Fore-
man's, I mentioned Clerihugh's, and every one
remembers Colonel Mannering's amazement when
he surprised Pleydell at high jinks in that pande-
monium of roasting and grilling. Great lawyers
had ceased to frequent the Clerihugh's, where it had
been their habit to receive clients and hold nightly
consultations. But there was still a sublimated
Clerihugh's in the Fleshmarket, a survival of those
prehistoric days, and the only place for a genuine
Scottish dinner, with cookery worthy of Meg Dods.
The approaches were as little alluring as the name
of the locality. Putting it bluntly, it needed a
strone stomach to face them, and that indeed was
indispensable for the fare to follow. Once over
the threshold it was a highly respectable house,
and many a memory associates itself with the
faded moreen of the curtains and the bristling-
horsehair of the sofas. It was all the better if you
sent your own wines, but the brands of the stronger
liquors were unexceptionable. The menu might
safely be left to the landlord. You began with
cock-a-leekie, hotch-potch, or the barley broth of
which Dr. Johnson declared he cared not how
soon he ate of it again ; there were crappit heads,
crimped salmon or sea-trout fresh from the Firth ;
sheep's head was followed by steaks sent up hot
and hot ; winding up with marrow-bones and
toasted Dunlop cheese. But the grand feature
of the banquet was the haggis — 'great chieftain

I02 DAYS OF THE PAST

of the pudding race ' — the gush of bahny fnigrance
under the insertion of the knife would have given
an appetite under the ribs of death. The secret
of judicious excess was an occasional chasse of
whisky. Once when entertaining some English
friends, giving one of them his directions and
bearings, I had asked him to order dinner. The
dinner was satisfactory, till the haggis came up,
a pitiful abortion about the size of an apple. The
host himself appeared, in answer to the breaking
of the bell-pull, and the apology came before
indignation found voice. ' Lord bless me, sir,
gin' I had known it was you. They tellt me it
was English folk, and I kenned weel they would
never settle the haoais wi' a dram.'

Ambrose's must have much resembled that
sombre dining place in the Fleshmarket, and
Ambrose's recalls the Nodes Ambrosiance and the
last of the golden age of letters in Edinburgh.
Fifty years ago or less, there were shining cele-
brities,— some of them still in the matured strength
of intellectual activity, and the memory of others
who had departed was still green. Law and letters
were closely associated. Many a young briefless
advocate had eked out his income anonymously,
and though a successful novel would have been pro-
fessional suicide, to such an one, a shrievalty put the
anonymous scribbler on velvet, and the judge was
free to take any liberties. Jeffrey and Cockburn
were cases in point. Professor Aytoun, though

OLDER EDINBURGH 103

Sheriff of the Orkneys, like Scott, had thrown
over law for literature, and * Willie Aytoun,' joint
author with Theodore Martin of the Bo7i Gmdtier
Ballads, was famous for impromptus and the bon
mot. With Mark Napier, another literary sheriff,
he did not add to his popularity in Presbyterian
circles by his passion for Prelacy and high Toryism,
— for Montrose, Claverhouse, and the persecuting
Cavaliers who had watered the seeds of the kirk
with the blood of the martyrs. Talking of Bon
Gaultier, there never was a grosser calumny than
that which alleged that the Scot is impervious to
humour. To say nothing of Dean Ramsay and
his collections of north country anecdotes, in the
generation that followed Jeffrey, there was no
greater social favourite than Lord Neaves, who
not only wrote comic songs and clever parodies,
but sang them in a cracked voice that rather re-
minded you of the croak of the raven. It was a
sign of the progress of the times when he had an
extraordinary success with the blasphemous refrain,
* Let us all be unhappy on Sunday ' ; and when
with an audacity worthy of Voltaire, he parodied
the theories of Darwin. Hill Burton, who might
have sat to Scott for the book-loving Antiquary,
was writing sober history and his Book-Hunter
in lighter vein, in a den in a gloomy old mansion
beyond Morningside, approached by a weed-grown
avenue shadowed by secular elms — a cheerless
counterpart of the sanctum of Monkbarns. His

I04 DAYS OF THE PAST

curious library was stored away on shelves in a
labyrinth of dark passages and cabinets with short
flights of steps in the most unlikely places. Never-
theless, when he went groping in the dark, his
flair for each volume was infallible as that of Con-
stable. He took his holidays like the proverbial
waiter whose notion of recreation was helping a
friend. When he came to London, it was to
haunt the British Museum, and he never cared to
sacrifice to the Graces. I see the old orentleman

o

now in the hall of the Athenaeum, with hat and
hair both brushed the wrong way, and the high-
pointed collar, unattached behind, giving him the
look of a venerable lop-eared rabbit. Yet to the
last he was the best of company, over-bubbling
with genuine Scottish esprit. An early booklet of
his on the Cairngorums, unfortunately long out of
print, is the most delightful of guides to the
recesses of those romantic mountains.

Every one must be familiar with Christopher
North from his portraits. I have seen him, with-
out doubt, though he was never pointed out to me.
But it always struck me that another professor
must have resembled him en petit, and both were
enthusiasts and equally regardless of appearances.
Blackie was a familiar figure in Princes Street.
There was no mistaking his erect carriage, the
springy step, the piercing eye, the thin and
nervous hand grasping the heavy staff", with the
plaid that in all weathers was cast loosely round

OLDER EDINBURGH 105

the shoulders. The Professor and I were old
acquaintances : he had the good sense to take a
fancy to me as a boy — he then filled the chair of
Latin in Aberdeen. He gave me the run of his
book-shelves, and he had works that exactly suited
me. There were A'Beckett's Comic History of
England, Keightley's Fairy Mythology, and Bishop
Percy's Reliques. But perhaps the volume of our
joint predilection was a collection of penny horn-
books, of which the gem was Da7i O'Rourkes
Flight to the Moon. Then the Professor, who
always had a sweet tooth, had been translating
^schylus and was much in the way of poetical
improvisation. One stanza I best remember was
inspired by a sight of his tea-table : —

' My heart leaps up into my mouth,

And happy now I am.

When on the table I behold

A plate of ruddy jam.'

He was in his finest form when striding up and
down the room, chanting in a stentorian voice
his patriotic German war songs. Educated at a
German University, he was more German than
the Germans, as afterwards he became more of a
Highlander than the Celts.

Christopher North and Maga recall John Black-
wood, around whom Aytoun, Burton, Neaves, and
many minor luminaries were revolving. There
were two centres of attraction, or rather three :

io6 DAYS OF THE PAST

the old saloon, 43 Georg-e Street, rich in Hterary
portraits as another room in Albemarle Street ; the
hospitable table in Randolph Crescent, where the
host himself was the magnet ; and the mansion of
Strathtyrum, near St. Andrews Links, where the
doors were always open to golfers and all others.
I heard much of him then, though I only won his
intimacy years afterwards. What endeared him
to friends was his staunch friendship, his cheery
social gifts, and his sterling candour. His con-
tributors owed him much, for they profited by the
shrewd and searching criticism, as sound as it was
kindly offered. If he had a fault as a publisher, it
was that he was more generous of praise than
blame, and when he took a fancy to a clever
contributor, it would have been hard indeed to
disillusion him.

With the doctors, happily, I had little to do ;
but there were men of eminence who perpetuated
the traditions of the Scottish medical school, and
drew many wealthy families to Edinburgh. Symes
was famous for surgical operations, and Simpson,
with his skill and use of anaesthetics, had, perhaps,
the largest female clientele in Great Britain. I
used to hear that the many rooms of his house
in Queen Street looked in the afternoon like a
military ambulance after a severe action.

Outsiders and the ladies gave little thought to
the law, but pulpit eloquence was much in favour ;
and the stag^e as a maonet of attraction was not in

OLDER EDINBURGH to;

it with the pulpit. Scotland was still palpitating
from the convulsions of the Disruption. Chalmers
had died in 1847, but his impassioned aides-de-
camp, with something less of his sound judgment
and politic moderation, still upheld the blue
banner of the Covenant, and had taken for their
badge the burning bush and the motto oi Nee tamen
consumebahir. Chief among those who kept the
fire alive in Edinburgh were Candlish and
Cunningham, with Dr. Begg of Liberton, a fana-
tical advocate for total abstinence and the Mosaic
observance of a Judaical Sabbath; but the most
eloquent and persuasive of the Free Kirk divines
was Guthrie. He drew like Rowland Hill or
Charles Honeyman, though a very different stamp
of man from either. He attracted alike the
devout, the fashionables, and those who, like the
too superstitious citizens of Athens, were keen to
hear or to tell any new thing to remote St. John's
at the back of the Castle Rock, looking down on
the Grassmarket where so many martyrs for the
Covenant had glorified God on the gibbet. I kept
a couple of sittings there for several years, and the
occupant of a seat — a stall I was almost going to say
— could do no greater kindness than that of offering
it to a friend. The preacher was intensely dramatic
in action, and Guthrie might have been a Garrick.
A grand tragedian, steeped to the soul in the spirit
of his mission, playing on the emotions at will with
marvellous versatility, he swept his audience along

io8 DAYS OF THE PAST

with him. There was no mistaking his profound
sincerity ; but he threw himself into each part he
conceived, and evidently realised the scenes he
imagined and acted. The magic was that all
seemed improvised, and not infrequently the strong
sense of humour would lend a subtle infusion of the
comic. Most actors warm to their work as they
go along; Guthrie pitched his keynote at the
highest, and could sustain it even at that pitch
when he changed the sensational for the solemn
appeal. The opening of one sermon I can never
forget. He reared his tall figure in the pulpit,
looked into vacancy with the fixed gaze of the
seer, and began, ' I see a shipwreck.' We heard
the roar of the storm ; we saw the billows breaking
over the wreck ; then when all eyes were on the
sinking ship, he pointed to the castaway, clinging
to a plank, seemingly lost beyond hope of salva-
tion.

The leaders of the Moderates may have been
learned theologians, but they were ' cauldrife '
doctrinaires, and did not appeal to hot gospellers.
For the most part they preached to half-empty
churches. Almost a generation later, when acerbities
had greatly softened, there were eloquent scholars,
like my genial and accomplished friend Principal
Tulloch, who could fill great St. George's of a
summer evening. The aristocratic Episcopalian
communion, with its quaternion of churches, was
represented by the venerable Dean Ramsay of

OLDER EDINBURGH 109

St. John's. Seats were almost as difficult to get
there as at the St. John's of Dr. Guthrie. The
Dean was not a great preacher, but he was a living
exponent of broad Christian charity. No man was
more winning, or won more admirers. Had he
advocated confession, his hours would have been
fully occupied, for he was adored by the ladies of
his flock. The chronicler of old Scottish wit and
humour came from the ' Howe of the Mearns,'
and had endless good stories of family connections
and old country friends in Forfar and Kincardine.
Some of them, transplanted to the Borders, have
reappeared in Mrs. Wugh&ss Recollections of Scoti.
No doubt he condemned the excessive conviviality
of Lairds of Balnamoon and the drinking bouts of
Lord Panmure at Brechin Castle, yet there was a
merry twinkle in his eye when he alluded to these
scandals and to the lad who was told off to loosen
the cravats of the boon companions who had slipped
under the table. Of a summer afternoon after
service he would stroll out over the Dean Bridge.
One blustering day when his hat was blown off,
and went circling down the depths to St. Bernard's
Well, I remember how the stream of promenaders
turned amused and affectionate looks on the grey
hair streaming in the air, when his laughing niece
was replacing the hat with a handkerchief. But
such Sunday strolls were virtually forbidden to
the stricter sect of Sabbatarians, The town was
ajpsolutely silent, except immediately before and

no DAYS OF THE PAST

after the two ' diets of service.' Then for ten
minutes or so, there was a tread on the pavements,
as of the march of battaUons a trifle out of step.
Landladies in lodgings struck against cooking hot
victuals, drawing the line at boiling potatoes ; the
hotel-keepers who catered for stranger guests were
regarded as Erastians who risked perdition for
lucre ; and the Post Office at the extreme end of
the city was only open for an hour in the early
morning, when you had to fight for your letters at
a grating. Knox, Melville, or Henderson would
turn in their graves, were they to see Princes
Street now of a fine Sunday summer morning with
brakes, busses, and tramcars, and its uproarious
tourist traffic.

CHAPTER VII

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM

Memory looks back on strange changes in Scottish
society since my boyhood — some I have already
remarked upon — especially in the northern
counties, for they were more out of the world.
Melancholy changes I call them, but that may
be matter of sentiment. Stagnation, with under-
currents of quiet but strenuous activity, was only
occasionally disturbed by ripples on the surface.
Such as it was, it was a society we shall never see
again. There was no bustle and little perceptible
progress. By land the means of transport were few
and comparatively costly. On the highroads from
Aberdeen to the South, or to the Highland capital,
there were at the most two or three coaches^^r
diem. The day and night mails carried only light
luggage on the roof; the scarlet-coated guard was
perched on a breezy tripod at the back, and there
was a bare half dozen of outside passengers.
Whether by the mails or the more accommodat-
ing ' Defiance,' there were odds against being
picked up anywhere en rotite. Dr. Johnson spent
several days at Lichfield, waiting for the chance of
a cast to London by coach or return post-chaise.

112 DAYS OF THE PAST

With us things were not altogether so bad as that ;
but more than once on successive mornings in
deep snow or bitter frost, I have gone with my
luggage to the ' smithy ' at the side-road, and after
toasting myself over the fires of the forge, have
had to go back to the family breakfast-table from
a bootless errand. The lumbering coaches on the
by-routes loaded up to any extent, but after all
their capacity was limited. Yet rather than be left
behind, I have held on to a toppling pile of baggage,
in the company of a collie or a setter choking in
his collar, and slipping over the edge at intervals
to be half strangled in the chain. That was no
place for the prim spinster, contemplating a long
deferred visit, or for the gouty old gentleman who
might have liked a last glimpse at the gay world.
Consequently, as they could not afford posting, they
stayed at home, sticking tenaciously to their houses
like mussels to the sea-reefs. For posting came
uncommonly dear, what with stoppages at the inns
and tips to the servants and post-boys ; and besides,
you had to reckon with inevitable delays, for on
those byways the number of horses was limited.
Very different it was from the Bath or the Great
Northern Road, where, when the smoking posters
dashed up to the door, the relay and the rider were
always ready.

In the sleepy county town, though it might boast
a baron bailie and a town council, the society was
almost as innocent and unsophisticated as in the

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 113

most world-forsaken of parishes. They knew Httle
and cared less about politics and public affairs. In
fact, through the long peace, there was seldom
exciting news from abroad, till the country after
waking up with the Crimean War was thrilled by
the horrors of the Indian Mutiny. Even home
politics excited small interest and no enthusiasm,
for if by chance there was a contested election the
issue was generally a foregone conclusion. All my
own relations and connections went naturally for
the sound old Tory with an absolutely safe seat.
The sitting member's agent had no sort of trouble ;
he prophesied on velvet and the simplest calcula-
tions. Each landowner counted the heads of his
tenants, and saw that they were safely shepherded
to the poll. I have mentioned that cousin of
mine who took no little credit to himself for letting
one of his leading farmers, the son of a favourite
'grieve,' vote according to his conscience for the
Radical candidate who had not the shadow of
a chance. Hence the violent revulsion of rural
Scotland to Radicalism when the ballot assured
freedom of action, and the Free Kirkers, who were
invariably Liberal, came to the front. Nevertheless,
the arrival of the weekly journal was an event
eagerly looked forward to, because all were pro-
foundly concerned with ' domestics.' Domestics
comprehended everything local in the way of news
or gossip, from births and deaths, markets and
cattle shows, to presentations, presbytery meetings,

H

114 DAYS OF THE PAST

and ploughing matches. Any amount of space was
devoted to the speeches at agricultural dinners,
though always running on identical lines, bristling
with the familiar platitudes and jokes ; and parochial
penny-a-liners ran riot in recording local convivial
o-atherings, in complimenting the musicians who
' discoursed sweet music,' and the landlady who
served the supper in 'her usual admirable style.'
The paper passed on from hand to hand, till, be-
grimed beyond deciphering, it was worn to tatters.
It was read the more religiously that it cost money,
for the stamp-duty crippled journalism ; the paper
tax had not been repealed, and fivepence was a
o-rave consideration in a frugal household. On the
other hand, distance lent a delusive glamour to the
power, personalities, and omniscience of the Metro-
politan press, and even tarry-at-home natives of
some education were quaintly credulous. I can
recall a queer example. A worthy baronet with
one of his neighbours was laughing uproariously
over the latest Pmtck. Mark Lemon had sent ' Mr.
Briggs Salmon-fishing and Deer-stalking in the
Highlands,' and they were tickled by his latest
mishap. ' I wonder who Briggs is,' said the baronet,
who fancied him as veritable a personage as Pal-
merston or Derby, though delicately shrouded
under a pseudonym. * Ay, you may be sure they
know all about him in London,' ejaculated the
other, ' and I wonder how the poor man takes to
his notoriety.'

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 115

I used to be taken on visits to various old-lady
relatives dotted about those county towns. Gener-
ous to the poor, they lived within modest incomes,
and their small establishments were regfulated
with the strictest economy. Nevertheless I have
pleasant recollections of their tables, for they
prided themselves on family recipes ; they person-
ally superintended the kitchen and delighted in
spoiling the young folk with cakes of their own
baking. Generally they had a single servant, de-
voted to the mistress, of whom the mistress stood
in considerable awe, and who was consulted on
all occasions. They prided themselves on their
pedigrees, were great in genealogies, and, like
Walter Scott's grand-aunt, Mrs. Scott of Harden,
could trace out intricate connections to the tenth
generation. Though the reverse of rich, as they
had money to bequeath, they were the objects of
respectful attentions on the part of impecunious
relatives. I cannot tax myself with fulsome ob-
sequiousness, though I had the luck to come in
for more than one small legacy, and indeed I have
always fancied I lost a few hundred pounds, because
I threw over one solemn tea-party for a gay dinner
in barracks. And that was in somewhat later years
when I ought to have known better.

With those worthy old ladies entertainments
took the form of an early tea, followed by long-
whist and a heavy supper. They made no pretence
of dinner-giving, and foreign wines were seldom

ii6 DAYS OF THE PAST

seen on their tables. On rare occasions wines came
from the grocer's round the corner, who laid down
a dozen or two for christenings and burials. I shall
never forget the wry face of an uncle, when his
sister, in honour of his visit, brought out a bottle
of port. A connoisseur of the vintages of the
Douro, he knew well the qualities of that infernal
black draught, but he had reasons for keeping well
with the lady : he manfully braced himself for the
ordeal, and was much the worse for a week after.
Port or so-called Bucellus was never wasted on
me, and I rather liked the currant or the ginger,
which was always accompanied by sweet cakes.

There were two sorts of spinster aunts : the frivo-
lous and the serious. Extreme High Church folk, of
whom there were many in these parts, though they
went in for ritual, and long morning prayers from
the Scottish liturgy — a terrible tax on the patience
before breakfast — took liberal views of life and
its innocent amusements. Their evenings were
lightened by the card-tables, with infinitesimal
stakes, and they liked to get up an impromptu dance.
And Presbyterian ladies who belonged to the mode-
rate party of the Church were likewise relatively
lax in life and conversation. But it was a serious
business staying with an evangelical hostess, who
mortified the flesh in an atmosphere of gloom, and
held fast to the Calvinism of Knox and Andrew
Melville. Cards were literally the devil's books,
for some one was bound to look after the luck, and

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 117

it only could be the Power of Evil. Even the
strathspey and the reel were snares of Satan, and as
for the waltz, it was a horror unspeakable. Of the
theatre they knew nothing, except from vague
report : no strolling company could ever have
cleared its expenses in a country town, and even
in the comparatively populous city of Aberdeen,
the house was never encouraged by the gentry.
It paid its way by the aid of pit and gallery, with
an occasional benefit or gala night under patronage
of the garrison.

Almack's was never more exclusive than those
select parties : ' coming of kenned folk ' was an
indispensable recommendation, and the line was
severely drawn above the doctor or the solicitor.
But the clergyman of whatever denomination
was an exception ; in Presbyterian circles especi-
ally, he was a cherished and honoured guest.
The Episcopalian divines had a somewhat hard
time of it, though in the north-eastern counties
most of the greater landowners belonged to their
flocks. Supported chiefly by voluntary contribu-
tions, they starved upon small stipends, and wel-
comed an invitation to a good dinner as a godsend.
One gentleman I remember, a fine scholar and a
pluralist too, for he not only had a parochial
charge and a deanery, but was chaplain to a
wealthy noble, who as he said himself, kept his
household chiefly on farinaceous food. Neverthe-
less the diet agreed with him : he was plump and

ii8 DAYS OF THE PAST

well-liking, like the children of the Captivity who
fattened on pulse, and he always came up to the
pulpit smiling. When he took for his theme the
obligation of being temperate in all things, you
could hardly realise that he was constrained to
practise the doctrine he preached. It was very
different with his successor in that cure. An
incarnation of compulsory asceticism, as if he had
trained upon pickled herrings and parched peas,
he looked like a St. Simeon Stylites come down
from his column. Yet the wiry little man was
extraordinarily energetic ; he preached once and
sometimes twice in his own little church, and with
a fervour of eloquence which should have drawn a
larger congregation. In the evening he undertook
a service in a schoolhouse, five miles from his
vicarage, and if he could not get a lift in a farmer's
gig, he tramped it on his own little legs. A
scholar like his predecessor, and a reader with
slight inducement to study, had his lines been cast
in the South, 'he might have held an audience
spell-bound on his words under the dome of St.
Paul's, published sermons which would have forced
themselves on popular notice, and been promoted
by force of public appreciation to a bishopric. As
it was, being, as Counsellor Pleydell put it to Guy
Mannering, a member of the suffering Church of
Scotland, though the days of persecution had
passed away, he was inevitably condemned to
poverty and obscurity, a type of too many of his

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 119

class who were starving on miserable endowments.
The state of those poor Episcopalian divines in
partibus was a scandal, and though all may have
had a trifle over forty pounds a year, no one of
them could call himself 'passing rich,' even in
districts where the cost of living was at a minimum.
The Presbyterian ' minister ' was an exception-
ally fortunate man : nine times out of ten when he
was 'placed,' he had attained the summit of his
ambitions. He might dream of oratorical triumphs
and authority in Church Courts, but as to these he
was comparatively indifferent. For the most part,
after many fears and hopes, he had risen from
poverty to relative affluence. Respected for the
sake of his gown, it was his own fault if he were
not reverenced, especially by the women. He
was not very often a gentleman, in the social
acceptation of the word, and even the sons of the
manse, who took to the hereditary profession as
ducklings to the water, were seldom regarded alto-
gether as the equals of their aristocratic landed
neighbours. Many of the clergy had risen from
the ranks, and attained the exalted eminence of
the pulpit by strenuous efforts of their own and at
the cost of great sacrifices on the part of relatives.
They were of a higher order than the modern
Irish priest, but the ordeal they had gone through
was not very different. The Aberdeen colleges
were the clerical nurseries of the North, and notably
King's College in Old Aberdeen. The session

I20 DAYS OF THE PAST

lasted for five months in the year, and for those
who meant business, it was a time of tremendous
work — of pinching and sometimes of starving.
The sleepy old borough, with its long single
street, was a somewhat gaunt and grim but pic-
turesque reflection of the English cathedral town
and the Southern seats of letters. Old Aberdeen
was the St. Andrews of the North. The shady
Canonry recalled the departed glories of the
well-endowed Catholic Church. The low, massive
spires of the grey cathedral, the graceful, arched,
and strongly buttressed crown that crested the
square tower of the college matched well with the
bare links, the yellow sand-hills, and the moaning
surf of the northern sea. But the professors were
snugly housed in old rambling, ramshackle houses
with orreat straof^linor ofardens. For seven months
the ' auld toon ' slept and stagnated ; then it
wakened up to noisy life with the rush of possible
ministers in embryo. Each lad or boy of them
was as keen on cash as any man who stakes his
napoleons at Monte Carlo. Mr. Andrew Carnegie
had been anticipated by forgotten philanthropists ;
each autumn some thirty bursaries, ranging in value
from thirty pounds down to eight pounds or less,
were put up to open competition ; and besides
there were sundry others to which the right of
presentation was reserved by descendants of the
original donors. The decision depended on the
facility of turning English into Latin and vice versa.

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 121

For that purpose every parochial schoolmaster of
notoriety in the North had turned crammer, and
the two Grammar Schools in Old and New Aber-
deen, with their reputation for success, had attracted
troops of the better-to-do aspirants.

The lucky youth, who had listened with throb-
bing heart to the announcements of the successful,
got his bursary ; then he had to look to ways and
means and to search out his modest lodging. The
tenements in the College Bounds swarmed like so
many rabbit warrens ; two lads might club and
pig together in a single upper chamber. Literally
not a few of them cultivated literature on a little
oatmeal with occasional salt herrings. Some
took pupils in the recess, when they could get
them ; others tramped back to their homes in the
distant Highlands to hire themselves out as field
labourers or take a summer cruise with the fishing
craft. One man, I remember, who went to Trinity,
Cambridge, had broken stones on the roads. The
best of them, whether in college or away from it,
burned che midnight oil indefatigably or strained
aching eyes over guttering tallow. The last Duke
of Gordon, who was greatly beloved, and who
deserved better treatment than was given him in
Lord Cockburn's book, used to delight in giving
these footsore wayfarers a lift in his chariot, with
bed and supper to follow, and something to send
them on their way rejoicing. For like the German
Reisebilrschen they did not scorn such kindly

122 DAYS OF THE PAST

charity, and moreover more than one of those
chance meetings is said to have led to a presenta-
tion and a parish. As N. P. WilHs remarked, on
his visit to Gordon Castle, his Grace was more
free with the many parishes in his gift than with
his famous breed of Gordon setters.

All through the four years' curriculum and the

subsequent divinity course, the clerical aspirant

had his gaze set steadily on the pulpit. Failing

that, there was always the parish school as a pis

aller, and of that in any case he was pretty sure.

But taking a school was tantamount to an advocate

accepting a sub-sheriffship and throwing up the

sponge. On the road to the pulpit were various

stumbling-blocks. Country congregations were

not fastidious as to manners and deportment,

though some of these rough-bred Highland alumni

were ungainly and uncouth as Dominie Sampson,

but like Sampson they never came to wag their

pow in a pulpit, because the nerve gave way when

they came to the scratch. If there was anything

the Scots were hot upon, it was fluent extempore

preaching : reading from a paper was a sure sign

that the minister had not the root of the matter in

him. And then, and I say it with all reverence,

the long extempore prayers were staggerers to the

novice.

In the olden time the patron presented and the
parishioners had nothing to say in the matter.
When I was a boy, the rule began to be relaxed,

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 123

and the more liberal-minded patrons gave ' a leet '
of a dozen or so, who paraded their paces on as
many successive Sabbaths before an intensely
critical conorreoation. A terrible ordeal it must
have been, when modest merit, and sensitive self-
consciousness were the most likely to go to the
wall.

Going back more years than I care to think of,
I call up the interior of a country church and the
pew in front of the gallery facing the pulpit in
which I was seated, when a competition came to
its climax. In front was a row of cushioned chairs,
with the eagle crest of the family carved on the
backs ; behind these a double row of seats for the
servants. The front places in the galleries at
right angles on either side were occupied by other
lairds or landowners. All were draped with cloth,
often faded and moth-eaten, though if there had
been a recent death in the household, it had been
renewed in dismal black. Immediately beneath
the pulpit was the precentor's box ; in the dusk of
the wintry afternoon service, it was his duty to
read out the metrical psalms by couplets before
striking up the stave ; ex officio he was an authori-
tative judge. At the bottom of the stairs was the
square pew filled with the elders of the kirk-
session, the final court of appeal. But it was a
thoroughly democratic assemblage, and the elders
only reflected popular opinion. Each soul in the
crowded church, except the school-boys and the

124 DAYS OF THE PAST

small children, were deeply interested auditors.
Some sixty years ago the costumes were primitive
and picturesque. Most of the males were in
decent black, in coats kept carefully in 'kists,' and
handed down as heirlooms. But though the parish
was below the Highland line, there was a sprink-
ling of shepherds in rough homespun, with checked
plaids belted across their broad shoulders, and some-
times accompanied by the collies which crouched at
their feet. Yet the sombre gloom of the interior
was relieved by patches of colour. The old wives
were regular attendants at public worship, travel-
ling in all weathers from remote farm steadings
and cottages, seated on trusses of straw in jolting
carts ; but on this extraordinary occasion they had
mustered in unusual strength. They were all got
up in scarlet cloaks, or roquelaures — much as they
loathed the Scarlet Woman of Babylon, they unani-
mously copied her attire — and in high white
'mutches,' with flowing lappets and black bows.
Every woman of them brought a great bunch of
mint or thyme, or some strong-smelling herbs,
warranted as anti-soporific as the goodman's
pungent snuff. Nor was it an unnecessary pre-
caution, for with hermetically sealed windows the
atmosphere was overpowering.

It was an extraordinary occasion, for out of a
list of half a dozen candidates, five had already
preached 'with no approval.' The chance had
now come to the sixth, and it was known that there

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 125

was some romance attaching to the decision. He
was a nephew of the late minister, and it was
notorious that he had lost his heart to the bonniest
of all the belles of the parish. If he got the kirk,
they would be married right away ; if he failed to
catch the tide of fortune at the flow, the couple
must wait — indefinitely. And there was his
blushing lady-love — a mistake, perhaps — sheltering
under the wing of her practical mother, who would
never give her away to a * stickit ' preacher.

So the youth, who, like David, was ruddy and
well-favoured, had the sympathies of the congrega-
tion. Nevertheless, with so much involved, it was
a terrible ordeal, and boy as I was, I felt for him.
The colour went and came in his pallid cheeks, but
he got through the preliminaries tolerably well.
The sermon was the big leap, and it was a ques-
tion whether he could stay and clear it. All eyes
were riveted on him as he rose ; and his fingers
trembled nervously as he opened the Bible. ' Eh,
man,' I heard the old butler mutter behind me,
' half a bottle of port or a mutchkin of Glenlivet
would mak' a' the differ now.' It seemed likely,
indeed, that for lack of stimulants there v. ould be
a regular breakdown ; the candidate was clearly
stricken with stage fright. He stammered; he stut-
tered out a sentence or two, and then came to a
full stop. There were audible ejaculations of ' puir
lad,' and the rosy face of the half-betrothed was
white as her pocket napkin. The preacher leaned

126 DAYS OF THE PAST

forward on the cushion for what might have been
half a minute, but seemed Hke half an hour. Then
he rose, evidently divested of fears and detached
from terrestrial surroundings ; the faltering accents
swelled into a volume of sublime self-confidence,
and for a full hour he poured forth a simple, fervid,
eloquent discourse which struck straight home to
the hearts of the hearers. There was no formal
preparation there ; it was the outpouring of familiar
thoughts and profound feeling, in an outburst of
inspiration. It was like the dramatic triumph of a
prima donna in embryo, if there were neither shouts
of applause nor showers of bouquets. The cause
was won with the manse and the wife.

In the far-scattered peopling of a wide Scottish
parish, the kirkyard of a Sunday was the gossiping
and rallying place. There thoughts were thought
and words were spoken which should have been
forbidden by austere Sabbatical observance. When
the bell beean to toll, as the minister was seen
emereino- from the manse, the men sat clustered
like so many rooks on the low, encircling dykes.
Generally, when the long-winded preacher had
dismissed them, the}^ were in haste to get home
to dine. But on this occasion, though a bitter
east wind was soughing through the boughs of
the storm-twisted ashes, the male communicants
remained in a body to give the pastor-elect an
ovation. He had to shake as many horny hands,
in proportion, as an American President at a

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 127

reception in the White House. Few have the
gifts to take a parish by storm Hke that ; but
thenceforth such a minister, if orthodox, has a
free hand ; he is the revered and infalHble pope
of his own Httle spiritual dominion.

When the minister was married and settled in
the manse, he might shape his course pretty much
as he pleased. The moderates, who swore by
patronage and detested popular suffrage, generally
took life easily. Their dry discourses were as
strictly doctrinal and dogmatical as those of the
divines of the Georgian era in England. How
well I remember a church whither I was taken on
a Sabbath day's drive of four miles by the patron
of the parish who disliked the duty of the obser-
vance at least as much as myself. Both he and
that wearisome preacher punctiliously discharged
their duties. Most of the scattered flock came
from a distance and could not be expected to
make two journeys in the day. So after the
morning 'diet,' which lasted two mortal hours,
wet or dry, we aristocrats withdrew to the vestry,
while the mob were turned into the churchyard for
a fifteen minutes' interval. By that time the old
doctor had got his second wind, and we worked
through the second spell of somniferous weariness.
No soul could have profited by it, and, I fancy, no
one was more conscious of that than the minister.

More likely than not I had seen him the even-
ing before at the mansion house, for he was ever

128 DAYS OF THE PAST

welcome there. Dry as a stick in the pulpit, he was
merry company out of it, fluent of jest, full of good
stories, in which his brethren of the Presbytery
were never spared. He was a favourable specimen
of that particular Presbytery, which was a scandal
to broad Scotland, indirectly doing more than
any other to precipitate the lamentable Disruption.
But our friend was lenient to the failings of his
C07tfreres, though in an unpublished epitaph he
wrote for one of them, he broadly stigmatised him
as the drunken departed. For himself, he was a
merry man within beseeming bounds, with a portly
figure, a rubicund face, and a nose that had been
coloured by whole casks of carefully matured
spirits. Catch that minister making havock of
his constitution by venturing on new Glenlivet or
raw Ferintosh. All the clergy of that fine old
crusted school were doiz vivants according to their
lights and means. As Christopher North remarked
of himself and the Ettrick Shepherd, they were
men not only of good but of great appetites. We
used always to be on the look-out for their sending
twice for hotch-potch or the solid Scotch hare soup,
by way of launching themselves handsomely on the
courses of a heavy dinner. They never pretended
to be connoisseurs in wines, though they took
kindly to port, and had no objection to occasional
champagne. But the best of dinners would have
wanted the coping-stone, if they had not topped
off with tumblers of whisky toddy before joining

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 129

the ladies. To tell the truth, that toddy as a
wind-up was not unwelcome to anybody. As a
youth I used to visit in a somewhat stately
mansion, where everything ran on rather ultra-
luxurious lines, and the native spirit was ordinarily
ignored. A neighbouring minister was a frequent
guest ; a leader of his party, he had more than
once been Moderator of the General Assembly.
A man of the world who had mixed much in
society, he carried himself with the dignity of an
archbishop. In his case an exception was always
made. Instead of the coffee the butler brought in
the kettle, and it was a sight to see the good man
religiously mixing the materials. Every one fol-
lowed suit ; even southerners followed his lead ; the
claret decanters were swept aside, and sometimes
tumbler succeeded to tumbler, till the company
adjourned in indecorous hilarity. As for the arch-
bishop, he was a seasoned vessel, who, though
ardently religious according to his lights, per-
petuated the traditions of the cultured Edinburgh
school, where one of the most eloquent of moderate
divines who married a woman of fortune, kept one
of the most hospitable of tables, and was notorious
for carrying more claret discreetly than any of the
hard-drinking Lords of Session. It was averred
that when a company of these jovial and fairly well-
beneficed clericals came together to celebrate the
close of the biennial 'sacramental occasion,' the
merriment was fast and verging on the furious.

I

I30 DAYS OF THE PAST

Michael Scott, who knew his Scotland well, sets
Aaron Bang to describe such a ' Gaudeamus ' in
Tom Cringle s Log. ' Oh, the fun of such a
meeting ! the feast of reason, and the flow of
Ferintosh, and the rich stories, ay, fatter even
than I would venture on, and the cricket-like
chirps of laughter of the probationer, and the loud
independent guffaw of the placed minister, and
the sly innuendos when our freens got half-fou.'
Aaron may have been censorious, if not calum-
nious— he was a Catholic — but I know our friend
the Archbishop was never more in his element
than when filling the chair at some dinner of
the tenantry in honour of the occasion, or at the
marriage of some parochial laird. With his quiet
humour, his native drollery, and the tact with
which he blended subtle flattery of the host, with
compromising hopes and expectations of all that
would be done for the farmers, he was an inimit-
able after-dinner speaker.

The minister made the most of his glebe and
was a shrewd hand at a bargain over corn or
cattle. He had seldom much chance of transla-
tion to a richer benefice, and when once settled in
his parish he had struck his roots deep. He was
sure to have a large family, and he was bound to
give the boys a good education and a fair start.
So he was always set on the augmentation of
stipend, for which application was invariably made
at decent intervals. As invariably the heritors

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 131

or parochial landowners showed fight, and the
question was threshed out in the Teind Court in
Edinburgh. Once in the week all the thirteen
scarlet-robed judges of Session assembled to
decide on the appeals. These interludes came
as reliefs to the ordinary solemnity of the civil
courts. The ministers were to be seen seated
with anxious faces behind their agents and counsel.
Facetious pleaders had the pick of the briefs, and
all manner of ingenious arguments were adduced
to show that the case for an increment was
irresistible. As a rule, augmentation worked
automatically, for it was indisputable that living
expenses were on the rise, and the petitioner
went back to his parish with his mind relieved.

Against those easy-going moderates, the evan-
gelicals or high-fliers, as they were called, had been
lifting up their testimony from time immemorial.
They inherited the traditions of Covenanters and
Cameronians ; they resented the supremacy of the
Law Courts in matters ecclesiastical, and specially
objected to the abuses of patronage. I can
remember the convulsions of the Disruption which
stirred Scotland to its depths from Berwick to
Wick. It had been preceded by the revivals
which Mrs. Oliphant dramatically described in
one of the best of her Scottish novels. They
were somewhat similar, yet in striking contrast to
the ' Holy Fairs,' satirised and ridiculed by Burns
with too good reason. These Holy Fairs were

132 DAYS OF THE PAST

great sacramental gatherings, when the most sacred
ordinance was made the excuse for drinking,
feasting, flirtations leading to worse things, and
every sort of unholy revelry. The revivals, which
chiefly ran their course in the Highlands, appealed
to the fervour and transcendentalism of the
emotional Celtic temperament. Whole congrega-
tions were dissolved in tears, or thrown into
paroxysms of desponding penitence. They had
prepared the way for the Secession, which was
precipitated by one or two strong cases of * in-
trusion,' when the parishioners barricaded the
kirk doors against an incumbent who could only
preach to empty pews.

They may say what they like of the Scot
looking closely to sixpences : when great prin-
ciples are at stake, he will scatter bank-notes
broadcast, and stint himself to keep up his
subscriptions year after year. Four hundred
and seventy ministers resigned their benefices,
following Chalmers from St. Andrew's Church to
the Canonmills, trusting their future and that
of their families to the liberality of their lay
supporters ; nor was their confidence misplaced.
I can faintly remember that memorable pro-
cession : the black-coated ministers leading the
way, followed by an excited train of elders and
laymen through the silent and sympathetic crowds.
I was taken one eveningr to the vast, low-roofed
hall of Canonmills gas-works, and remember the

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 133

fervour that filled the enthusiastic audience, strain-
ing their ears to catch each word from the revered
leaders, as they stood forward on the platform.
There were Chalmers, Candlish, Cunningham, and
many others, each with his own following of ardent
admirers, but sinking individual differences in a
community of exultant hope and assurance. There
were few laymen of social importance, but two
stood forward conspicuously : Fox Maule and
Mackgill Crichton. I fancy Fox Maule gave
the movement his support purely from political
motives. Be that as it may, I remember the effect
he produced when he addressed ' The Fathers and
Brethren,' in calm, impressive, gentlemanly accents
— rather foreign to the general conception of his
character — the smooth English accent contrasting
with the Doric of some of the eloquent divines.

The urgent question was that of ways and
means. To find stipends for five hundred ousted
ministers, to build as many churches, manses, and
schools was no light matter for a section of a
frugal people, who, if they backed out of the affair,
could find free accommodation in the parish kirks.
If the dissentient clergymen had been carried out
on a swell of enthusiasm, they were like to find
themselves stranded. But from the first the rank
and file came down handsomely ; and when a
Scot commits himself, he is slow to go back. I
have been told that an uncle of my own set a
match to the fire at a meeting of the leaders in

134 DAYS OF THE PAST

the first week of the Secession. Plans and strategy
were being discussed on general grounds, when
this blunt and impetuous naval officer got up and
said : ' All that is very well, gentlemen, but surely
it can wait : the question is, what each of us is
to subscribe.' For himself, though by no means
wealthy, he gave liberally with both hands, and he
was only one of many. Another memory I have,
as the Chevalier Beaujeu remarked in The For-
tunes of Nigel. Effective speakers were sent
forth to travel the country, and beat up subscrip-
tions to the building and sustentation funds. One
of the most effective and seductive was Mac-
donald of Blairgowrie, who everywhere had the
welcome of a St. Paul, and described himself very
truly as a red-headed laddie. His gift of persuasion
was simply marvellous, and when he spoke of
future returns upon spiritual investments, I doubt
if Spurgeon could have been in it with him. And,
like Spurgeon, he was eminently practical in his
methods. I was taken by that relative of mine to
a great gathering where he held his audience spell-
bound, till having heated them with his own blaz-
ing fire, he came abruptly to his point. * Now,
what will you contribute weekly to the cause — out
of your trade profits — out of your daily earnings ?
Think well before you promise, for there must be
no drawing back ; it is far better not to vow, than
to vow and not to pay ; but if you pledge yourself,
put your solemn pledges on paper, if it be only for

OLD SCOTTISH ECCLESIASTICISM 135

a penny a week.' And straightway through all
that crowded hall, there was a crackling of shreds
of paper, and a general borrowing of pencils.
The remarkable fact was that those vast annual
subscriptions steadily rose instead of sagging
away. The seceders had no monopoly of piety
or benevolence ; but after sketching the typical
minister of the moderate persuasion, it is but
fair to give this companion picture of the men
who, for their convictions, turned out of the manse,
at the risk of seeing their children on the parish.

CHAPTER VIII

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES

From ministers to messes is a sharp transition,
but I must own that, as the Americans say, there
was a time when I had more truck with the one
than with the other. Twice I had nearly taken
the shilHng : once when I had actually the gift of
an appointment to the Indian cavalry in the old
days of the Company, and again when I was on
the point of being gazetted straight off to a
captaincy in a crack militia corps. I threw up
the former under irresistible pressure at the
eleventh hour ; and the other bit of manipula-
tion never came off, for the Lord- Lieutenant of
the county declared at the last moment that he
could not sign the commission or sanction so gross
an abuse. No doubt his Grace was in the right,
and I could only growl and resign myself. At
any rate, as a Scotsman, I had the consolation of
not having ordered uniform and outfit, as the
Colonel had warned me to do. My hope had
been to find a hundred recruits from the regiment,
and on the strength of that public service be
transferred to the line. Compelled to renounce
dreams of military glory, I fell back in the mean-

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 137

time on military society, so that friends and
relations used to chaff me about my brother
officers. I don't know if the society was im-
proving, but I do know it was very agreeable.
The long peace had brought into the army men
who were eager enough to fight if the chance
turned up, but who loved to take life in piping
times easily and luxuriously. They rather boasted
of being Her Majesty's hard bargains, though
really, front the pecuniary point of view, Her
Majesty had much the best of it. The newly
fledged ensign had the wages of a capable artisan,
and was expected not only to live up to his posi-
tion, but to launch out incidentally in all manner
of extravagances. Of course it was a fellow's own
fault if he did not cut his coat according to his
cloth. He ought to have known the tone and
character of regiments beforehand. Some were
well-off but sedate, others were rich and reck-
less ; in the line, or the marching regiments,
as they were called, some were known to be con-
strained to a dignified economy, while others, like
the Rifle Brigade and the 60th and the crack
Highland corps, were on the borderland between
the Guards or the Household Cavalry and the
involuntary economists. Anyhow, all were capital
fellows, bound together by strong bonds of brother-
hood. For which very reason they tried to shunt
any man who obviously was unlikely to suit
them. They were really inspired by the best of

138 DAYS OF THE PAST

feelings in apparently rather ugly episodes, when
field officers ignored the bully-ragging by sub-
alterns, and the colonel, whose pride was in his
regiment, serenely winked at the proceedings. On
the other hand, I have known cases where a
pauper of the right sort, who had followed an
irresistible vocation with but a mere trifle beyond
his pay, was lifted along discreetly and in the most
delicate fashion. Somehow he found comrades
who stuck to him as staunchly as in Kipling's
Soldiers Three. Those impecunious ones had
nothing for it but to wait for a war or the chances
of Indian service, yet sometimes, if over-sensitive,
they were cornered in painful positions. One case
I remember which touched me nearly. In Edin-
burgh I had been hand-in-glove with a lieutenant
of the 33rd or 82nd, I forget which. He had often
dined with me, and I had so many acquaintances in
his mess, that I scarcely noted whether an invita-
tion ever came from him. The day came when,
after a long and rather lonely cruise down the
Adriatic, I landed at Corfu. The old regiment was
in garrison there, and I climbed the heights to the
citadel, to ask for my friend, counting confidently
on a bright dinner and a merry evening. We sat
and talked and talked, and still no invitation came.
It seemed so inevitable, that though I surmised
where the hitch was, I was only anxious to get out
of the room ; my old acquaintance was blushing to
the roots of his carroty hair, and a comrade, who

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 139

made a third in the party, was the most embar-
rassed of the three. Sympathetic, I walked back
to the hotel, past the saluting sentries, to try the
Corfu cookery. Later in the evening the comrade
looked me up ; he had sneaked out of barracks as
if he was scouting in an enemy's country, but he
came to explain, for the honour of the regiment.
My acquaintance was not only hard up, but in
debt ; he would not spend a shilling unnecessarily
in the circumstances, but in intense humiliation
and mortification, he had fairly broken down when
I had left. As for myself, my visitor went on, I
could not for the world have aggravated his pain
by interfering. The little trouble cut both ways,
for not to prolong his griefs I shortened my stay
at Corfu.

That, however, was an exceptional case; as a
rule the men, though seldom rich, were affluent
or in easy circumstances. In the Highland regi-
ments especially, which generally then had their
depots in Scotland, the majority were members of
ancient families, and some were the heirs to chief-
taincies and vast tracts of mountain and moorland.
They all knew or were known by name to every-
body. Whenever there was a county ball or dance,
invitations were circulated through the garrisons
with offers of hospitable quarters. I fancy the
regimental business was carried on somehow, but
three-fourths of the fellows seemed always on short
leave. The great winter gaieties in Edinburgh

I40 DAYS OF THE PAST

came as matters of course ; it was the business of
the Scottish military to support them. What
crowded carriages there were, from Perth and
StirHng, even from distant Fort George, to the
balls of the New Club and the United Service!
Other entertainments were arranged for the same
week, and how we used to keep it up on interven-
ing nights at the Castle or the Cavalry Barracks at
Piershill ! Musselburgh Races — a poor affair — or
the more aristocratic racing of the annual Cale-
donian Meeting were always fair excuses for an
outing. And when nothing particular was going-
forward, what belated symposia there used to be,
in one of the Princes Street hotels, with jest and
song and healths with Highland honours, winding-
up with ' Auld Lang Syne ' and the right good
willie-waught ! One of the last and the merriest,
like the farewell banquet at Holyrood before
Flodden, was when the first regiments were under
orders for the Bosphorus, before the Crimean War.
After that death was busy ; promotion came fast,
and boys barely of age came back as full captains.
The song of that evening was ' The Maids of
Merry England,' by a gunner; it brought down
the room, but he seemed to have the shadow of his
impending fate on his brow, and he fell behind his
guns at the Alma.

Stirlinof used to be a favourite resort of mine in
those days. Sometimes I put up at Campbell's
Hotel in the High Street, but I preferred the more

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 141

ample elbow-room of the hostelries at Bridge of
Allan. There was no more delightful headquarters
for romantic excursions, when the railway had
been opened up the valley of the Teith. Before
that, the fun was perhaps even better, when we
used to organise driving and fishing expeditions on
drag or dogcart to the Trossachs and the lakes
and streams in the country of the Lady of the
Lake. When I had renounced my dreams of
military distinction for the ambition of being Lord
President of the Court of Session, I retired one
summer to the Dreadnought Hotel at Callander in
July, for solitary and severe study of the law.
Never did a well-intended scheme come to more
dismal failure. Even when alone the seductions
of the summer-time were almost irresistible. But
when under a gloomy sky, with threatenings of a
depressing drizzle, I had settled down to Bell or
Erskine, I might be disturbed by the sound of
wheels and the discords of a key-bugle. Then
would come the tread of feet on the stair, and the
inburst of a lot of jovial anglers. ' Never was
such a day for Loch Ard or the Lake of Menteith.'
There was no help for it ; you had to go. Who
could resist the sight of the rods ; the knowledge
that the carriaoes were charged with seductive
hampers and lashings of good liquor, and above
all the certainty of merry companionship ? Suc-
cessful or the reverse, those days of trolling and
casting on Loch Ard were intensely enjoyable. It

142 DAYS OF THE PAST

did not need the so-called rusty broadsword of
Rob Roy suspended to a tree before the hostelry
to inspire you with the spirit of the novel. As you
listened to the crow of the grouse-cock, the wail
of the plover, and the whistle of the whaup, you
thought of the gloaming when the Bailie and
Frank Osbaldistone, cheered by the glimmering
lights in the manse of Aberfoyle, were consoled
by venison collops, and brandy in the clachan,
after being recommended by the anxious landlady
to bivouac in the moss-flow. As you revelled in
the scenery or played with the vigorous trout, you
felt profoundly grateful that times were changed
and that you could count on a peaceful dinner at
the Dreadnought before drinking the doch-an-
dorras with your comrades from the Castle.

Many a time have I gone for a solitary ramble
with my rod up the Allan from * the Bridge ' to
Greenloaning in the springtide, and pleasant sport
one used to have in those days, though the trout
were small. The ' Banks of Allan Water,' famous
in Scottish song, were fragrant with the honey-
scents of furze and broom, and melodious with the
matins and evensongs of the green linties. But
the happiest outings I had there were in the depths
of bitter winter, when still waters were icebound,
and the Allan itself was trickling feebly between
snow-crusted banks, through snow-flakes and ice-
floes. The Caledonian Curling Club held the
great annual contest between North and South

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 143

on flooded meadows close to the station of Black-
ford. The Black Watch was then quartered in
Stirling, and many of the Highlandmen were keen
curlers, and had been engaged to play for their
local clubs. For days before the weather had
been matter of intense anxiety, for if a thaw set
in, the matches must be deferred. A eood deal
of money was staked on the event, though there
were always optimists to lay odds on the frost
lasting ; nevertheless, at mess the evening before,
with a cloudy sky, there was no little searching
of spirit. It was joyful news when the man
who called you in the morning, announced, like
Sam Weller, that the water in the basin was a
mask o' ice. Subalterns, who chronically detested
the reveille, were on the alert and tumbling into
their garments. The curling-stones from Clydes-
dale, Ailsa Craig, or Burnock Water, snugly repos-
ing in their baskets, were carefully put in charge
of the railway guard. We slowed off as we
approached Blackford in a block of advancing
trains ; and already excitement was being wrought
up to fever pitch by the roar of distant voices.
Train after train, from south and north, had been
disgorging their crowded contents, half-drunk with
enthusiasm and prematurely primed with whisky.
Cricket is not in it with curling for levelling of
ranks and the assertion of meritorious manhood.
It was a place of strange meetings. A Cameron
or a Macdonald, the crown-prince of some ancient

144 DAYS OF THE PAST

patriarchal family, might be seen clasping the horny
hand of a blacksmith from Badenoch, or fraternising
with some stalwart poacher from Lochaber, notori-
ously in the habit of raiding his father's forests.
Ranks were ignored and feuds forgotten for the
day. If the smith was skip of the rink, his young
master obeyed him implicitly. Scores, or I may
say hundreds, of games were going forward simul-
taneously on the broad sheets of ice ; fires were
kindled on the frozen shore, where kettles were
boiling and ale was being mulled ; there was no
lack of refreshments of all sorts, and the convivi-
ality might have been deemed excessive had not
the cold and violent exercise toned it down. The
dusk was falling, the match had been decided, and
the great gathering was breaking up. Then the
players resumed their places in the social ranks.
The smith made his humble adieux, pocketing
gratefully the coins transferred in a handgrip ; the
poacher would have sneaked off shamefacedly had
he not been recalled to get a ranker's modest
commendation for his skipping. And whether
vanquished or victorious, had not every one been
in good-humour, there might have been free fights,
as sanguinary, if not so deadly, as the combat
of the clans in the lists at Perth. There were
carriages in plenty drawing up, but what were
they among so many? How the ruck got away
before nightfall on those occasions I never under-
stood— the laggards, I fancy, must have lain out

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 145

in their wraps or plaids — but I know that once I
went back to Stirling on the knees of a drover in
a third-class carriage, in an atmosphere reeking of
spirits, foul tobacco, and perspiration ; and on
another occasion I travelled to Edinburgh on the
engine, roasting- and freezing alternately as I
changed sides before the furnace.

Applications for leave thickened at the approach
of the shooting season ; for the most part they
were generously granted by a sympathetic com-
manding officer, and then, I imagine, the regimental
duties devolved to a great extent on the admirable
non-commissioned officers, for the ranks were
stiffened with veterans. Opportunities for sport
were innumerable, and invitations were pressing.
There were comrades who had forests in Badenoch
or moors on Deeside or in Lochaber ; some of
them hailed from the wilds of Sutherland or the
hills of misty Skye. And the unfortunates who
were doomed to stagnate on garrison duty, looked
forward enviously to the arrival of local journals
recording the feats of their friends in the opening
days of the season. It was poor consolation that
disappointment was sweetened by the arrival of
boxes of game from all quarters, till even sergeants
and corporals began to sicken of the savoury meat
as the Israelites wearied of the quails in the
wilderness. Later in the season, hands were
dealt out more indiscriminately and honours were
divided. From social considerations the srarrison

K

T46 DAYS OF THE PAST

guns were always in request, for ' the Army ' was
quite as popular in Scotland with marriageable
maidens and their mothers as in Galway or Kerry.
A wagonette crowded fore and aft, loaded with
gun-cases and portmanteaus, would rattle up to the
door, when the long day would begin with an
elaborate second breakfast. The sport might be
good or indifferent, but the evening was sure to be
a success. The host produced his oldest claret,
and where could one get such Bordeaux as in
those Scottish cellars of the olden time ? It was
late ere the bell was rung for coffee, and then the
rooms had been cleared for the dance. If any of
the soldiers had to go back for morning parade,
they were handsomely launched on the homeward
drive with libations of old cognac or mellowed
whisky from the crested cut-crystal decanters on
the side-table.

There were no better companions than the
scientists of the scientific corps, and I ought to
know. The engineers on duty, and the officers
charged with surveillance of the survey, had their
headquarters in Edinburgh, with no barracks,
and they had to find billets for themselves. For
several years I kept house with three of them ; the
fifth of the party was an artilleryman in the north
on the recruiting service. It may be understood
what manner of men they were when I say, that
of the three engineers, not the least promising
went off prematurely ; that both the others died

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 147

o-enerals and K.C.B.'s, and that one of them had
been Inspector-General of Fortifications. In 'the
Diggings,' as they were familiarly called, we kept
open house, feasting in an off-hand way, and being
feasted in turn by the various regiments. When
'at Home,' of an evening, there was always whist,
with supper on the sideboard. Our opposite
neiohbours used to orumble at unseasonable
hours, though admitting there were compensations,
for the street was safe from nocturnal burglary,
and the services of the police could be dispensed
with. James Payn, who became one of my best
friends, was a constant guest at our whist table ;
he was then editing Chambers s Jozirnal, and
always grumbling good-humouredly, like Louis
Stevenson, at the winds from the Firth, the eternal
sea-fog, and the drift of the whirling dust pillars
along Princes Street, like so many ' dervishes of
the desert'

The engineers were men of culture, with a
literary turn that attracted Payn. They had a
talent for drawing as well as for triangulation ;
they were devoted to shooting and fishing, and
many a delightful ramble I have had with them, as
we roamed the length and breadth of Scotland.
Often we found free quarters in some pleasant
house where they were known and welcomed ; more
often, when duty led them into the wilderness, we
tried the accommodation of Highland inns, or of
rough hostelries far away from tourists' tracks on

148 DAYS OF THE PAST

the Borders, or in the solitudes of the south-west,
where the hill-folk, hunted down by Claverhouse
or Grierson, used to hide themselves in dens and
caves, lulled to sleep by the roar of such a
cataract as masked the lurking-place of Balfour of
Burleigh. Everywhere were scenes for the brush
or pencil, and streams with swift rushes and
swirling waters, where you needed ask no per-
mission to fish. We had evenings in the classical
Tibby Shells, on 'lone St. Mary's Loch,' redolent
of memories of the Shepherd and the Nodes, and
there we once forgathered with Russel of the
Scotsman, who perpetuated the traditions of North
and Tickler. A man so merry within the limits of
becoming mirth, with such readiness of repartee,
with so rich a fund of jest and anecdote, it has
seldom been my fate to meet. I remember when
arrivino- late at Elvanfoot, among the bleakest of
the bare Lanarkshire hills, some sheep-fair being
on in the neighbourhood, we were invited to take
halves of the beds, already occupied by a couple
of Dandie Dinmonts. That we declined, and as
our shakedowns were not specially tempting, we
prolonged the sitting after a solid supper. My
friend, who was of a jovial temperament, and had
a fine voice, struck up ' Jock o' Hazeldean.' The
melody drew ; a farmer stumbled into the room,
insisting on joining in a stentorian chorus. The
other man followed, charmed at finding himself in
o-ood company, declared he was a first-class hand

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 149

at a bowl of punch, and forthwith roused the land-
lady to fetch the materials. With a feeble protest,
* Siccan a man as you I never saw,' she complied,
and not only produced the spirits and sugar, but
her husband. The upshot was, that the Borderers
never went back to bed ; and that we sought our
couches on the floor about the time we should
have been getting up for breakfast. It reminded us
of Scott's experiences among his Border hills, when,
as Shortreed phrased it, 'he was making himself.'

In autumn the cuisine in the small Highland
inns, if slightly semi-barbaric, was in its way irre-
proachable. If you took them by surprise, you
might have to rough it on eggs and bacon, or a
chicken, hunted down and ' brandered ' off-hand as
in an Indian bungalow. But give them notice in
the morning before going out with rod and sketch-
book, and there was no cause for complaint.
Hotch-potch, or game soup, trout or salmon,
grouse, and cranberries and cream was the
invariable menu, and the grouse was generally
forthcoming, whether poached or honestly pur-
chased. On that score, like the Dominie when he
dipped into Meg Merrilees' cauldron, we had no
conscientious qualms. By the way, at Aviemore,
and in some of the mountain villages near the
sources of the Spey and Don, we varied the
cranberries with averns, which are even more
delectable. It is a mountain berry, only growing
in the loftiest corries, and as little known as the

I50 DAYS OF THE PAST

manofasteen even in the Scottish lowlands. There
were inns that had their specialties, and kept
up immemorial customs, where they invariably
speeded the parting guest with a beaker of Athol
Brose, a diabolically deleterious mixture, of which
the main ingredients are whisky and honey.
Johnson praised it once — theoretically — when
comparing it with the Cornish * mahogany,' which
is a compound of gin and molasses. He was safe
in asserting that it must be better, because the
materials were better, which was not saying much.
Sometimes the officers' visit would be to the
little encampment, in some sheltered glen on the
high slopes of such mountains as Ben Nevis or
Ben Macdhui. The white bell tents, and the
brioht scarlet made a homelike show in these
blustering solitudes, but once or twice, hesitating
to bivouac in cramped quarters, we sought shelter
in a convenient shepherd's shealing, where we
were assured of hospitable welcome ; the embar-
rassment was that you caused an infinity of trouble,
though it was evident enough that the visit was a
pride and pleasure. The good wife welcomed the
unwonted stir, and if the shepherd, used to solitude
and the society of his dogs, seemed somewhat
sullen of mood, it was manner rather than tempera-
ment. He thirsted for knowledge of the news of
the day, and your talk with a gift of the latest of
the county journals was an even more effectual
open sesame to his heart than the tobacco pouch or

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 151

cigar case. The supper was somewhat of a trial ;
not that there was any shortcoming, for there were
eggs and bacon, butter and cheese, and bannocks
from the griddle. But as you were carrying no
gun, you brought no game, and the ' braxie,'
produced as the plat de rifsistance, was a dish to
scunner at. It was mutton which had come to an
untimely end — probably found drowned in the
burn, after several days' saturation. Out of polite-
ness you were bound to taste, and even seem to
enjoy it; yet like the snails served to the Scotch

philosophers, Black and Ferguson, it tasted 'd d

green,' and reminded one of the diabolical mess
served to Curzon of the Levant monasteries by the
Albanian abbot, which courtesy compelled him
to attempt. The kettle was swinging from the
hook over the peat fire, and sociability constrained
us to sip more toddy than we cared for, considering
the fiery quality of the raw spirit, but pleasanter or
more informing chat on all matters connected with
sheep-farming, wild winter tales and mountain
superstitions, I never wish to indulge in. There
were snowy sheets awaiting us, if we cared to use
them, but not being fanatical entomologists, these
we had learned to distrust. There were heather
shoots and trusses of mountain hay in the loft
above the outhouse, and no wearied man needed
desire a more fragrant couch. Up betimes, after
a plunge in the nearest pool, the shepherd gave us
a long convoy on our next day's 'travel.' The

152 DAYS OF THE PAST

worst of it was, you could only repay him with
a handshake, and you had no chance, as after using
or abusing the hospitality of the Great St. Bernard,
of slipping gold into a money-box behind his back.
Talking of dining reminds me of the old messes.
Much of the change must be in oneself, from days
when you had no liver, never dreamed of indiges-
tion or insomnia, and when the spirits were ever
ready to rise to boiling-point. But it does strike
me that much of the old joviality is gone. Our
officers may be more scientific, but they are less
companionable and convivial. In those piping
times of peace they were driven with loose reins,
and there were no sumptuary restrictions. It was
not quite as Lever described things in the West
Cork militia, where every man backed his comrade's
bills to any extent, till they actually became waste-
paper with the discounting fraternity ; but under
the purchasing system there was a flow of cash, and
the mess was managed with large-minded liberality.
Guest nights were frequent, apparently with carte
blanche in the way of invitations, and one regiment
never missed an occasion of giving the other that
came as relief a magnificent reception. In the
corps that prided themselves on going the pace,
the monthly wine bills must have been something
portentous. If a guest of the old time were dining
at a modern mess, two changes would strike him
particularly. Then in the regiments of foot all the
faces were clean-shaven ; the razor only went out

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 153

with the Crimean War and the winters on the
storm-swept Chersonese plateau. Then the friendly
fashion of hobnobbinsf over the wine-glasses was in
full force, and if you were bidden to the feast by a
popular officer, before the entries had made way for
the joints, you had dropped into a circle of cordial
acquaintances. I remember how greatly I felt
flattered as a raw youth, when as the mess waiter
touched me on the shoulder and whispered, I saw
the grave colonel bowing and smiling. In due
course subalterns and captains followed suit, and
the general interchange of civilities made you free
of the anteroom, when you adjourned for cigars,
brandy and sodas, and limited or unlimited loo.

Much of the regimental money went for music,
and though personally I think music a nuisance
during dinner and fatal to pleasant talk, the band
striking up in the anteroom gave a festal solemnity
to the ufuest nig"hts. Even unmelodious souls
prided themselves on the music, professing to be
critical, as the band was tending towards wood, or
brass, or string. One thing I always did find
overpowering, and that was the march of half a
dozen pipers round the Highland mess table. The
most characteristic part of the Celtic entertainment
was the silver-bound quaichs of old whisky which
circulated simultaneously, and it was a gladsome
moment when the pipe-major, or whatever he was
called, tossed off a scallop-shell at the president s
elbow, saluted, and retired. But the devotion of

154 DAYS OF THE PAST

the Celt to the bagpipe is a sentiment and a passion.
I have heard it with most complacency in foreign
stations, when the wail of the pipes playing
* Lochaber no more ' and the pathetic melodies
of the pipers' native glens brought on a passing
touch of homesickness. Merely a passing touch,
for there were no more exhilarating interludes in a
foreign tour than those when in the sunny Medi-
terranean you found yourself back again in Scotland
or old England. Nowhere is the Briton more
uncompromisingly British ; nowhere do you more
gratefully appreciate the power of the ocean empire.
Never shall I forget the December afternoon,
when, after the long ride from Algesiras, we
spurred our fagged hacks to a canter to pass
Gibraltar gates before gunfire. The smart sentry
in scarlet, standing severely to attention, was such
a striking contrast to the slouching Spaniard, even
when mounting guard before the royal palace at
Madrid. When we drew bridle before the Casino
Hotel, the square-shouldered corporals and ser-
geants, with the stripes of their ranks on their arms,
moved like so many princes among the mixed
rabble of Turks, heretics, and infidels, Berbers,
Jews, and Scorpions of the Rock. But it must be
confessed they showed some lack of adaptation,
and carried their northern habits along with them.
In the public room on the rez de ckauss^e, with
its sanded floor, was an overpowering odour of
London porter and strong Edinburgh ale. Had

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 155

we come in summer it would have been exactly
the same, and so it was in all the Mediterranean
garrisons. Disapproving of such suicidal practices,
nevertheless, I can sympathise. One spring I
had taken a coasting steamer from the Isthmus
down the Gulf of Corinth. We were bound for the
Ionian Isles, touching at all intermediate ports.
The weather was already scorching, the water in
the carafes was lukewarm, and the only other
liquor on board was the native Greek wine, im-
pregnated with resin, and provocative of thirst.
The sole chance I had of quenching that thirst
satisfactorily was in a cafe at Patras, where ice was
forthcoming, and where I robbed an orchard to fill
my handkerchief with sour apples. When Zante
was sighted, I could appreciate the sufferings of
the adventurers who q-q fossickingf for diamonds in
Khama's Thirstland. Tumbling out upon the pier,
I rushed into the arms of a British sergeant, and
implored him to take me to the best liquor in the
nearest tavern. And never shall I forget those
draughts of stout, when I emptied two tankards
in quick succession. The only case to parallel it
was after walking from the Great St. Bernard to
Aosta beneath the glowing chalk cliffs, when sub-
siding into a bath, with a salver of luscious figs,
I disposed of as many bottles of Asti Spumante.

And I am bound to say the commissioned officers
in their degree kept the non-commissioned and the
rank and file in countenance. Next day I shifted

156 DAYS OF THE PAST

quarters from the Casino Hotel to barracks on the
heights, where, sorely against the wishes of kindly
entertainers, I insisted on being made an honorary
member of the mess. A merrier set of fellows,
with a more brotherly esprit de corps, I never wish
to meet. It was comparatively cool Christmastide,
when one miofht take liberties : and the essential
merits of the reg-imental cellar were undeniable.
But the staple liquor was fiery sherry, and it could
not be said there was not a headache in a hogshead
of it, though it only wanted maturing and a less
tropical climate to make it delectable. In the
Ionian Isles it was otherwise, for there the expa-
triated garrison did not feel bound to patronise the
vintages of the country. Even the classical Chian
is a tradition of the past, and Greek vintages mean
colic, diarrhoea, or dysentery. The wines, like the
cognac, came from France ; they harmonised with
the softness of a climate always tempered by fresh
sea-breezes. Many an old soldier lamented the
day when Mr. Gladstone handed those Edens over
to the Hellenes. I remember trying my influence
with Delane of the Times, when the proposal was
broached, saying that the Premier's next move
might be the cession of Gibraltar. He only said
that the Minister who gave up Gibraltar should be
hanged, and took no action in the matter. There
was nothing more jolly than those mess nights in
the Isles of Greece ; and though I have mentioned
a day when I went without a mess dinner at Corfu,

SOME MILITARY MEMORIES 157

I was more fortunate on other occasions, Zante
had its fascinations, but Cephalonia was charming.
There was generally a mixed party at mess, and
the talk ran on other subjects than pipeclay.
Yachts or Her Majesty's ships were always coming
into harbour. Men were arranging shooting trips
to the Albanian coast, or talking over big bags and
sensational adventures among shepherds, wilder
than their own savage sheep-dogs, with whom
nevertheless they had fraternised and drilled into
tolerable beaters. There was a captain of a cruiser,
now a distinguished admiral and a K.C.B., against
whom I was always running up, at home and abroad.
Fond of his jokes, he added a pang to my last fare-
well to Cephalonia. The Austrian Lloyd's boat,
on which I had embarked, was leisurely slipping
her moorings, when he steamed into the harbour
and ranged up alongside. Standing on the paddle-
box and catching sight of me, he bolted below, to
rush up again and shake a grinning boar's head
in my face, and shout out a fabulous total of his
slaughter of snipe and cocks.

For myself, I always detested London in the
season, and had I had unlimited means and the entry
to the most select circles, should still have preferred
the country or the Continent. But if you were in
town, I knew no more pleasant invitation than that
to the Guards' mess in St. James's Palace. It was
little that the cuisine was as unexceptionable as the
wines. But all the Guards were more or less men

158 DAYS OF THE PAST

of the world, and it was amusing to see the latest-
joined subaltern, who had probably graduated at
Eton or Harrow, striving, not unsuccessfully, to ape
the airs and talk of the seniors. They might not
be scientific, and assuredly they were not pedantic,
but they had the light culture that sits gracefully on
the accomplished soldier, and the tact that puts the
stranger guest on easy terms with himself, though he
may know few of their intimates and miss many of the
allusions. Moreover, he was never absolutely alone,
for a breath from a somewhat different society came
with the officers on duty who had strolled through
the Park from the Horse Guards. For dining
with the Life Guards in their own barracks, you
were conscious of a change of tone. You met
Rawdon Crawley and Captain Macmurdo. The
horse, in one shape or another, was a staple subject
of talk ; familiars of Tattersall's, they had the odds
on the favourites at their fingers' ends ; and with
one eye on the Shires and the other on the livery
stables, were ever open to a deal or a bet. They
were undeniable authorities on the persone/ oi^ the
opera, the theatre, and the ballet ; but long years
were to elapse before the music-hall or polo came
into fashion, so they missed some engrossing topics
of latter-day talk. Capital company they were, all
the same, especially outside one of their drags at
a race-meeting, though dangerous over unlimited
loo in the small-hours, with the flush of champagne-
cup and cura9oa punch.

CHAPTER IX

SOME FLUTTERS ON THE STOCK EXCHANGE

When I went eastward to the India House or the
P. and O. offices, I was on pleasure bent : on my
early visits to the Stock Exchange I combined
business with pleasure, or at least with sensation.
I know no better amusement than winning steadily,
but it is long since I have renounced speculation,
especially dabbling in new companies. More than
I ever gained, they got out of me, and notwith-
standing the recent decline, I am still convinced
there is nothing like consols — if you can only afford
enough of them. Very probably I should never
have gambled if I had not gained heavily at the
p-o-off. It was in this wise. I had a dozen or so
of shares in the Union Bank of Scotland, when
they fell ominously in a wild burst of panic. With
all sorts of sinister rumours in the air, it seemed
even betting on a smash. I did not fancy throwing
my shares away, and if I held, the liability was
unlimited — at least so far as my small resources
went. Had I dreamed then of turning my talents to
letters, I might have written an intensely realistic
novel on the terrors of two horribly anxious days,
though, by the way, the author of John Halifax^

159

i6o DAYS OF THE PAST

Gentleman, had just then anticipated me. Then
I made up my mind to 'go a mucker.' In spite of
the solemn warnings of my broker, the only man in
my confidence, I realised all the securities I possessed
and put them into Union Bank shares. I was brought
to that momentous decision by a chance meeting
with an elderly baronet, a safe man and a sleeping-
partner in the bank. He said it would be all
right, and his smile was more reassuring than his
words. He told me, moreover, that while the
cashiers were facing the run and paying off
anxious depositors, the rival Edinburgh establish-
ments were sending in notes and coin by the back
door. After all, I have some searchino-s of heart
now, as to the strict honesty of my proceedings.
True, if the bank went, I should be beggared my-
self, but that was no excuse for courting liabilities
I could not have met. Be that as it may, I did it,
and with brilliant results. The shares went up,
rather faster than they had gone down, and on
the strength of the relief and the stroke of good
fortune, I straightway started on a foreign trip.

Some of the shares were sold to finance myself,
and I should have done better had I parted with
more, or stayed at home to watch the market.
There was one of those reactions, which the
experienced speculator would have expected.
Nevertheless, on my way through London, the
Tempter sent a second turn of luck. I dined with
a clever friend, an engineer on Indian Irrigation

THE STOCK EXCHANGE i6i

works. He swore by the Madras Irrigation, and
induced me to buy lOO shares, a pound paid up, at
a trifling premium. I have seldom enjoyed the Eng-
lish papers more than on that tour, which carried
me by easy stages from Sicily to Trieste and thence
down the Dalmatian coast to the Ionian Islands.
Whenever it was my luck to open a Times, those
shares were going up like mercury in the dog-days.
We garrisoned the islands then, and the night
I dined with the forces in Cephalonia, the shares
were quoted at ^5 or £6. It must be admitted
it was doing fairly well to quintuple capital in
six weeks or so, and so I was led to back East India
Irrigations, which were by no means a success.

Then my relations began with Throgmorton
Street and the old Stock Exchange. I was for-
tunate in an introduction to one of the most genial,
capable, and fatherly of brokers, who afterwards
established his claim to a Scottish peerage. He
stuck chiefly to the American market ; amassed a
solid fortune, and the world seemed to go wondrous
well with him. Always smiling, never in a flurry,
he would give any amount of consideration to your
miserable trivialities. Had I listened to him, I
should seldom have burned my fingers, and should
never have made the coups which tempt one to p-o
on gambling. We hear of nothing now but stag-
nation on the Stock Exchange, and of packs of
famished wolves reduced to worrying each other.
Those were the golden days when prosperity was

L

i62 DAYS OF THE PAST

advancing by leaps and bounds, and when the
promotion of companies was the sure road to
moneymaking ; if you only cut clear of the schemes
in time. Everything went automatically to a
premium, and systematic stagging was a profitable
business. It may be much the same now; I am
sure I don't know ; but I remember then that one
used to be deafened at the swing-doors by the roar
of boisterous business from the House. It used
always to be a marvel to me, when your broker's
name was shouted through the confusion how
promptly he responded. My friend always came
out beaming, and not infrequently afterwards,
when he answered the summons, I was in anxiety
or sore tribulation. Speculation in stocks is like
rouge et noir, for even in normal circumstances the
odds must be against the player. Then you
waited impatiently while he went in again, and
came back to report on the trend of the market.
You had to make up your mind at a few seconds'
notice, whether you would sell or hold. Some-
times you had plunged into troubled water, and
after wading waist deep were up to the chin.
Bombay had been booming during the American
Civil War ; speculators made great fortunes in
Indian cotton; the old Indian Banks paying
fabulous dividends were at fancy prices, and new
competitors underselling them, were doing a roaring
trade. Then when a pacified America began to
grow cotton for export again, the bubble of that

THE STOCK EXCHANGE 163

inflated business was pricked. It was almost an
oriental version of the collapse of the South Sea
scheme. The shares of the Chartered Mercan-
tile had fallen from — I think — about 120 to some-
thing over 45. I believed the Bank was sound ;
thought I saw my chance, and bought. Sadly
disappointed as to elasticity and recuperative
power, I saw the shares declining with dear
money and a high Bank rate. The experienced
manager of the Union of Scotland had warned me
that those Indian Banks had breakers ahead, but
like a fool I did not cut a trifling loss and sell. I
never regretted it more than after Black Monday,
when Overend and Gurneys put up their shutters.
The news of the panic came to Edinburgh with
a Tuesday's Courant ; I walked the Parliament
House that day in a worry, and as professional
engagements were not engrossing, took the night
train to town. The morning papers I bought at
Newcastle, York, etc., were by no means exhilar-
ating. Each speculative share I held seemed to
be tossing in a bubbling caldron, with strong
tendencies to settle to the bottom. My cheery
broker, though depressed, was still optimistic,
recommending me to see it out and wait for
developments. That was my own feeling, and I
tried to divert my mind, but I never had a worse
time at the pleasant old Tavistock : the Times
played the mischief with one's appetite for break-
fast, and the latest edition of the Globe spoiled

i64 DAYS OF THE PAST

digestion for dinner. Next evening, going down
to dine at Norwood, I had lively company in the
train, A knot of spruce young stockbrokers were
talking shop, with the keen zest of the onlooker
who has no personal stake on the upshot. ' The
Indian Banks had it pretty hot to-day, but nothing
to what will come off to-morrow.' They were true
prophets. At that time Mr. Leeson of York had
not introduced his Bank Act, and the bears
might sell any number of shares, without giving
the numbers as vouchers for ownership. The new
Bombay Banks, whose shares had gone to a high
premium on issue, were in the depths : distracted
holders were ready to sacrifice their property on any
terms which might relieve them of liability. ' If
you care for a flutter,' said my broker's clerk play-
fully, 'you may buy Hindustans at 4.' I fancy
they had been at 30 a few days before. I smiled
grimly, for I did not care at that moment to
increase my small holdings in Indian banks. My
own Chartered Mercantiles were falling fast, and
the Oriental, which was regarded by Anglo-Indians
as a trifle more stable than the Old Lady in
Threadneedle Street, was shaking on its solid foun-
dations. That is the time when a man must come
to swift decision upon momentous issues. I did
not sell Mercantiles. I held in the faith that the
weeding of weak competitors would send them up
to something approaching the former fancy price.
That blissful day never arrived, for with the close

THE STOCK EXCHANGE 165

of the Civil War, the Southern States were again
shipping full cargoes to Liverpool ; and I had
leisure to meditate on the sage warning of the
Scottish banker. Finally, losing patience I con-
sulted with the financial expert who then edited the
Times City Article, as to changing my investment
to the Oriental. Rather to my surprise, he strongly
dissuaded me, recommending me, if I would continue
to play on the same colour, to put my money on the
Chartered of India and Australia. I should have
done well had I taken that advice. But I did cut
the Mercantile, which went sagging away, till it died
a natural death, to be reconstructed ; and I did not
go into the Oriental, which burst up soon after,
carrying desolation to Anglo-Indian investors, with
a frightful smashing of rich civilians' nest eggs.

There is no denying that banks, with their un-
called liabilities, are risky. If one could afford
consols it would be well to steer clear of them,
but at least they give you excitement and a long
run for your money, and there are times when
your confidence has its reward. With stakes in
the two great Anglo- Australian Banks, I ran the
whole gamut of sharp sensations in the crisis of
the Australian panic. There were storm signals
which one ought to have heeded, — the difficulties
of some small establishments at Melbourne, and
the passing of the dividend in a big ironmongery
store in which I had an interest, which had paid
15 per cent, when the city was booming. The

i66 DAYS OF THE PAST

storm burst suddenly after all, and there was little
time to strike or shorten sail, without heart-
rending sacrifices of spars and canvas. Each
morning came news of banks in good credit, stop-
ping payment and going in for convenient ' re-
construction.' Things culminated one day when
I saw in the morning paper the collapse of
three of the best ; I hurried off to my banker in the
city, who said that when the Commercial of Sydney
had closed its doors — a panic-stricken act of pre-
cipitate folly — he could answer for nothing. He
had been so sceptical that he had sent a clerk
to verify the fact, and theretofore he had always
strongly advocated my holding. I walked across
to take counsel with my friend, the editor of the
great city journal, and he counselled in the same
hesitating key. But he took me across the way
to the Union of London, where they expressed
the strongest confidence that my special Banks
must pull through. A notable financial authority
spoke in similar fashion, saying that the names
on the Boards were sufficient guarantee for good
backing, and that if the Bank of England did not
come ostensibly to the rescue, yet it must lend
efficient assistance underhand. In fact, I fussed as
much as if I had millions at hazard, but then it was
matter of material import to me, and in this case I
did worry the trouble through, with results that
have yearly been becoming more satisfactory.
After all, as Mr. Squeers said of threshing a boy

THE STOCK EXCHANGE 167

in a cab, there is a pleasure in it too, so long as
you do not actually come to grief. The fun of a
race is soon over, when your fancy wins or is
beaten. In stock broking convulsions, the excite-
ment, sometimes tending towards agony, is long
drawn out, but there are the blissful moments of
temporary relief, when you read encouraging para-
graphs in the city articles, and if you shoot the
rapids and float off in smooth water, that sense of
relief is simply paradisiacal.

Banks are chancy speculations at the best, but
they are not in it with juvenile finance companies.
Not even when you stand in with the promoters
and are brouo^ht in on the ground-floor. When
the 'House at the Corner' was converted into a
limited company, I believe I might have had an
allotment of a few original shares, under promise
of not realising for the premium. But a wise old
partner who had been bought out, gave me a
glance over a glass of port, and I forbore. How-
ever, the mania of financing everything had set in ;
anything floated by such experts as Albert Grant
went up like a balloon, and it was hard to resist the
temptation of venturing. I tried my luck with
the London Financial, launched with an un-
impeachable Board under the presidency of an
ex-chairman of the Hudson Bay Company. Fortun-
ately for me, the chairman's promise of an allotment
was broken, for the London Financial followed
Overend and Gurneys to Basinghall Street. All

i68 DAYS OF THE PAST

the same that speculative fever was catching, and I
was bound to burn my fingers. I had been in the
East ; I had talked to attaches, consuls, and
merchants ; I had read various instructive works
on Turkey ; I had great faith in the resources and
capabilities of the Ottoman Empire, if developed
by British capital and enterprise. So the ' Ottoman
Financial Association ' seemed the very thing for
my money. As I know now by melancholy ex-
perience, I ought to have cried off, and sold, when
they gave me all the shares I wrote for. But it
was my Kismet to embark on that rotten craft,
and I shipped with some show of reason. A year
or two before I had bouo"ht a small lot of Ottoman
Bank Shares at ^lo — 'entirely your own idea,' as
my banker said patronisingly — and had sold at over
^20. I bought in again, by the way, to scorch
myself severely when Turkey repudiated. But to
go back to the present venture, I had discussed
Turkey as an inviting field of enterprise with
the Hon. Thomas Bruce, then chairman of the
Ottoman Bank. He was sanguine also, and
meant to work for Turkish regeneration and good
dividends to his shareholders, but on a large scale
by deliberate methods, and with the powerful
machinery of his influential corporation. Had I con-
sulted him as to the Ottoman Financial, he would
have laughed its inception to scorn. There were
decent English names on the direction, but the
majority were Greek, which in itself should have

THE STOCK EXCHANGE 169

made me distrustful. The only Turkish schemes
we financed were some powder mills on the
Bosphorus, which no company would insure on
any terms. They did not blow up, but of course
they collapsed. We lent and lost more of our
money in a shady London Bank, and of all things
in the world, we temporarily invested any super-
fluous cash in Swedish forests and iron mines
which never paid a shilling. I presume the
Articles of Association — which I never saw — were
loosely drawn, or the directors dared not have
indulged in such pranks. So long as the boom was
on, the shares kept about par, and we had one or
two dividends. Then they weakened, then they
sunk, and one day I hurried eastward in a hansom,
resolved to sell out at any price. By hard luck
there was an announcement that morning that
three new directors had strengthened the board ;
the shares had shot up, and so I held on.

Naturally the crash came in course, when in place
of a dividend there was a heavy call. I went to
the office and interviewed the obsequious secre-
tary, with a Simian forehead, diamond studs, and
gold-linked shirt-cuffs turned back to the elbow.
The mere sight of the man should have been
a warning, but he solemnly assured me before
a cloud of clerk-witnesses, that the call would
yield immediate returns, and that the company
possessed a most valuable property. Next week
it was in liquidation, and for the first and last time

I70 DAYS OF THE PAST

I attended a company meeting. It appeared that
the Articles had been so adroitly drawn, that we
unlucky English investors were legally bound to pay
off the Oriental shareholders in full. There was a
second call and a third before we heard the last of
that transaction. What impressed my innocence
most was the obvious way in which the liquidator,
an honourable man, I daresay, and certainly a
member of a leading firm of accountants, did his
best to shield the directors and draw the wool
over the eyes of the victims. I said something
at the time ; I insisted on personally interviewing
him ; I had been doubly aggravated by seeing
the secretary standing at his elbow through the
meeting and prompting. I had told my story to
the meeting, and taxed the secretary broadly with
the shameless mendacity he could not deny. All
the satisfaction I had of it then was an off-hand,
' If you had gone to the directors they would have
told you everything.' And now when I repre-
sented that as the secretary had tacitly admitted
himself a rascal it was scandalous to continue his
salary and virtually to intrust him with the winding
up, the worthy liquidator gave me to understand
that in the interests of the liquidation he knew too
much to be dismissed. No doubt I might have
taken my revenge, for I could have subpoenaed
witnesses enough to convict the secretary, but
though the moral of this story is that of fools and
their money, I was not mad enough to throw more

THE STOCK EXCHANGE 171

good coin after bad by trying to get damages out
of a man of straw.

Mines were tempting ventures for those hasten-
ing to be rich, and, in my earher days, a compara-
tively limited market. California was notoriously
in the hands of Americans who were ' in the
know,' and English eyes were generally turned
to Brazil and the Central American republics.
In a happy hour I dipped in Don Pedro North
Del Reys, buying at ten or twelve shillings, and
selling shortly afterwards for nearly ten times the
money. In a happy hour, I say, not because I
made money, for immediately afterwards they had
it all out of me again when I went in for speculat-
ing in Nicaragua and Guatemala. But what with
liquidations and calls, or selling out at an alarming
sacrifice, I got such a sickener that though I
struck a fair balance-sheet on the whole, I have
never since been involved in the incalculable
fluctuations of manipulated markets. If I missed
the boom in South Africans, when Rands were
steadily on the rise, I have spared myself all
the subsequent sorrows of disappointments long
drawn out and over-capitalised certainties. Years
ago I came to the conclusion that the specula-
tive investments of the uninformed outsider are
simply loss and sorrow ; and I give my experience
for what it is worth. Gilt-edged securities are
cheapest in the end, even if peace of mind were
not a luxury well worth paying for.

CHAPTER X

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS

My connection with literature began at the dinner
given by his tenants to a cousin on the occasion
of his cominof of age. Though I had not attained
my own majority, for some reason I was told off
to propose the Press, I never shone as a speaker,
and that was my maiden effort at public oratory.
The toast was coupled with the name of the
reporter of the county paper. Of course I tried
the humorous line, and touched on a personal
grievance — the bother there was in cutting the
pages of books. He answered that if I had to cut
up books like him, I would have better reason for
grumbling. He had decidedly the best of it, but
as Mrs. Gamp might have remarked, * his words
was prophecy.' Since then I have criticised in-
numerable books, good, bad, and indifferent, and
though the pleasure and pain have been pretty
evenly balanced, I have waded through consider-
able muddy water and endured more drudgery
than was altogether agreeable.

But years were to elapse before I took to the
pen which was to give me so many pleasant
memories and acquaintances — to introduce me to

172

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 173

so many valued friends. The only break was
when I met one of the brightest of those friends
in James Payn, when, as I have said, he was
conducting Chambers s foiirnal in Edinburgh.
Afterwards we were brought into close and
constant relations ; some of the most agreeable
dinners I recollect were in Warrington Crescent,
where he always attracted lively company, and
when he died the loss left an irreparable blank.
There I heard Frith supplementing the amusing
Reminiscences he published, and the present editor
of Punch indulging in dry facetiae which capped a
story or pointed a moral. Payn introduced me
to his friend Horace Pym, another genial host,
who, when he kept house in Harley Street, often
tempted me to town for a night, more for the
company than the admirable English fare. When
he shifted his quarters to my neighbourhood in
Kent, at the distance of a long and hilly drive,
I saw less of him. Something of a bibliomaniac,
like Heber or Scott he went in for sumptuous
bindings, and nothing pleased him more than the
gift of the manuscript of any book by a friend
which had caught on with the public. He might
have made a name in literature himself, had he
not been preoccupied with more profitable busi-
ness. His Memoir of Caroline Fox pleased
George Smith so well, that he proposed to him
to undertake the biography of Lord Beaconsfield ;
it is one of the curiosities of literature that at

174 DAYS OF THE PAST

that time two leading firms were assured that they
were to be intrusted with the immediate pub-
Hcation. Payn, then editing the Cornkill, was
the literary adviser of Smith and Elder, As he
told me himself on that occasion, he tapped his
magnificent chief on the shoulder, whispering,
' Are you not getting rather deep in the thou-
sands ? ' But Payn, except on a holiday in the
Lake District, was never happy out of London or
away from the Reform, where he had his regular
afternoon rubber. Like Pym he never walked a
yard when he could help it, or touched a fishing-
rod or gun. So ' our own romantic town ' with the
bitinCT winds which Louis Stevenson execrated had
few charms for him. An indefatigable worker,
Sundays and week-days, like his friend Trollope
he could always come to time ; working still, when
crippled and confined to his chair, he may be said
to have dropped and died in harness. In those
latter days the only time I saw his sweet nature
ruffled was when he misunderstood one of my
remarks. Trying to write with his gouty fingers,
he was evidently in great pain, and I made some
commonplace observation as to the worse ills to
which humanity is subject. He fired up and said,
* If you think I can find comfort in the sufferings of
my fellow-creatures ' — which I did not mean at all.
If after many idle years I fluked myself into a
literary income, it is one of the wonderful instances
of unmerited luck. When supplies are running

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 175

short, taking to letters is naturally the resort of the
destitute who have been trained to nothing, or have
failed at everything they tried. One fine morning,
the turning-point of my fortunes, I took a flying
shot at an advertisement. I had seen the an-
nouncement of a new Conservative weekly, the
Imperial Review, with a hospitable invitation to
contributors. I wrote to place my services at the
editor's disposal, and suggested as subjects Turkey
and America. Of Turkey I knew nothing more
than I had picked up on a flying visit to Constan-
tinople and sundry shooting-parties in the provinces;
of America I knew nothing at all, but some Ameri-
can question chanced to have cropped up just then.
Both articles appeared as leaders in leaded type,
and thenceforward my career was decided. The
Review was run by Cecil Raikes, member for
Chester and afterwards Chairman of Committees.
It came to a sudden stop, but it served his purpose
and it answered mine. For a year or more it gave
me capital practice, at the rate of an article or a
couple of articles per week, and before the stoppage
came which I feared and expected, I had been
casting out sundry anchors to windward.

I had no sort of claim on Leslie Stephen. I
was introduced to him in Trinity Common room
by two old travelling companions — Augustus Van-
sittart, then Bursar of the College, and Hardy
of Alpine fame, the first Englishman to climb
the Finster Aarhorn. I had seen Stephen that

176 DAYS OF THE PAST

morning-, with his tall, sinewy figure, going at a
hand gallop along the banks of the Cam, cheering
and coaching the Trinity boats. When Stephen
promised, it meant generous performance. He
gave kindly introductions forthwith to Cooke of the
Saturday, and Frederick Greenwood of the Pall
Mall — another good friend, of whom, as he is
living, I have nothing more to say. Cooke had
somewhat of a formidable reputation ; he was said
to be fastidious and capricious in the choice of
his contributors, and as the hansom cabman said
of Forster, 'an harbitrary gent.' Indeed, any self-
made man had reason to be proud of having recruited
such a constellation of varied talent. It was the
pride of the Saturday, like Thackeray's Pall Mall,
to be written by gentlemen for gentlemen, and not
a few of the gentlemen were predestined to exalted
places in the Empire. Chief among the contri-
butors was Lord Robert Cecil, who could handle
his incisive and sarcastic pen with no fear
of the impulsive slip which compromised him or
the thought of 'putting his foot in it.' Faded
daguerreotypes and primitive photographs hung
round the inner room in the Albany, formed an
interesting historical gallery of notorieties. For
Beresford Hope, who launched the brilliantly
successful venture, was lavish of money and could
well afford it. The editing was sumptuously done.
Editorial and business departments were sundered
by the distance between the Albany and the

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 177

Strand. In the Albany the editor was supposed
to sit enthroned from 11 a.m. to 5 r.M.
There the Articles were arranged in cosy talk.
Ushered into Mr. Cooke's sanctum in some fear
and trembling, I found a man in striking contrast
to his surroundings. Nothing could be more
suitably luxurious than the fittings of the room,
with its Turkish carpets, its massive furnishing, and
the usual literary litter of an editor's den. Cooke
wore a long, loose rough coat, something between
a shooting-jacket and a dressing-gown, and a
slippered foot stretched out on a cushioned leg-rest
was suofSfestive of ofout. The veteran was then in
decay and drawing near to his end, but the old fire
flickered up when he began to talk, flashing out
from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. I had heard
him talked of as a terror, but nothing could be
kinder than his reception. Had I been Lord Robert
Cecil, Harcourt, Stephen, or Venables, he could
not have discussed proposals more respectfully.
It was a great relief when the first proof arrived,
but I should have been far less cock-a-hoop had
I known that the Saturday sent all manuscripts
straight to Spottiswoode's, unless indeed they came
from an absolute outsider.

Almost immediately after that Cooke was gathered
to his fathers, bequeathing his romantic Cornish
home and the better part of his fortune to the
family of his friend and patron. Had Beresford
Hope not been born in the purple, or at least

M

178 DAYS OF THE PAST

succeeded to the noble Bedgebury manor in the
Weald, with its wide woodlands, remains of the
Anderida forest where iron industries had antici-
pated those of the north, he might himself have
made a name in letters. As it was, he wrote some
clever social novels, and I repeatedly urged him to
try a historical romance, with the scenes in the
historical surroundings of the family seat. Given
to hospitality, his annual Greenwich dinner at the
Trafalgar was a great help to his brilliant weekly.
The editor took the chair, the proprietor sat on
his rioht, and invitations were issued on a most
catholic scale. Well and appropriately was the
gathering fixed for a Saturday evening, for if the
guests did justice to the cheer, work was impossible
on the morrow. There you could absolutely trust
the wines : the burgundy and the venerable port
and amontillado came from the renowned cellars of
Marshal Beresford, a noted bon vivant, who always
kept a sumptuous table in the Peninsula, even when
rank and file were on short commons. That
legacy of the Marshal-Connoisseur had overflowed
from the cellars at Bedgebury into the vaults of
the Albany, and was far from exhausted when these
premises were evacuated. At those Greenwich
dinners there was mercifully no speechifying, and
the grace was compressed in a couple of Latin
words. The invitations were miscellaneous, for
many specialists and men of note were in occasional
relations with the Saturday. Lord Salisbury — as

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 179

he had become — was sometimes seated next to his
brother-in-law, and their nephews the Balfours,
promising young poHticians, were often present.
Medicine was generally represented by Ouain, who
was so keenly interested in literature and journalism
that he would discuss them at length in consultation,
oblivious of your ailments as of patients impatiently
waiting in the anteroom ; and science by the aged
Professor Owen in his black silk skull-cap. In the
very last year of his life, I think, I travelled up
with him in the railway carriage to Waterloo, when
he left me with a cordial grasp of the hand.

When Cooke departed, Harwood, his sub-editor,
reigned in his stead. Never was editing more
conscientiously done. Harwood came punctually
to the receipt of custom ; he carried business back
with him to St. John's Wood, and was never to be
lured away by invitations to dinner. When he
retired to Hastings, on a snug pension, it might
have seemed that, with his occupation gone his life
would be a blank. But he was a man of resource,
and turned Cincinnatus among his cabbages, con-
centrating his interests on a garden the size of a
pocket-handkerchief. The amiable veteran had
the satisfaction of feeling he had never made an
enemy, and nothing gave him more pleasure than
a visit from an old acquaintance and a chat over
old days in the Albany.

The Pall Mall, as Greenwood kindly reminded
me in an encouraging letter when I had begun to

i8o DAYS OF THE PAST

contribute, came out every day, and there it had
the pull of the Saturday. Those were happy times
for the journalist who loved a long range and a
free tether. Already I have passed Greenwood
over in silence, but on reflection I must say that,
with his versatile tastes and rare literary flair and
discrimination, with perhaps a single exception he
was the ablest editor I have ever known. Con-
ducting simultaneously the Pall Mall and the
Cornhill, his zealous look-out for rising talent
carried him easily through a vast amount of
drudgery. He could see at a glance what might
be hoped of a novice. Nor did he confine himself
merely to editing. Many of the political leaders
came from his own pen, and there was no brighter
or more sagacious literary critic, doing justice to
talent wherever he found it, whether in history,
philosophy, or a light society novel.

The reading world owes a great debt of gratitude
to the spirit and enterprise of the munificent pro-
prietor. George Smith originated the brightest of
evening papers, as he started the Cornhill under
the auspices of Thackeray. He has left his
monument in the Dictionary of N ational Biography \
he floated Charlotte Bronte in the beginning of
his career, and Mrs. Humphrey Ward towards its
close. When he started the Pall Mall, with his
strong publishing connection, he found powerful
allies, eager to aid. The chief leader writers who
shared the burden of the day with the editor were

LITERARY RFXOLLECTIONS i8i

Fitzjames Stephen and Henry Sumner Maine.
Stephen, a legist by profession, with a legal and
logical intellect, was a journalist by predilection. He
used to say he would rather represent Northumber-
land Street than any constituency in the kingdom.
Reluctantly he accepted a lucrative post in the East,
but he hated Calcutta, never ceased to be home-
sick, and when he took his welcome release, hurried
home like a schoolboy for the holidays. A tele-
gram from Southampton announcing his arrival to
Northumberland Street, asked that next morning
a boy should be sent as formerly for copy to his
chambers in the Temple. The boy may have
been sent, but in Stephen's absence Maine had
stepped into his place as leading leader writer.
His brother Leslie, and Matthew Arnold were
also of the dei majorcs ; and among the irregulars
who did excellent service were that very dubious
character Grenville Murray, more admired than
respected, with his double portion of genuine
French esprit, and the eccentric Franco-Oriental,
with the pseudonym of Azamut-Batuk, who amus-
ingly satirised our manners and customs and
launched rhyming philippics at our fogs and spleen.
The Pall Mall originated the Occasional Notes.
No one devoted himself to them more conscien-
tiously than Maurice Drummond, the most genial of
entertainers and delightful of companions. In the
literary capacity he took himself very seriously,
which was more than he did as head of a Government

i82 DAYS OF THE PAST

department, though he honestly beHeved himself
the most hard-worked of officials. Regularly as
clock-work he was to be found of an afternoon at
The Travellers, skimming the morning papers and
cogitating notes for next day. Always looking out
for ' pegs,' he was admirably informed on many
matters ; he knew most people in London who
were worth knowing, and had a memory that ex-
actly served his purpose. Like that of Scott, it
retained all he wanted and dismissed the rest. He
and his charming wife were the most hospitable
of people. You never found them unprepared,
if you looked them up of a summer evening at
their coiiage-orjzt^e at Frognal, where dinner was
served at a table under a spreading tree in the
garden. Du Maurier was a friend and a frequent
guest ; Drummond's children, who inherited their
mother's beauty, were the models for innumerable
pictures in Punch, where they figured with the
artist's favourite dog.

George Smith, then or soon after, had a mansion
hard by, on Hampstead hill, with sloping lawns
and orardens looking- over to Harrow. His grarden
parties were gatherings of the select, where you
came across the noted litth-ateurs who were
familiars of Waterloo Place, or thirled, as they say
in Scotland, to the CornhilL There was a bed-
room in the Waterloo Place office, of which some
of his familiars were free, when they cared to use
it. Matthew Arnold slept there often, and Smith

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 183

was good enough to place it at my disposal when
I passed a night in town. On an evening after
one of those garden parties, some of us remained
for a scratch collation and had sat on talking till a
late hour. I remember the occasion well, for it
was then I made the acquaintance of George
Meredith. I happened to say to my host that I
was only leaving one roof of his for another, and
that, as I wanted exercise, I meant to walk to
his bed in Waterloo Place. To my satisfaction,
Meredith, who was also a great pedestrian and
in the vigour of his strenoth, declared he would
accompany me. That walk proved only the first
of many with him, but seldom has the time passed
more quickly, and as he warmed up in conversa-
tion, he stepped out only too fast. He had much
of the buoyant Gallic temperament, with a flow of
esprit to the very finger tips ; mind and body
seemed to be set on springs. As with the illus-
trious authors of The Feast of Brou^^hani and The
Old Wo7nan of Berkeley, I have always lamented
that Meredith did not give himself more to lyric
and ballad poetry. That night as we were striding
along, some of the spirited snatches of verse in his
' Legend of Cologne,'

' The lark and the thrush and the blackbird, they taught me
how to sing,' etc.,

were ringing in my ears, and I could not help
quoting them. Naturally, my unmistakable ad-
miration pleased him, and I know it was with

i84 DAYS OF THE PAST

regret and reluctance on one side that we separated
at Piccadilly Circus. To my infinite pleasure, the
acquaintance was to be renewed and improved.
Shortly afterwards I took a house at Leatherhead,
within an easy stroll of Burford Bridge, and many
a pleasant walk we had afterwards, in the grounds
of Norbury Park, sacred to memories of Fanny
Burney, and in the adjacent lanes of the rich
Surrey woodlands. Since then his rare genius has
come slowly to be recognised ; after a tantalising
and disheartening strug-gle he has scaled the
heights of the literary Pisgah, and had the fortune,
in the fulness of years, to descend into the Land
of Promise. He has taken foremost rank as an
English classic, but happily he survives and no
more can be said.

No one in habitual relations with the Pall Mall
ever passed through Paris without looking up the
Hon. Denis Bingham. From first to last, under
the imperial rdgime, he was the journal's Paris
correspondent : late in the afternoon, about the
hour of absinthe — which he never tasted — he was
to be found at the marble table behind an ink-
stand, at one of the cafes on the Boulevards.
For long the Cardinal was his house of call,
though afterwards, for some reason he changed
it. With his imperturbable coolness and Irish
courage, he held to his post through both the
sieges, seizing each opportunity of forwarding his
letters, by balloon or underground rail. The

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 185

balcony of his apartment in the Rue de Tilsit
was seriously damaged by the cannonade from
St. Cloud. I have a shell now, picked up in
his salon, which he consigned to me by Mr.
Labouchere, when the ' Besieged Resident ' broke
out. I fancy it must have crossed me en route, for
I was in the place a day or two after the entry of
the Crown Prince of Saxony under the Arc de
Triomphe. Bingham's household bills were curi-
osities. In the beginning he had been a good
customer to the butcher of the Boulevard Hauss-
man, paying fancy prices for beasts from the
Jardins d'Acclimatation and des Plantes — elephant,
rhinoceros, kangaroo, and all manner of outlandish
animals. Then when supplies and cash ran short,
he had been reduced to short commons. By way
of souvenir he had kept some scraps of the
abominable black bread, for which Marie, his
good-humoured little bonne, had waited for hours,
morning after morning, in the queite before the
doors of the Mairie. In the siege of the
Commune he ran serious danger. The Commune,
in its truculent censorship, kept close watch on
liis proceedings, but showed him a certain con-
sideration. It was perilous work to carry his
letters personally from the Arc de Triomphe to
the Gare du Nord, whence they were to be
smupfSfled ; and in the storm and slaus^hter follow-
ing the entry of the Versailles troops, he was shut
up for four and twenty hours in a house that was

i86 DAYS OF THE PAST

bombarded by both sides impartially. Perhaps
he owed something of his immunity to his relations
with Rossel, for whom he had a sincere regard.
Had Rossel not mislaid Binoham's visitine-card
with the address, he might have found safety
under his roof. On short commons in the first
siege, he came near starvation in the second.
The infraction of a cupboard in a house confided
to his charge by a friend, gave him a luxurious
Christmas dinner, which he shared hospitably with
his special chum, Hely Bowes of the Standard
and other journalistic confreres.

Laurence Oliphant was Times correspondent in
Paris after the German siege and when the Ver-
sailles troops were being held at bay by the
Commune. Off and on, I had known Oliphant
for long. I met him first when dining in Edin-
burgh with Norman Macpherson, afterwards pro-
fessor of Scots law. Oliphant, then a boyish-
looking figure, had just returned from his trip to
Nepaul with Jung Bahadur. He had cast that
magnetic spell of his over the astute and seem-
ingly impassive Oriental, and with his wonderful
adaptability had become thoroughly at home with
him. As his friend Walter Pollock used to say,
' Laurie would wile the bird off the bush.' He stole
the conversation, rather than engrossed it, and his
sparkling narrative, with the vivid pictures of
Nepaulese manners and the march through the
gloomy Terai was a thing to be remembered.

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 187

Oliphant might have been anything he pleased,
but he lacked ballast, persistence, and concentra-
tion of purpose. His social gifts were a snare;
his versatility was fatal ; and he was never really
happy, except in action, excitement, or danger.
Emphatically a bird of passage, and in some sort
in his early life a stormy petrel, wherever there
was trouble he was skimming the waves, shaking
the spray from his wings in sheer enjoyment of
the tempest. He was the more plucky that he
was a fatalist and a predestinarian. He was not
an ideal war correspondent, for he risked himself
too freely. I have been told by a confrere, himself
by no means overcautious, that even the Zouaves
blamed the Englishman's rashness. And, by the
way, as a good judge of courage, he always main-
tained that the German dash and determination
came short of that of the Americans in the Civil
War. War risks he was ready to encounter, but
he told me his nerves were never more severely
tried than when he was on Times duty at Lyons,
and attending a great socialistic meeting. Per-
fidious England was bitterly denounced, when the
rumour somehow got about that a spy of the Times
was present. The rabid mob were on their legs
to hunt him out, when Oliphant jumped up with
the others, and with his staunch friend Leroy
Beaulieu began looking everywhere below the
benches. Needless to say, he did not find the
man he was hunting for.

i88 DAYS OF THE PAST

After the German siege, OHphant had an
apartment in the Champs Elys^es, where his
mother kept house for him. There I was pre-
sented to the charming and accompHshed girl to
whom he was engaged ; and both mother and wife
shared his chequered fortunes when his strong but
mystical intellect succumbed to the influence of
the American prophet. It was said that those
refined ladies took their places at the washtub, and
certainly Laurence hawked oranges on railway
platforms, when his talents might have been
turned to more lucrative account. The odd
thing was that on his flying visits of Europe, he
was still the quick-witted man of the world, the
acute critic of contemporary politics. At Hom-
bourg the Prince of Wales used to consult him
on the morning letters. Frank as he was in his
Scientific Religion and other writings, there were
only one or two of his friends with whom he cared
to discuss his religious views, and I was never one
of them. Yet I remember one night at a little
dinner of four \ gave at the Wyndham, we drew
him to the verge of the delicate ground, when in
an unlucky moment I exchanged a glance with
William Blackwood. Oliphant intercepted it, and
shut up like an oyster.

Then, in the Champs Elysees, forenoon or after-
noon, a cotip^ was always in waiting at the door.
He was perpetually dashing about to the Quai
D'Orsay or other places, hunting up the informa-

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 189

tion he generally secured. So he had no time to
devote to the animated debates and scandalous
scenes in the Assembly, which was in session at
Versailles. He was then congratulating himself on
the discovery of Blowitz, the most noteworthy of
the treasure -troves, he said, among the submerged
he had brought to the surface, and he said it long-
before that orentleman had attained a world-wide
celebrity. He declared that Blowitz's memory was
equal to the most exact shorthand reporting, and
that as an interviewer he could mimic the accents
and dramatise the orestures of the interviewed.
When I next forgathered with him, it was im-
mediately before the outbreak of the Commune,
when he had discarded silken top hat and frock
coat, and was bustling about the disturbed quarters
of Paris in flexible felt and a suit of tweeds. I
had been waiting- for the convulsion that had never
come off, and was waxing impatient. He warned
me that I would not have to wait much longer, but
one day, after inspecting the guns peacefully parked
on the heights of Montmartre I went off carrying
one of his packets to his agent at Calais. Two
days afterwards the guns were seized by the
insurgents.

Shortly after that his connection with the Times
came to an abrupt termination. When I left him,
I believe he already had his marching orders from
the prophet, which he had disregarded. Then
followed a more peremptory summons from the

I90 DAYS OF THE PAST

seer, announcing a sign. The sign came on the
day of the absurd demonstration of the unarmed
pacificators in the Rue de la Paix, and he accepted
it, when, in a shower of rifle balls, he was dragging
the wounded under shelter in the doorway of
Blount, the consul and banker. So much I heard
from himself, and I heard more from Mowbray
Morris. He went straightway to his quarters at
the Chatham, packed his portmanteau and hurried
off to London. It was the very moment when a
special correspondent should have stuck to his
post, and never did a Times correspondent give
himself French leave in more summary fashion.
But Oliphant, as a rara avis,\J2iS a privileged person,
and the journal paid him the exceptional compliment
of condoning the offence and employing him again.
A rara avis and bird of passage, there was no
calculating his migrations. One month he was at
Haifa or in his lodge upon Carmel, looking down,
as he said, on the valley where Elijah slew the
prophets of Baal, and settling disputes as a Syrian
J. P. between the farmers and the vine dressers.
Then a fancy would take him for the pavements of
Pall Mall, and some fine morning he would stroll
into the Athenaium, and shake hands as if you had
dined together the evening before. I never met
a man who had done so much, and who might
have done so much more, who had so little self-
assumption. He would ask an acquaintance if he
might lunch with him as if he were receiving a

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 191

favour, instead of bringing inexhaustible stores of
reminiscence and pointed anecdote. Now that he
is gone I feel the old effort of disengaging myself
from his company. If I gave memory the rein
there might be matter for a volume.

Talking of Oliphant suggests my own connection
with the Tmies, though it was to ' Blackwood '
I was indebted for familiarity with him. I was
fortunate enough to have the friendship of successive
editors, and of all the editors I knew, Delane was
the most remarkable. His intuitive perception,
his sagacious prescience of the tendency of events,
were only paralleled by his prompt decision. A
message coming in at the last moment, pregnant
with issues in foreign politics or home affairs, never
found him unready. On one momentous occasion
I had expressed my wonder and admiration to his
brother-in-law, Mowbray Morris, for although
utterly taken by surprise a few days had justified
his action. Morris's answer was, ' It is those
flashes of sure intuition that save him ; if he were
in the habit of hesitating he would often be
blundering.' Yet he was no more infallible than
other men, and sometimes when he waited his
sagacity failed him. There was a notable instance
when he was against the marriage of the Princess
Royal, though even then he was not altogether
mistaken, for the consequences he predicted were
in some measure realised by the strained relations
of her Royal Highness with the autocratic chan-

192 DAYS OF THE PAST

cellor, who resented, and sometimes in the most
offensive language, feminine influence in business
of state.

Like WelHngton and all brilliant commanders
he had a contempt for any feebleness of moral
fibre. The editorship was offered him at the age
of twenty-four — the mantle of Chatham was falling
on the shoulders of the younger Pitt — ^and I re-
member when we were having a quiet talk in
Serjeants' Inn, asking if it did not shake his
courage. ' Not a bit of it,' was the reply ; ' what I
dislike about you young fellows is, that you all
shrink from responsibility.' Precisely what Wel-
lington said, somewhat unjustly, of his subordinates
in the Peninsula. Nor was there any boastful self-
assertion involved, for I have heard the story from
his life-long friend, John Blackwood. The youths
were living together in St. James's Square. One
morning Delane burst into their room, exclaiming,
' By God, John, what do you think has happened ?
I am editor of the Times.'' Forthwith he buckled to
the arduous task, and from the first Printing House
Square acknowledged the master.

It is not easy for outsiders to estimate the
responsibilities he shouldered so lightly. The
youth had inherited the traditions of an immense
though occult power. The Times had unseated
domineering ministers, had shaken strong cabinets,
had made continental ministers tremble. Under
the rdgime of the citizen king, the French foreign

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 193

minister had tampered with the transmission of
Times despatches. Promptly, and regardless of
expense, the Tifnes accepted the challenge, and the
French cabinet had the worse in the war. Much
had been happening to increase the power of the
Press. There had been a reduction of the stamp
duty and the advertisement tax, and the circulation
of the papers, increasing by leaps and bounds, had
awakened the intelligent interest of the masses.
We hear in the Greville Memoirs of Lord Durham
dropping in upon Barnes to complain of articles
which had stung King Leopold and embarrassed
the British ministry. Apropos of communications
between the Times and Wellington touching" the
revelation of Cabinet secrets, Lyndhurst had ex-
claimed in a burst of annoyance, ' Why, Barnes is
the most powerful man in the country!' In the
same year Peel, the most reserved and discreet of
statesmen, wrote effusively thanking the editor for
* his powerful support.' Such was the responsibility
the youth manfully took over from an accomplished
veteran, versed in intrigue, callous to flattery, and
hardened to strife.

He picked his subordinates well, and had a sure
eye for the qualities which make the popular
journalist. Asked for help with the authorities at
the Colonial Office by a future Colonial governor,
Sir Frederick Broome, he tapped his ink-bottle,
saying, ' You have your fortune here if you stay
with me,' and for years he kept a valued con-

N

194 DAYS OF THE PAST

tributor who did excellent work on important
missions. Broome subsequently went as Colonial
Secretary to Natal, with the editor's free consent
and recommendation. But Delane naturally re-
sented being left in the lurch, or unceremoniously
thrown over for a better thing. One of his leader-
writers, a man whom he greatly appreciated,
and a charming convive, accepted an important
governorship without giving warning or coming to
a satisfactory explanation. He proved somewhat
of a failure in the new sphere of action, and came
back to find the gates of Printing House Square
locked and barred. These men were only two
of many who had served their apprenticeship to
statecraft at home and abroad under Delane.

Personally, he did the day's work in Serjeants'
Inn within easy reach of the office. The door
was guarded by his confidential servant, a smooth-
spoken and gentlemanly Cerberus, who knew
habitual callers well ; and admission may have
rather depended on the master's mood than on the
urgency of the incessant preoccupations. But an in-
terview, and a very leisurely one, was assured when
the visitor was fresh from foreign parts, especi-
ally when he had returned from a Times mission.
For Delane, who was deeply versed in foreign
politics, was the most many-sided of men. When
he gave himself a breathing on the Continent for
a brief holiday, the goose-fair in the Vienna Prater
or the morning market in picturesque Bamberg,

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 195

interested him as much as the details of some
secret treaty being manipulated between Paris
and Berlin. My old acquaintance, General Eber,
ex-insurgent, ex-lieutenant of Garibaldi, member
of the Hungarian Diet, Times correspondent at
Vienna, was one of his favourite travelling com-
panions, and Eber used to say that in all his
experience he never met any one with so universal
an interest in things, great and small. Necessarily
a late sleeper in London, abroad he was an early
riser, and liked nothing more than the morning
stroll about the streets of some quaint old German
city. He had a great predilection for Mayence,
where he put up at the Angleterre, a capital house
looking out on the river, but with a noisy thorough-
fare in front and a darksome lane behind. The
landlord was his sworn friend, and boasted a
vintage of Feuerberger to which Delane directed
my special attention. He always believed in good
holidays, both for himself and the members of his
staff But as he grew older he was less inclined
to ramble, and when he found himself in congenial
quarters he was loath to leave them. One autumn
he went to Scotland ' for a round of visits.' When
he came back I asked where he had passed his
time, and he had to own that he went straieht to
Dunrobin, where he was made so comfortable that
he never stirred. In Dunrobin he deliohted, but
on another occasion his visit there was broupfht to
an abrupt termination. He gave his trusted leader-

196 DAYS OF THE PAST

writers a loose rein, but sometimes as strong men,
with pronounced views on burning political ques-
tions, conscience and conviction would make them
jib or kick over the traces. One fine morning in
Sutherlandshire, when the editor opened his Times,
he was shocked and startled. It was on the eve
of the war between Russia and Turkey ; the
writer's sympathies were strongly Russian, and
he had gone far towards committing the paper.
Delane took the first train to town to put things
straight before the error was irretrievable. But
he knew a good contributor when he had one, and
the delinquent, with light reproof, was put on to
less thorny subjects.

Probably he never wrote a line for his own
paper, though he played on its manifold keys with
the touch of an accomplished artist. The most
ready of note writers, he seemed to be always
scribbling, and no one ever despatched multi-
farious business more promptly or pointedly. Half
a dozen lines smeared across a page of notepaper
with a broad-pointed quill indicated the lines of
an important article, and gave assurance of safe
guidance. But as I happen to know, there is a
single document extant, in which he virtually
embodied a leader in a succession of blue paper
slips. That shows how strongly he was excited
over the formation of Disraeli's Ministry in 1874.
Ordinarily he took the most sensational incidents
with the most imperturbable calm, even when the

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 197

credit of the journal was in question ; and of that
I could give various examples from personal
experience. Reviewing was generally left to the
writer's discretion, but as to important political
works, such as Campbell's Lives of Brougham and
Lyndk2irsi, or Gladstone's Fragment of Political
Autobiography , he would take infinite trouble, even
to arranging a dinner of experts that the writer
might be authoritatively primed.

He bore his honours meekly, though, indeed,
with his recognised autocracy, he had slight
inducement to assert himself He dressed care-
fully, though he never sacrificed to the Graces.
But few statesmen or politicians drew more notice
in Rotten Row than the unobtrusive rider on the
neat black cob. It was not with the butterflies of
fashion that he exchang-ed oreetino-s, but with men
and women of light and leading. It was a rare
experience to have his arm up St. James's Street
and Piccadilly in the season, when the stream of
members was setting of a summer afternoon
towards the House, and to listen to his amusing
commentary of anecdote and reminiscence, inter-
spersed with incisive sketches of characters and
careers, suggested by passing personalities. As
no one had greater regard for a formidable
political opponent, so no one had less respect
for the dilettante diplomatist who had climbed to
high place through influential connections. Once,
coming back from the Continent, I reported some

198 DAYS OF THE PAST

conversations with our ambassador at one of the
great capitals. I was flattered, and rather vain of
them, for the big man's condescension and cham-
pagne had made a highly favourable impression.
Delane listened and abruptly changed the subject.
' Oh, that old woman. . . . Yes, she 's always
making love to us, and can be very civil when she
likes ! '

His eclipse was gradual and for a time veiled to
the public. Worn with arduous work and in-
cessant strain, at last the strong constitution gave
way. His good friend Sir Richard Ouain did all
that science could do to prolong a valuable life ;
but retirement became inevitable, though doubtless
retirement, with the loss of stimulus, accelerated
collapse. Nor was the final disappearance of this
remarkable man from the society he had instructed,
guided, and adorned long to be delayed.

Delane, while directing the Times, was deeply
indebted to the co-operation of his brother-in-law,
the manager. He and Mowbray Morris invariably
worked together on the most confidential terms,
and Morris was something more than a sleeping
partner in the editorship. General Eber used to
say that when Delane got too engrossed in political
topics of the day, Morris was always there to tap
him on the shoulder with a reminder. He mieht
have filled the role of editor as well as that of
manager, and he knew it. At the outbreak of the
Franco-German war, Delane chanced to be abroad.

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS 199

and I remarked casually that he would be annoyed
at his absence from the helm at so critical a
moment. Morris rejoined, rather tartly, ' Do you
think then that our readers will know he 's away ? '
Like all the men who have had a voice in the
policy of the great journal, he identified its honour
with his own. To touch the Times was to touch
himself He used to pride himself on having, for
the first time, put the foreign correspondence on a
business-like footing in accordance with modern
demands. The world had been moving since
Crabbe Robinson went to Hamburg from Print-
ing House Square to furnish letters as he found
opportunities, based upon rumours rather than
facts. Yet, like his brother-in-law, when he
indulged in a brief outing, he loved to leave the
Square behind. He used to say that when he
could not keep his incognito, nothing worried him
more than the attentions of obsequious waiters,
who would smooth out the Times on his table.
He was a man of imposing presence, with a dignity
befitting his position. As Power to Power, he was
indignant with the Germans, when they refused to
receive his correspondents in their camps. ' But
we have plenty of money in the treasury, and
the public shall be informed all the same.' An
exception was afterwards made in favour of
Russell, on King William's personal guarantee,
and Morris was soothed. But his indignation was
roused again, when Russell, with his bold criticism

200 DAYS OF THE PAST

and inquiring mind, was cold-shouldered by the
statesmen and generals at Versailles. * Yet they
know well we are recording history for them, and
transmitting their names and fame to posterity.' If
Delane broke down slowly, Morris, to all appear-
ance, went with a crash. Two or three years
before he had lost 2i ^dzis Achates, a sort of humble
secretary, whose intimate knowledge of details
saved him an infinity of trouble. The man died
suddenly ; his loss was felt in every way, and I
have always thought his master took it as an

CHAPTER XI

MORE LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS

There was much wild speculation as to Delane's
successor. More than one member of the staff
was named as being in the running, and gossip
insisted with great confidence that the mantle was
to light on the shoulders of a distinguished Govern-
ment official. The knowing ones were all wrong ;
no one named the winner, and the decision came
as a surprise. One evening when dining with
Mr. Stebbing — he had virtually edited the paper
in Delane's decline — I made the acquaintance of
Mr. Chenery, an eminent Orientalist, Professor of
Arabic at Oxford, and one of Delane's most valued
collaborators. That evening was the beginning of
a fast friendship, prematurely ended to my bitter
regret. We walked together from Russell Square
to Oxford Circus, and stood talking for some time
under the lamps, before we shook hands. As
Chenery told me afterwards, ' that evening I had
my commission in my pocket.' In many respects
he was admirably equipped, A fluent linguist, he
was versed in foreign politics, and had discussed
them in innumerable articles. He had a wide
literary and scientific connection ; he laid himself

201

202 DAYS OF THE PAST

out to secure the assistance of specialists, and
as he remarked complacently a few years later,
he might pride himself on the number of his ac-
complished contributors. The advertisements, he
added, were then at high-water mark, a proof of
the steady popularity of the paper. Yet he could
scarcely be called a popular editor, and through the
Parliamentary session, even more than Delane, he
was absorbed in politics, to the neglect of literature
and liohter matters. Moreover he had taken to
the leadership too late in life, and the burden of
daily care weighed heavily upon him. The most
charming of companions in a quiet way, he had
not his predecessor's social adaptability. But the
editor of the Times must entertain, and no man was
more inclined to be hospitable. He was a cul-
tured gotirmet besides, and had a delicate taste in
vintao-es. At his house in Norfolk Crescent, and
afterwards when he moved into Delane's quarters
in Serjeants' Inn, you were sure to find yourself
among celebrities or in elevating company, though
the host listened, rather than led the talk. There
were statesmen, politicians, travellers, and scientists ;
there were cultured soldiers who have since made
themselves famous, and officials of the Foreign or
Colonial Offices, who have become ambassadors,
ministers, satraps of provinces — Chenery could pick
and choose. But though that part of his duties
was the reverse of disagreeable, he was never more
happy than when at the table in the north-east

MORE RFXOLLECTIONS 203

corner of the Athenaeum dining-room, with his
habitual cronies, reinforced by casual arrivals.
Hayward, who in his later years seldom cared to
dress and dine out, was a regular member of the
little party. There I have heard Forster relate
some of his anxious experiences as Irish Secretary,
when he narrowly escaped the fate of Lord Frede-
rick Cavendish. He little knew that his most
providential escape was on the very evening when
he left Ireland behind him. The agents of a gang
of assassins were on the watch at Westland Row,
ready to communicate with their principals at
Kingston. But Forster, as it chanced, had gone
down before to dine quietly in the Kingston Hotel,
and slipped unobserved on board the steamer at
the last moment.

In that select company of the corner were often
to be found Lord Monk and another brilliant Irish-
man, Sir William Gregory, who had made his
political d^but by boldly facing the Liberator on
the Dublin hustings, and who had attained to the
blue ribbon of the Colonial Office as Governor of
Ceylon. A warm-hearted Irishman he was, and a
staunch friend. The only time there was any bitter-
ness between us was when I impeached the hospi-
tality of Sir Philip Crampton, our ambassador in
Madrid, who always kept open house for Gregory.
It was in that corner Sir Robert Morier commented
one evening on the penny-wise policy of the Foreign
Office, in refusing to ratify his bargain with the

204 DAYS OF THE PAST

Portuguese Government for the purchase of Lorenzo
Marquez for some ^30,000, We had reason to
remember his words of wisdom when we went to
war with the Boers.

Kinglake and Hayward, habitual convives, though
not always the most talkative, were the radiating
lights. The best of friends, they delighted in sly
digs at each other, and the subtle challenge was
readily accepted. When they got on their reminis-
cences, they were like rival gamecocks, and the
rush of social and political anecdote was incessant.
The historian of the Crimean War had been the
arbiter of many heated disputes and the Rhada-
manthus of challenged reputations ; I happen to
know that men in the highest positions had stooped
to depths of servility in courting him. He weighed
his judgments as deliberately as he wrote his his-
tory. One day I had dropped in upon him in his
rooms looking out on Hyde Park ; the table, as
usual, was piled with documents, and like Issachar,
the strong ass was stooping between two sacks
of papers. He was painfully mastering the Bala-
klava case — Lucan against Cardigan. Grievous
trouble he caused his publishers and their printers,
with his perpetual rectifications of the narrative
and corrections of the proofs. A kindly man, and
specially genial to young literary aspirants, he
dearly loved an epigrammatic sneer. One saying
of his Sir Edward Hamley delighted to quote.
Lookinor at Mr. Villiers, the veteran free-trader,

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 205

then father of the Commons, as Villiers stood con-
templating the dinner ca^'-tc, Kinglake remarked
with his meditative drawl : ' A clever man, a very
cl-ayver man, before he softened his brain by read-
ing the newspapers.' With the sole exception of
Sir Edward Bunbury — a very treasury of recollec-
tions and miscellaneous knowledge of all kinds,
when he could be drawn in a quiet tete-a-tete over
the dinner-table — Kinglake lingered on, the last of
that company. It was sad to see him in his solitary
seat, in the nook which had for so long been the
centre of sociability ; to stand at the old man's
shoulder and to speak to him loudly and in vain.

Hayward had gone some years before ; though
close allies, they were great contrasts. Hayward,
although he could make himself extremely agree-
able, was acidulated and inclined to be cynical. He
took fancies at first sight, and his prepossessions
were as strong as his prejudices. I first met him at
a dinner at Delane's, where George Venables put
him on his mettle, and they set to capping stories
and repartees, while the host looked on and laughed.
Our next meeting was at Chenery's, where, seated
next each other, we had much talk, and it was
then I really made his acquaintance. On fine
nights he always walked home to his rooms in St.
James's Street or to the Athenaeum, and then, as
with Meredith and Chenery, I had a happy oppor-
tunity. We walked together from Norfolk Crescent
to the club : I forget what subject had engrossed

2o6 DAYS OF THE PAST

us when we got into the drawing-room, but I know
Hay ward was so animated when I had subsided
into a chair, that he stepped gradually between my
legs to bring it forcibly home to me. That was
characteristic of the man, and the matter was pro-
bably political. Though always a staunch supporter
of Chenery's, he never quite forgave him for the
independent line he took in editing. ' I thought
we could count upon him,' he once complained ;
' I introduced him to Lady Waldegrave, and

now ! ' Chenery, who cared nothing for the

fashionable world, was not to be seduced by the
blandishments of the sirens. To the last Hay-
ward went on with literary work, though in an easy
dilettante fashion by which his readers lost nothing.
Latterly, as he told me, he confined himself to his
four annual articles for the Quarterly and his old
friend, Dr. Smith. He stuck to the Quarterly,
although he had changed his politics, having taken
his name off the Carlton many years before. Per-
haps we may gather from his Art of Dining, that
gastronomical considerations had something to do
with that, for there he says that the once famous
cookery at the Carlton was declining, and that of
the Athenaeum coming on. Since then, he might
have had reason to change his opinion. He was
less iinically fastidious about his proofs than King-
lake, but he had a strong objection to his text or
style being tampered with. I have seldom seen
him more bitter than when he complained that in

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 207

the Cervantes which he had been writing for Black-
wood's * Foreign Classics,' the Edinburgh readers
had been changing his ' shalls ' into wills.'

Chenery, like Delane, was fond of touring, and
loved to take his recreation abroad on flying trips.
He sought out objects of historical interest, but
could amuse himself as well with the dolce far
niente when nothing more exciting was to be had.
He was a bon vivant and a connoisseur of the
French cuisine. I had rooms one spring at the
Brighton at Boulogne, where I was agreeably
surprised by an early call. He had crossed by the
night boat and was putting up at the Bains. The
chef Q)i the Brighton was an artist, and Chenery
thoroughly appreciated my daily breakfast of a
sole fresh from the Channel with a single squeeze
of lemon and a creamy omelette aux anckois.
When he broached the object which had brought
him over, he was somewhat disappointed, for
much as I should have enjoyed it, I could not
accompany him on a visit to the battlefields of
Cressy and Agincourt. But he was soon resigned,
and made himself perfectly happy in lounging
on the pier and strolling about the historical
neighbourhood.

He ought to have been his own Paris corre-
spondent ; and had such been his fortune, his days
would have been prolonged. A Barbadian by
birth, he was a Parisian by taste and inclinations,
and life on the boulevards was genuine luxury

2o8 DAYS OF THE PAST

to him. His interests were various as his
amusements. He was as much in his element
when prowHng about the bookstalls on the Quai
D'Orsay, or collating Arabic manuscripts in the
National Library, as when breakfasting at Bre-
bant's, dining at Philippe's, or laughing in the
stalls at a blood and thunder melodrama at the
Porte St. Martin. For, on the whole, he preferred
sensation or the humours of the Bouffes or the
screaming and somewhat scandalous farces of the
Palais Royal to the classical art of the Francais.
When the morning was specially fine, he was all
on the alert for some excursion. One of our
pleasantest was to St. Germain, where, on the
terrace with the outlook on the forest, and over a
recAerc/i^ \itt\e dinner in the Pavilion Henri Ouatre,
he became volubly eloquent on memories of the
wars of religion and the shadowy court of the
exiled Stuarts. Unfortunately, unlike Morris or
Delane, he could never leave that weary paper
of his behind him. Eagerly he tore the Times
open, to smile or frown, as the case might be.
The morning of a happy day at Fontainebleau was
overcast by something absolutely trivial as to a
pork corner at Chicago which could have affected
no living soul except speculators immediately con-
cerned. But the clouds passed with a forest drive,
and Richard was himself again when we were being
promenaded through the palace, with its wealth
of tragical and pathetic associations.

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 209

Blowitz had then become a Power, and we saw
a great deal of him. His principles may have
sometimes been subordinated to his journalistic
ambitions, but he was in strong sympathy with the
Republican regime when he succeeded Hardman
as recognised Times correspondent ; and assuredly
no journalist had a keener political yZ^zV or exerted
greater political influence. He made no idle boast
when he said in his Memoirs that he had saved
France from a second and more disastrous in-
vasion. His friend, Frederick Marshall,^ wrote
me in 1878 — he and Blowitz used to meet every
morning — that they never went out for a stroll
and cigar, without seeing the Prussians passing
again under the Arc de Triomphe. So he was
stirred to take decided action in the interests of
peace. I had personal proof of the weight he
carried with the French ministers. I had men-
tioned casually to him that an English governess,
in whom my family were interested, had married
a French revenue officer, and was bored to death
in dull quarters on the frontiers of Lorraine. A
few weeks later that official was transferred to a
lucrative post at Lille. I told Blowitz as a strange
instance of human discontent, that the lady was no
happier at Lille, where she objected to the murky
atmosphere. The lady was promptly shifted to
the sunnier climate of the Gironde. In still later
days, the levee in his little antechamber was

* Marshall died after this was written.
O

2IO DAYS OF THE PAST

crowded, and he was then more difficult of access
to outsiders. He liked to give his busy brain
some rest, or was absorbed in the pregnant medi-
tations which flowed fast from his ready pen.
Hurrying through Paris with a commission for
some letters for the Times from the Riviera, I
called to ask for political introductions to Nice.
He snatched at my hand, said he was too hard at
work thinking to talk, and scribbled off two lines
on a couple of cards for the Prefet and the British
Consul. From both the dignitaries I had all the
assistance I could desire. Great was Blowitz's pride
in the first and only journal, of which he would
have said maxima pars fin. His dinner hour
coincided with the Times deliv^y, and one even-
ing, after a tete-a-tHe we had adjourned for coffee
to his den. He opened the paper eagerly as if he
had never seen it since Oliphant showed it him for
the first time when offering an engagement. He
spread it out voluptuously on the table, saw two
columns of his telegraphed letter, clasped his
hands, threw up his eyes, and ejaculated, * Isn't it
beautiful ? '

Next to John Delane, there is no one to whom
I have been more indebted, from the literary point
of view, than John Blackwood. In all my relations
with many editors, never did the element of strong-
personal attachment enter so largely as with him.
Frank to a fault, you could always trust him, and
when you had once won his friendly regard, it

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 211

never failed. As I knew from second-hand know-
ledge, he would stand the trying financial strain on
which so many fast friendships have made ship-
wreck. A contributor for whom he had a special
affection had an awkward habit of outrunning the
constable. Once, as he told me, being excep-
tionally hard up he bowed his pride to appeal to
Blackwood. He put it playfully : he said that the
oreatest writers had always been in the habit of
making their publishers their bankers, and he
asked a very considerable advance on the faith of
unearned increment. He had put it playfully, but
he awaited the answer in fear and trembling ; for
he dreaded a refusal, and the rupture, which he
would have regretted far more. I saw the reply,
and it was a model letter. There was a wise and
well-deserved warning as to the imprudence of a
young man discounting the future by exceeding a
sufficient income. Then the sting was taken out
of the kindly reproof by the enclosure of a cheque
for the amount requested, with an intimation that
future drafts of the kind might possibly be
honoured. The editor knew his man, and knew
that no form of remonstrance could be more
effective.

That was the genial charm of essential kindliness
which bound men to him ; and slight bonds with
longer acquaintance were forged into links of steel.
I doubt if any editor ever knitted together in
close fellowship so select a band of sworn brothers.

212 DAYS OF THE PAST

Though indeed that literary sociability had been
the tradition of ' Maga ' since North, Tickler, and
the Ettrick Shepherd held their high jinks in the
blue parlour at Ambrose's. It was his business
and pleasure to make his contributors acquainted
with each other. He was accused, with some
truth, of being neglectful of the communications
of promising outsiders. He was a busy man, with
lighter avocations and interests than his business
concerns ; and unlike his friend Delane he never
studied brevity in his letters. But no one in the
inner ring could make such a plaint, and he ever
incited them to fresh effort by judicious encourage-
ment. The appreciative criticism of one contributor
on an article was forwarded to another ; so when
strangers met in Randolph Crescent or at Strath-
tyrum, they came together on the footing of
familiars. Not a few of my best friendships, I
owe to introductions through ' Maga.' In playing
his kindly role, Blackwood had exceptional advan-
tages. The publisher and editor were doubled
with the golfer and country gentleman : he
delighted in the practice of discriminating hos-
pitality. At Strathtyrum he kept open house, and
o-uests who took to their host and to each other
could never wear out their welcome. An enthusi-
astic golfer, before golfing had become a southern
craze, he had found a mansion to his mind on
the Bay of St. Andrews, the storm-tossed Biscay
of Eastern Scotland. The old episcopal city with

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 213

its twin colleofes had attractions alike for the
antiquarian, the man of letters, the golfer, and
the fox-hunter. Principals Tulloch and Shairp
were magnets in themselves who attracted many
writers of distinction. Tulloch, with his portly
figure and beaming face, a frequent contributor
to the Magazine, was the best type of the enlight-
ened and advanced Presbyterian divine. He had
a large spirit of toleration, and when he filled a
pulpit he filled a church. On a Sunday evening I
had dined with him in Randolph Crescent, when
he was preaching a series of sermons in great St.
George's to overflowing congregations. To my
shame be it said, when Blackwood and he threw
away their cigars to go, I made excuse. Tulloch
spoke no word of reproach, but somehow there
was something in his wistful look that put my
conscience on hot coals for the rest of the evening.
I repented again when shortly afterwards I heard
him of a week-day in Westminster Abbey. We
had lunched at the Atheneeum and he asked with
hesitation whether I would care to come with him.
I jumped at the offer and had no reason to regret
it. He preached at Dean Stanley's request, and
the face of the Dean was beaming through a dis-
course on breaking down middle walls of partition,
which reflected his own fervid liberality.

So the visitors attracted by such men as Tulloch
and Shairp always had welcome at Strathtyrum,
where there was a piquant mixing of the social

214 DAYS OF THE PAST

elements. They met the golfers who were habituds
of the jovial club at the headquarters of the ancient
and royal game : hard-riding gentlemen who fol-
lowed the Fife hounds, hunted by Anstruther
Thomson, the heavy-weight, who, like Asheton
Smith, had learned how to fall soft, and had made
a brilliant reputation in the shires, having hunted
with every pack in the islands ; lights of the Par-
liament House ; African and Indian travellers,
popular novelists, soldiers and seamen. The
editor loved to oscillate between town and country
when St. Andrews was less accessible than now ;
but there was one grand advantage of the sojourns
in the country — the leisure gave ample opportunity
for discussion and direction. On the round of the
links or the chat in the smoking-room, the author
could draw on the editor's experiences, and the
editor could thrash out some thorny political
question or excite himself over the primeurs of an
explorer's daring adventures. It was at Strath-
tyrum that Speke wrote his Nile travels, or at least
licked them into form and shape. It was there that
Laurence Lockhart — it was said maliciously that
when he and the editor got together business came
to a standstill — secluded himself for three days to
throw off the Volunteers of Stratkkinekam, founded
on reminiscences of his own, and over which the
editor shouted. It was there that the indefatig-
able Mrs. Oliphant, a frequent guest, excited her
experienced host's surprise by the amount of work

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 215

she accomplished, when, Hke Scott at Abbotsford,
she seemed to be always idUng. Many other
literary memories associate themselves with the
house which will never see such gatherings again.

There were few thinpfs I looked forward to with
greater pleasure than Blackwood's annual visit to
London. He came with a breath of invigorating
air from the north, and the exuberance of his quiet
enjoyment was contagious. Neither painting nor
photography could hit off the face when he met
you ; the twinkle in his eye ; the wrinkles on the
forehead, implying the reverse of care ; the smiles
that flickered round the corners of the mouth. See
him sitting face to face with some valued crony
like Hamley, and they reminded you of two
amiable dogs, getting ready for a game at romps.
Whether he had quartered himself at the Burling-
ton Hotel or in Arlington Street, where ' Henry
understood and anticipated his wants, there was
often a small muster at breakfast and almost invari-
ably at luncheon. Like the snail travelling with
his house, he carried a workshop about with him,
and the side-tables were strewed with books and
pamphlets, proofs, and articles. Almost always
there was a half-finished letter at his elbow, for
he was a leisurely correspondent of the Horace
Walpole school. But, like the Ettrick Shepherd,
who found any excuse fair enough for a caulker, he
found any excuse fair enough to throw down the
pen. Some of these off-hand meetings were, as

2i6 DAYS OF THE PAST

Laidlaw said of the night with Scott and Davy,
'most superior occasions.' I remember Chesney
dropping in on the first flush of the success of
the Battle of Dorking, when pubHsher and author
chuckled over the exchange of congratulations.
And I remember the glorification over the first
instalment of Middlemarch, and the pride with
which an early copy was handed to me for the
solace of a railway journey. With good reason he
associated himself with the triumphs of his proteges.
Few men had a keener eye for faults and beauties,
when a piece of promising work was submitted to
him in manuscript — for the beauties rather than
the faults — and most of the affiliated were ready to
acknowledge that they had profited by his shrewd
counsels.

There was nothing more enjoyable than a tete-
a-tete dinner for one versed as I was in memories
of the Magazine. The famous novelists he had
enlisted or floated since he took up the reins
suggested endless subjects — George Eliot, Lytton,
Lever, Trollope, Mrs. Oliphant, Charles Reade,
Laurence Oliphant, Blackmore, and many another.
Most of them had been his guests ; he had gossiped
with all, and had much to say about their idiosyn-
crasies, their whims, and their methods of working.
Nor was it only for sound business reasons that
the 'Maga' of that time enveloped some of her
most brilliant contributors in mystery and care-
fully guarded her secrets. The editor loved the

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 217

fun of listenino- to sag^e Qruesses or to random
shots which often were wofully wide of the mark.
The Parisians caused an exceptional sensation.
So far as I know, no one attributed it to Lord
Lytton, though the 2mX}i\ox o{ Ettgene Aram, Zanoni,
and My Novel could change his style and dress
like any music hall topical singer. Many people
gave it to Laurence Oliphant, from the Piccadilly-
like social touches and the intimate knowledge of
Parisian life. Blackwood would smile and say
nothing.

Like all publishers or astronomers, he had the
ambition of discovering new stars, and sometimes,
though seldom, his foresight failed him. Although
he hesitated long, he hoped great things of the
author of the 'Cheveley Novels,' who, I believe,
has remained anonymous. The work, like the
Comddie Humaine, was conceived on a vast scale,
and the first instalment was floated in shilling
monthly parts, folio size, with illustrations. He
did me the honour of consulting me about the
manuscript, and my impression was, that if the
author showed no little dramatic talent, the blue
fire was overdone, and the beginning was pitched
in too high a key to be sustained. That seemed
to be the opinion of the public, and the issue came
to an abrupt termination.

There w^is a grand parade of contributors when
Mrs. Oliphant, on one of the editor's birthdays,
gave a great picnic on Magna Charta Island.

2i8 DAYS OF THE PAST

The lady was then at the zenith of her popularity
as a fluent and prolific novelist. Blackwood made
a telling speech which surprised and fetched us all,
with graceful allusions to the mistress of the revels.
That bright summer day recalls some of his closest
friends, with others, unavoidably absent, who were
not forgotten in his speech. Then I made personal
acquaintance with Blackmore. He got into the
train at Clapham, appositely equipped with a
superb bouquet of hot-house flowers as an offering
to his hostess. Plain to simplicity in dress, and
somewhat stolid of aspect, the author of Lorna
Doone was not the man I had expected to see.
I had corresponded with him before as to a
critique of mine upon his semi-savage parsons of
the Maid of Sker. I found him as unaffected in
manner as in costume. We drifted into conversa-
tion, and he good-naturedly gratified my curiosity
as to the Doone Valley and the wild traditions of
Exmoor. Then I could understand the inception
and finished execution of that masterpiece of
romantic realism. The Sfifts of imaoination had
not tempted the writer to dispense with the most
conscientious study of scenes and authorities.

Chesney had come down from the college on
Cooper's Hill, and Hamley was there from the Staff
College. No more notable representatives could
have been found of the succession of soldier con-
tributors who have been recruited for ' Maga ' since
the day of O'Dogherty down to the campaigning in

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 219

South Africa and the Far East. Chesney never
did anything by halves, though his interests were
divided between arms and letters. In India he
had spared neither toil nor trouble, and he always
felt that his services as military secretary had been
ignored or indifferently acknowledged, when he
devoted his study to the scientific fortification of
the North- Western Frontier. It was a case, as he
considered, of a superior carrying off the honours.
Chesney ran some brilliant novels through the
Magazine, but, like many a novelist, he put his
best work in his first. I know nothing more
vividly descriptive of events of the Mutiny than
the chapters on the siege in The Dilemma. As he
told me, they were dashed off at red-hot speed.

Of Hamley I speak with greater diffidence,
for our close friendship may suggest doubts as to
my impartiality. If his enmities were lasting, his
friendships were deeper and as enduring ; he
grappled his intimates to him with hooks of steel ;
and the more intimately he was known, the more
you admired the range of his powers and the readi-
ness of his humour. To borrow an observation of
Johnson on himself, it took a long time to travel
over Hamley's mind. He was of more martial
figure and sterner aspect than Chesney. In repose
the face was stern, but when the heart was touched
or the humour tickled, it would break into the
smiles which seemed so natural to all who knew
him. At that time the gallant chief of the Staff

220 DAYS OF THE PAST

College, the brilliant writer of poetry and fiction, of
essays and war literature of European authority,
was not under the shadow of a wrong which was
never to be righted. No one admired him more
than Chesney. A strong partisan but a capable
judge, he declared that Hamley's treatment had
been 'abominable — abominable!' If the Battle
of Dorking carried Chesney to fame on a springtide
of ephemeral popularity, I should say that ' Shake-
speare's Funeral ' was Hamley's masterpiece, and
as the theme was an Immortal, the charm is per-
ennial. It gives the measure of the man's rare
fancy and inspiration, for it shows he had much of
Shakespeare's undefinable power of identifying
himself with the most varied human types, of
thinking their thoughts and speaking with their
voices, Fle shone in the short story, sparkling
with drollery. He only wrote a single novel, but
the lightness of touch in Lady Lees's Widowhood
made me often implore him for another of the
same. He rather rose to the suggestion, but
unfortunately it never took shape.

Though habitually abstemious, he was a con-
noisseur in cookery ; he liked a good dinner and
detested indifferent wine. His cook at the Staff
College was a cordon bleu, and he paid her high
wages. One of the most lively dinners I remem-
ber was when I met him by appointment one
Christmas — of all days in the year — at the Athe-
naeum, to pronounce on some canvas-back ducks.

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 221

sent him by an American friend. By the way,
the refrigerated ducks were a failure as usual,
but that signified nothing, for there was store of
Christmas cheer in the deserted dining-room. The
only other diner was Herbert Spencer. The ducks
suggested America ; Hamley, in his youth, had
served in Canada, and the philosopher, prompted
by him, came out in a fashion that astounded us.
He donned the dress of a Noel Guisard and
went in for high jinks and drolleries. It was a
novelty to hear Transatlantic manners. Red Indian
customs, and the very habits of amorous Indian
dogs discussed with the profundity of omniscience
and the rollicking fun of a Toole. But Hamley
had the rare endowment of dignified familiarity and
the knack of ' drawing ' the reserved with an off-
hand manner which never offended. As he would
never have tolerated a shade of impertinence
himself, so no one could have suspected him of
intending a liberty. If he chaffed a learned pro-
fessor or a grave divine over the club billiard
table, they seemed flattered rather than otherwise ;
possibly they were somewhat in dread of the
sarcastic stinor. The stin^ mioht be there, but he
never stung in malice. He had the artist's pride
in his literary work, and there never was a more
conscientious workman. When Scott was pressing
Canning for a Quarterly article, he begged him to
'break the neck of it' by dining on a boiled
chicken. That was Hamley's way. When pulling

222 DAYS OF THE PAST

himself together for an effort, he put the muzzle
on, and then like Chesney he wrote at a white
heat. He wrote from a well-stored mind, for
he was always reading and reflecting. When
the very legible manuscript was despatched, his
thoughts were still with it, and even Kinglake
scarcely gave more trouble to publishers and
printers. If he worried others, he never spared
himself. With some hesitation, and tempted per-
haps by the ^200, he had arranged with Messrs.
Seeley for a book on the Crimean War. Doubt-
less the proposal was suggested by the admirable
volume on the Sebastopol campaign, reprinted
from Blackwood. The rough and unstudied letters
from the camp, penned in the worst hardships of
the winter investment, had been reprinted verbatim.
Yet fifty years later they read as freshly as ever,
and the facts had never been disputed. Drawing
freely on his former work, the task he had under-
taken would have been light. Preoccupied by his
parliamentary duties, he hesitated. Friends advised
that he might do so honourably, for the ' Letters '
were still authoritative and inimitably graphic
and picturesque. But in his high conception of
duty he put it aside. Each line of the later volume
was rewritten. In a letter to me. Sir Archibald
Alison pronounced it * the most charming and able
book that Hamley ever wrote . . . with all the
breadth and justice of his deep military thought'
Among all the guests at Magna Charta Island,

MORE RECOLLECTIONS 223

perhaps no one would have been more missed by
the editor than Laurence Lockhart. He was one
of the two ' Lauries ' who were house-pets, the
other being Laurence OHphant. Lockhart in his
younger days was the incarnation of exuberant
spirits and the deHght of his jovial Highland
regiment. But those who had known him long-
and well, loved and admired him most when he
rose superior to heavy trouble, and was carrying
a load of ill-health with placid heroism and
cheerful resionation. I have been with him when
he went for ' the cure,' which never cured him, to
Schwalbach and Kissingen ; I have listened from
the next room to the hacking cough that followed
a broken night, and seen him at the springs and
the breakfast table apparently in the brightest
spirits. There never was a more buoyant or
sunny temperament — in that he much resembled
his brother. Sir William, Commander-in-Chief in
India — and those high spirits of his overflowed in
his maiden novel. Doubles and Quits. The zest
for fun, translated into dramatic performance, had
sometimes landed him in awkward situations. He
could get himself up to play a part like a Monsieur
Lecocq or a Sherlock Holmes. His most perilous
escapade was at Gibraltar, when the ensign, dressed
as an admiral, called on the commandant and was
embarrassed by an invitation to dinner. He fre-
quently jfigured as an old general at London
dinners, growling with a gruff voice over a

224 DAYS OF THE PAST

starched necktie ; and as a successful impostor
must have a clever confederate, the confederate
was Lady Charlotte Locker, the sister-in-law of
Dean Stanley, and the first wife of Locker
Lampson. Lockhart had a profound belief in
Blackwood's literary judgment, but much mis-
trusted his love of humour and his predilection for
a joyous companion. ' Blackwood likes anything
that makes him laugh,' he used to say, but he
did not care to be admired in the role of the
mountebank. He rose nearer to his aspirations
in Fair to See ; and in Mine is Thine he could
honestly congratulate himself on having * fetched
them,' as he confided to me one day in the gardens
at Baden. The latter novel may have owed
something of inspiration to having been penned
on the very table at Ashestiel on which Scott had
written W aveidey . By the way, I have sometimes
wondered whether I did not make a fatal mistake
in not buying No. 39 Castle Street, as I had the
chance of doing, when I went back to Edinburgh
from continental wanderings to walk the Parlia-
ment House. Fancy sitting down to write in the
sanctum of the wizard, looking out on the very back-
garden where Camp had been laid to rest! But
then I had never dreamed of turning my thoughts
to scribbling, and in the magician's glorious career
there were no omens of success at the Bar.

CHAPTER XII

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN.EUM

Tiif: Athenaeum is a mausoleum of memories;
a place haunted by the phantoms of good friends
or bright acquaintances who have flitted away.
It echoes with the familiar voices ; you see the
spectres of the past in their familiar seats. Among
those memories the club brings to my mind the
Edifiburgh and Quarterly Reviews. With the
death of Henry Reeve a portly figure disappeared.
A martyr to gout, latterly he moved with measured
steps, and the silver-headed stick was ever at his
hand, even when presiding at his own dinner table.
His was a noticeable face and not to be passed
unregarded. The eye, with a dash of the dis-
dainful, the full mouth and somewhat heavy jaw,
all indicated character and determination. He
was a strong man who loved his own way, and
for the most part he had succeeded in getting it.
When he took a liking, he was eminently com-
panionable. Gout is no emollient of the temper,
and when you drop in upon an elderly gentleman
with a leg swathed in flannels, you are ready to
make allowances. But some of the pleasantest
hours of literary and political converse I have

p

226 DAYS OF THE PAST

passed have been in calling upon Reeve when his
enemy had laid him by the heels. He welcomed
fresh breaths from the outer world ; and he was one
of the few literary editors who from the catholicity
of his likings kept himself abreast of all the litera-
ture of the latest hour. His surroundings were
in keeping, for the collections in his well-stored
libraries were miscellaneous, and the volumes were
handsomely bound. He did not, like the famous
bibliomaniac Heber, buy in duplicate or triplicate,
and his sorrow was that his books were divided.
Half were in London, the other half in his Hamp-
shire home at Christchurch. He did his best by
separating them in some sort of classification, and
the admirable collection of French memoirs was
set aside for lighter reading in the country. No
one had a shrewder flair in new books, or a surer
instinct in pronouncing off-hand judgment. In
him the Longmans lost an adviser on whom they
absolutely relied. It was not only that in a few
pregnant lines he could indicate the merits and
shortcomings of a manuscript, but he would say
shrewdly whether the book was likely to sell and
how far it would hit off the taste of the hour.
Arranging with his contributors, his ordinary rule
was to ask if they had reviewed the book else-
where. He feared repetitions, and hated richauffSs.
Nevertheless, in special cases, he would stretch a
point, and he grudged what he considered a clever
article, when it had gone astray and he had missed

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN/EUM 227

his chance by over-punctiliousness. Most editors
worth their salt are on the search for rising talent.
Reeve was platonically on the watch, simply because
he was charmed by a book of talent, and rejoiced
in the promise of the writer's future.

Reeve died an octogenarian, in full intellectual
vioour. Almost to the last he had written the
political articles in his Review. In fact, foreign
politics were his favourite study, and he had
always been in closest touch with leading French
and German Liberals. Cradled in literature he
had been launched in politics as a lad. He
sprung from an East Anglian literary stock, when
Norwich was a centre of letters. He was sent
abroad in his teens, with introductions from his
aunt, Mrs. Austin, the second of the ' Three
generations of Englishwomen.' He spoke French
like a native, and wrote German so fluently and
correctly, that for years he was a regular con-
tributor to Prussian and Bavarian periodicals.
Barely of age, he had been enlisted on the staff
of the Times, and he has told me how very many
thousands of pounds he had been paid for his
labours. For forty years he had been autocrat of
the Edinburgh ; but on accepting the appointment
he had made it a stipulation that his connection
with the Times should not determine. As editor
of the great Whig organ and historical quarterly,
he had exceptional qualifications, and not the least
were his foreign connections. Cosmopolitan as he

228 DAYS OF THE PAST

was, his sympathies were French, and before the
fall of the Empire he was ami de la inaison at the
Embassy in Albert Gate. Not that he was by
any means a partisan of the Emperor. St. Hilaire,
Thiers, Guizot, Victor Cousin, De Remusat, and
De Broglie were among his habitual correspondents.
Yet he never permitted the most intimate relations
to influence his conduct ; and there is a letter from
Mrs. Austin to M. St. Hilaire, deprecating his un-
bridled indignation at an article by Reeve himself
on the Suez Canal. For as to that Reeve agreed
with Lord Palmerston, foreboding disastrous con-
sequences to England. He was in constant
intercourse with the Orleans princes, especially
with the Due d'Aumale, who had submitted to
him the Memoirs of the Cond^s for revision. The
last of his many crossings of the Channel was on a
visit to the Duke at Chantilly. He lunched often
at the Athenseum, almost always in the upper
corner, between fire and window, and invariably
on a Sunday after service in the Temple. Then
after a descent to the smoking-room, he would
start on what he called his giro, a round of after-
noon calls. Walking with Reeve up St. James's
Street was like riding with Delane in Rotten Row.
It was a perpetual lifting of the hat or waving of
the hand.

As Registrar of the Privy Council, he was in
touch with Cabinet ministers, from whom, when
the Liberals were in power, he was in the way of

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 229

obtaining early if not exclusive information. His
friend Greville, the ' Cruncher,' Clerk of the
Council, had paid him the handsome and lucrative
compliment of bequeathing him the Memoirs in
manuscript with carte blanche as to the editing.
The legacy, though financially profitable, was per-
haps prejudicial to his official career. The publica-
tion of the memoirs relatinof to the rei^n of Oueen
Victoria, with their unreserved frankness and
frequent revelations, naturally gave rise to heated
discussions. They had the honour of a debate in
the Commons, when the late Sir William Eraser,
something of a snarler like the ' Cruncher ' himself,
was epigrammatically severe. I remember talking
them over with Lord Houghton and with Delane.
Lord Houghton thought that Reeve had done the
delicate work with creditable discretion and tact.
Delane said that if two or three pages had been
cancelled there was nothing to which fair exception
could be taken. I fancy Reeve cared little for
unfriendly criticism. He had confidence in his
own judgment, and was persuaded, moreover, that
excessive suppression and mutilation would have
been a betrayal of his trust.

Dr. William Smith, the editor of the Quarterly,
was, when I knew him, a benignant-looking old
gentleman, albeit with something of a leonine
aspect. Nevertheless there was much shrewdness
in the face, and when he fixed you with his smiling
eyes they searched you. ' The old doctor,' that

230 DAYS OF THE PAST

was his familiar appellation in Albemarle Street,
was very regular in his habits. The mornings
were passed in his library in Westbourne Terrace,
a spacious and luxurious apartment, with three
lofty windows looking out on the little back-garden.
In the north-western corner was his writing-table,
with its handsome appointments. Each yard of
the walls was padded with volumes in rich or
severe bindings. Like Reeve or Lord Houghton
at Fryston, his selections seemed to have been
made from what was readable rather than abstruse.
The room would have been a paradise for the
omnivorous reader with carte blanche to range the
shelves at will. Dr. Smith had as many irons in
the fire as most folk, and was necessarily a busy
man with a large correspondence. Yet it struck
one pleasantly that he never objected to being
interrupted, and he was certainly always ready to
talk, especially when it was a question of some
article that interested him. In those days there
was more actual reviewing of individual books,
and the editor was liberal in sending the con-
tributor any volumes that bore upon the subject.
In the afternoon his carriage was always to be
seen drawn up before the door of No. 50 ; and
so many standard works that he had edited were
so constantly passing through the press, that he
invariably found something to occupy him. When
he left Albemarle Street, he was set down at the
Atheneeum. He paid the penalty of advanced age,

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN/EUM 231

and latterly was much of an invalid. To the last,
his cheerfulness never failed. Folkestone was a
favourite resort of his as of mine, and many an
instructive chat I have had with him as I walked
alonoside of his bathchair on the Lees. In his
more active days he had known the neighbourhood
well, and he was the most learned and intelligent
of all directors to anything that was worth seeing
within walkino" or drivino- reach. It was at Folke-

o o

stone that he was surprised by the announce-
ment that Lord Salisbury had recommended him
for a kniofhthood. Had he been consulted before-
hand, he would have declined ; as it was he
hesitated, but it was delicate and invidious to back
out. So he accepted the honour and died Sir
William.

Albemarle Street had sustained a greater loss in
the previous year by the death of John Murray,
the second of the dynasty. No one would have
suspected a few weeks before that the end was
near. Seemingly in full vigour of his faculties,
that death broke the last link with the golden age
of our literature in the first half of the nineteenth
century. Murray's memories went back to Byron
and Scott, Campbell, Crabbe, Coleridge, and
Southey, who had all been his father's familiars.
As a youth he had himself been a guest at Abbots-
ford, when he impressed his host as a singularly
favourable specimen of English education. Three
remarkable events he remembered in especial. He

232 DAYS OF THE PAST

had been present at the burning of the Byron
manuscripts in the Albemarle dining-room, by
which, as Scott observes in his Journal^ Tom
Moore lost ^2000, through generous but some-
what misplaced susceptibility. Gifford and Lord
John Russell had pronounced them 'in parts too
gross for publication ' ; for Byron, as Scott ex-
pressed it, ' embellished his amours and was le
fanfaron de vices quil n avail pas. ' As Murray said,
the manuscripts might have been expurgated and
the treasure preserved. Again, looking over the
balustrades, he had seen the two lame poets —
Byron and Scott — going down the stairs in close
confabulation. And by a happy chance he had
been present at the memorable theatrical banquet
in the Waterloo Rooms in Edinburgh, when Scott
confessed to the authorship of the novels. In a
letter to his father he had given Scott's speech,
almost verbatim, from memory. In the letter he
records a literally dramatic incident. Scott had
proposed the health of Mackay, who had played so
inimitably the part of the Bailie. By the way, ii
I may be forgiven the digression, I have seen the
veteran both in the Bailie and in Peter Peebles,
and the latter role, with its grim but homely
humour, struck me as the more masterly interpre-
tation of the two. You shook with laughter
through the scenes, and yet were suddenly sobered
and saddened by the grotesque pathos, when Peter
comes down from glorying in ' the height of earthly

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 233

grandeur,' as the hero of 'a gangin' plea/ to sigh-
ing over the missing the daily meal which came
so regularly when he was a decent burgess ; and
never was more humour thrown into a single
sentence, than when he ejaculated to the Quaker,
' The Lord mend your eyesight, neighbour, that
disna ken grey hairs frae a tow wig.' But the
mention of Mackay has carried me across from the
Waterloo Rooms to the Theatre Royal, which used
to confront them on what is now the site of the Post
Office. The actor's health had been duly honoured,
when there came a voice from the other end of the
hall, ' Ma conscience, if my father the Bailie ' (a slip
for Deacon) ' had been alive to hear that my health
had been proposed by the author of Waverley ! '

The standard works published by Murray are
not to be numbered. To name a few of the
authors, there were, Hallam, Lord Stanhope,
Layard, Lord Campbell, Livingstone, Schliemann,
Darwin, Dean Stanley, Smiles, Dean Milman,
and Sir Henry Maine. We are indebted to him
for the Speakers Commentary and Sir William
Smith's Dictionaries and volumes of reference.
He had inherited the traditional liberality of
the house. Once, under pecuniary pressure and
against his advice, an author parted with the
copyright of a manuscript for ^600. As the
publisher had foreseen, the book had a sensational
success, and the sale realised over ^3000. The
author received a further cheque for ^2000. Like

234 DAYS OF THE PAST

John Blackwood, Murray was seen at his best
when presiding at his own table, and drawn on
insensibly to indulge in recollections suggested by
the genius loci. The portraits of the dead on the
walls were still speaking — the once famous African
travellers, Denham, Clapperton, and Lander, with
Basil Hall, Barrow of the Admiralty, who aided
Croker in editing the Quarterly after Gifford's
death, and who caused Scott some anxiety by
objecting to Lockhart's succession. Last but not
the least was Lavengro, whose adventures had
been in England, Ireland, Spain, and wild
Wales. If the men of action were in evidence
below stairs, poetry and romance were in the
atmosphere of the drawing-room. For there the
host would bring forth the cherished manuscripts
of Childe Harold and the minor poems, with others
that had come from Ashestiel or Abbotsford.

The portraits in the Albemarle dining-room
suggest the African travellers I have met at the
Athenaeum. Sir Richard Burton was a man who
must have fixed attention anywhere. I think his wife
says in her biography that some people called his
expression diabolical. Though I did not, like her,
fall in love with him at first sight, it never struck
me in that way. It was severe, stern, saturnine if
you like, but not in the slightest degree repulsive.
On the contrary, in animated conversation it bright-
ened up, and the smile when he put you straight
on some vexed geographical point was winning

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN/EUM 235

and almost sweet. Before I met him in the flesh,
I had remarked to Lord Houghton that the
gratuitous aggressiveness of his books rubbed me
up the wrong way. Lord Houghton, who was fond
of fighting his own battles, said, ' If the man is in
the right, why should he not be aggressive ? ' And
undoubtedly Burton, like Sir Charles Napier, was
a man of strono^ will and stronger animosities ; he
never could get on smoothly either with rivals or
superiors. He won me to share his resentment to
the full, at his not havino- been named Consul-
General in Morocco in succession to Drummond
Hay, for no man seemed better fitted for such a
post. Since his Biography was written by the wife
who adored him, I have reconsidered that opinion.
But when there was nothing to irritate and you
only sought to learn, he would roar you as softly
as any sucking dove. At the club he lunched
alone, and generally with a book before him.
When he dived to the smoking-room for coffee
and cigar, then came your opportunity. Then he
would talk unreservedly enough about the lands he
had visited and the perils he had escaped. Then
he would discuss the devious wanderings of the
Israelites in the desert, expatiate on the treasures
of the mines of Midian which he had been sent to
prospect, or revert to his stormy consulate at
Damascus, when there were troubles in ' the Moun-
tain,' and he was generally in hot water.

There was one delicate subject I never ventured

236 DAYS OF THE PAST

to approach, and that was Central Africa and the
Nile Sources. I had heard too much about it from
Colonel Grant, who was the devoted friend of
Speke, and necessarily the bitter aversion of
Burton. Indeed, there was no love lost between
them. Grant I knew intimately, and the more he
was known the better he was liked. With his tall,
muscular figure — decoupld, as the French phrase
it — he looked the athlete for the ' walk across
Africa.' With that commanding form and pleasant
but determined face, he was the very man to
smooth his way among savages without falling
back on firearms. After all he had accomplished,
there was no blood-guiltiness on his conscience.
When he had married a lady of fortune and taken
up house in Grosvenor Street, he was the most
hospitable of entertainers, and gathered hosts of
congenial friends around him. Naturally he took
a deep interest in the Geographical Society, and
was a regular attendant at the dinners, to which
he generally invited a guest. The most kindly of
men and absolutely trustworthy, you should have
given implicit credence to anything he said. Yet
I confess I have been staggered by circumstantial
stories, relative to Burton's relations with Speke,
and though I have had them confirmed subse-
quently on independent authority, I hesitate still
to do more than hint at them. The traveller
was interested in other things than the problem
of the Nile Sources. Little as you might know

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 237

of botany, nothing- was more agreeable than to be
taken into his back drawing-room and den to turn
over the portfolios of Central African flora, with
runnino- commentaries on the circumstances in
which the plants had been gathered.

One day, stopping to speak to Grant at his
luncheon-table in the club, he introduced me to
a sun-burned, sun-dried, careworn man, sitting
opposite him. Unfortunately I did not catch the
name, and after some casual remark passed on,
though Grant in his cordial way asked me to join
them. Only afterwards I learned to my regret
that it was Stanley, just returned from his melan-
choly march for the relief of Emin Pasha. So I
had but a single glimpse of another Pasha — Sir
Samuel Baker— standing on the steps of Shep-
heard's Hotel at Cairo, the African explorer whose
fascinating literary style has always given his
books an exceptional charm for me. Cairo was
then full of notorieties, for the gaieties at the open-
ing of the Suez Canal were in full swing, and most
of the visitors paid some attention to the toilet.
Baker was got up in rough tweeds and knicker-
bockers, as if he were turning out for a day's
shooting. I was hurrying off to catch a train, and
had scarcely time to take a second look. So I had
but a vague impression of the broad chest and
massive build which he declared to be of inestim-
able value to the explorer, when he knocked the
ringleader of the mutineers out of time in the

238 DAYS OF THE PAST

scrimmage at the start from Khartoum for the
Nile fountains.

I dined with Professor Palmer at the Athenaeum
on the eve of his leaving for Arabia on the mys-
terious missions which have never been altogether
explained. I owed that pleasure to his intimacy
with Chenery, for their common interest in oriental
studies drew them closely together. As to the
objects of these missions, he was naturally reserved.
It was understood that the first and chief one was
to treat with the desert sheiks and assure the Suez
Canal from their raiding when Arabi had raised
the standard of revolt. On landing at Port Said
Palmer changed his costume, and was riding
through the Sinaitic Peninsula in Syrian robes,
lavishing magnificent gifts. That first mission
was so successful, that arriving at Suez, he per-
suaded the Admiral and Lord Northbrook that
with ^20,000 at his disposal he could easily raise
50,000 Bedouins. He set off again, with ^3000 in
gold in his saddlebags, professedly to purchase
camels : rather, perhaps, for the confidential inter-
view with the leading chiefs, for which he had
prearranged. On the way to that meeting he was
ambushed and murdered.

Palmer, with his placid face, his keen, bright
eyes and soft-flowing beard, was admirably fitted
to assume the disguise of the Bedouin, with whose
habits and speech he was familiar. He was san-
guine as to results, and would probably have

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 239

succeeded, but for an intervention which no
Englishman could possibly have foreseen. I
should be loath to give credence to that sinister
rumour, had it not been confirmed to me by a
keen-witted editor, the reverse of credulous, on
evidence he accepted as absolutely truthful. It
was said that a countryman closely lid with some
of the Arab chiefs had warned them of the envoy's
second journey and its objects, intimating besides
that his camels would be weighted with gold. But
no shadow of the impending tragedy rested upon
Palmer that night. His spirits rose high over the
excitement of the journey ; the talk was rather
retrospective than regardful of the future ; and I
sat in silence, listening to the animated conversa-
tion, enriched by stores of recondite learning.
Then the old friends shook hands and parted for
the last time.

Were I to launch out on personal recollections
of the Athenaeum it would be endless. I must
content myself with random allusions to some
men who specially won my affection or admiration.
I see them now as they lived and moved. Going
far back, there is Lord Colonsay, President of the
Court of Session and Lord Justice-General, who
proposed me for the club. With his sage aspect,
broad forehead, and the shaggy grey eyelashes
thatching the hanging eaves of the eyebrows, you
might have said of him, as was said of Lord
Thurlow, that no man could possibly be so wise

240 DAYS OF THE PAST

as he looked ; yet you would have been wrong.
When he came south, he left behind him in Scot-
land an unrivalled reputation as a civil and criminal
judge, and his judgments carried great weight in
Scottish cases in the Lords. With young beginners
in the law he was most affable and condescending,
and the dignified old man wasted much good
advice on me when I passed at the Scottish Bar.
His habits were simple, and his fare was Spartan.
I often dined with him tete-ct-tUe at the Carlton,
when he generally contented himself with a couple
of mutton chops. He had much to say about the
politicians he saw sitting at other tables ; but he was
a genuine Highlander, and never so happy as when
you got him away to the Western Isles and his pic-
turesque home on lonely Colonsay. And that was
the case with his brother, Sir John. One winter
Sir John came to see us, when we had apartments
in the Villa Rupe at Sorrento. A voracious reader,
he was full of Greg's Political Problems, which he
had been studying in the carriage from Castellamare.
I have the volume now, with his autograph on the
title-page. From English politics I changed the
subject to Central Asia and Persia, hoping to get
some lights on those countries from the English-
man, who perhaps knew them best. He talked
with great animation on the subject, deploring the
ascendency of Russia in the Court of the Shah. As
on one of the few bright days in a Sorrento winter
we were climbing the hill crowned by the Deserta,

FRIENDS OF THE ATHENyF:UM 241

when turning, he saw Capri floating in a sunny
haze at its moorings off the mouth of the Bay, of
all places in the world it reminded him of surf-
beaten Colonsay. I forget whether it was before
that or afterwards that he bought the island from
his brother.

There could be no stronger contrast to Lord
Coionsay than Lord Morris, ex-Chief- Justice of
Ireland and a more recent acquaintance. Morris
shone, sparkled, and bubbled over with Irish
humour in the society that Lord Colonsay shunned.
I fancy he prided himself on the rich Irish brogue
which gave piquancy to his ready repartees and
excellent stories. He was equally at home with
all sorts and conditions of men, and dealt with
criminals in as summary a manner as Lord Bramwell,
but with a geniality which for the moment almost
reconciled them to their fate. On the Bench and
in the Senate common sense predominated. He
had a strong sympathy with the erratic statesman-
ship of Lord Randolph Churchill and a great
admiration for the man. He used to quote with
a chuckle Lord Randolph's illustration of the ab-
surdities of the extremists who advocated women's
rights. It was the story of a well-known champion
of feminine claims who got into an omnibus, found
all the seats occupied, and stood scowling at the
man in front of her. ' I believe you are Mrs. So-
and-So,' he quietly remarked, ' and go in for the
rights of women.' M do,' the lady said uncom-

o

242 DAYS OF THE PAST

promisingly, and the response came sharp, ' Well,
stand up for them, then.' That was characteristic
of his humour, as well as of his strong native sense.
So he had a natural antipathy to the statesmen
who stood on their dignity and would not unbend.
He could never have ranked among the obsequious
followers of the elder or younger Pitt. He had
a high regard for a noble politician who had made
a firm stand against Home Rule, and had drawn a
large following after him, when Chamberlain was
making sure of the Midlands. Yet, as he said,
that nobleman was never cut out for a premier in
a democratic country, and a reminiscence of his
own served as proof He was walking homewards
from the House of Lords late one evening with a
well-known peer, a staunch Liberal Unionist, when

his friend said, ' There 's ahead of us, let us go

on and join him.' 'Better not,' said Morris; but
his companion would not be bidden, and hurried for-
ward. In a couple of minutes he came back ; meta-
phorically with his tail between his legs ; the great
grandee had hardly deigned to answer him. ' Can
you wonder,' said Morris, 'that he never was
premier, nor ever will be ! ' For himself, though
he had a strong backbone there was no starch
about him ; he could drop his judicial dignity,
and accommodate himself to his surroundings. He
was as popular at his wild home of Spidal as in
the London clubs or at the Castle, where his chaff
of the lady of a Liberal Lord Lieutenant is still

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 243

remembered ; and his influence won the seat at
Galway for his son, when no other Conservative
had a chance outside of Ulster or Dublin. Another
Irishman of something the same type and much
the same convictions was Sir William Gregory,
who was likewise a Galway landlord, yet never
lost his popularity. I made his acquaintance on
board the Delta, when we were on our way
to the opening of the Suez Canal. Among
the other passengers were Lord Houghton, the
Hon. Tom Bruce, Hawkshaw, and Bateman, the
engineers, Simpson of the Ilhistrated Neivs, and
many another. But no one of them was more
agreeable or more instructive than Gregory, with
the manifold recollections of a wide knowledge of
the world. He won golden opinions as Governor
of Ceylon, and left a sad blank when we lost him
at the Athenaeum.

Many a literary man owes a debt of gratitude to
Sir Richard Quain. He may be said to have
constituted himself physician-in-ordinary to the
literary guild. But there were two objections to
turning to him in your troubles. The first was
that he would take no fee, which made you shy of
looking him up in Harley Street. The second,
that when you did go, he was so interested in
current events, that he would talk about anything
rather than the object of your visit. Sometimes,
en revanche, he sent you away brightened up, for
his buoyant temperament was contagious. A

244 DAYS OF THE PAST

great crony of Delane's, he was specially concerned
about the leaders of the Times and the men who
wrote them. There was no possibility of mistaking
his nationality ; like Morris and Gregory he hailed
from West Ireland. But in him the brogue had
toned down into a mere souvenir of his native
Mallow, which, like his brother the judge, he held
in fond affection. I had come back from making
an Irish tour as Times commissioner, and my regret
was that I had not interviewed him as to Mallow
before starting, he had so much to say of the
romantic little town and its singularly picturesque
environs. Ouain was a sportsman and emphati-
cally a cosmopolitan. He loved to take his
holidays in the Hungarian plains or the Car-
pathians, and many a boar's head and hure came
to his table from the Magyar friends who had
entertained him in their castles. A busy man,
he was seldom to be seen in the Athenaeum, and
then the carriage would draw up at the door, and
he would drop in late. You would be roused with a
touch to find him perching on the elbow of your
chair, eager as any citizen of old Athens to hear
or to tell any new thing. If he had another fault
as a physician, it was that in the flow of anecdote
he was inclined to be indiscreet as to the celebrated
patients who had consulted him. When years had
gone by, he was not over-scrupulous as to the
incognita which anonymous princes and veiled
queens had jealously sought to guard. If he came

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 245

seldom to the Athenaeum, he knew the wines
of the cellars better than any one. At a dinner of
strangers there, he was sitting next to me, and
when the claret was circulating- he turned to me to
recommend a special tap of port. It was a vintage
which by a whisper to the butler, without consult-
ing the host, he had summoned from the vasty
deep, and then recommended to the general atten-
tion of the company. When the Lafitte had not a
chance. As a notable bon vivant, his practice
clashed with his preaching. I consulted him once,
and he imperatively ordered a strict regime for
a week or so ; then as I was leaving the room he
asked off-hand, ' Are you going to the Saturday
Revieiv dinner to-morrow at Greenwich } ' * How
can I,' I answered ruefully, 'after your absurd
orders } ' ' Oh, never you mind ; go all the same,
and sit opposite to me ; I '11 raise my finger to my
lips if there is anything specially unwholesome.'
And that at a banquet where there was everything
rich and indigestible, from the calipash and calipee
to the dressed crab and the camembert. How man-
fully he faced the painful disease which killed him,
I know well, for I was sometimes admitted to his
sick-chamber. There was always the same cordial
welcome ; always the same cheery alertness as to
the things which were passing in the outer world,
with a touching resignation to the end he foresaw,
and which speedily came as a relief.

A man I regretted much was Sir Frederick

246 DAYS OF THE PAST

Pollock. Member of a distinguished and brilliantly
successful family, famous alike in law, literature,
and arms, he inherited the talent and the bonhomie
of his race. Once a week there was a day when
he used to lunch regularly at the Athenaeum, before
attending the Board of an Insurance Company.
As a friend of his son, then editing the Saturday
Review, I seldom missed one of these weekly
meetings ; indeed the temptation to come to town
was irresistible. The courtly Queen's Remem-
brancer had an endless store of reminiscences ; he
published them afterwards in a lively little volume.
His gentle manner and deliberation of speech
made the story or the bon mot all the more telling.
Sir Frederick had a slight stoop, but his brother.
Sir Richard — known in the family as ' Uncle Trim '
— carried himself like a soldier and straight as a
lance, seemed the incarnation of evergreen activity.
Though he seldom volunteered anything as to his
own services as soldier and political resident in the
North Western Provinces, he was an invaluable
source of information as to comrades and illustrious
contemporaries of the fighting days when the
frontier of the Indus seemed trembling in our
fingers. I was greatly indebted to talks with
him when writing the biography of John Jacob of
Jacobabad ; and his sudden and unexpected death
came as a startling shock.

Frederick Locker Lampson used to remind me
of Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, as Scott describes

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 247

him. A fastidious dilettante, delighting in the
society of men of letters, he prowled about the
purlieus of literature, occasionally hazarding an
inbreak. In poetry Praed was his model ; and he
was a charming writer of society verse, polishing
with infinite care. Hamley, with whom he was on
the closest terms of friendship, always in corre-
spondence addressed him as ' My dear poet,' with,
possibly, a faint touch of irony. And he used
sincerely to condole with Locker in his provincial
exiles, when in later years he had a charming
country seat in Sussex, and had built himself a
commodious mansion on the wind-blown cliffs of
Cromer. The keen north wind touched a sensitive
liver, and the country had few attractions for a
man who delighted in intellectual company, in
book shops, print shops, and repositories of curios.
When in town. Locker was a regular attendant at
the midnight meetings of the Cosmopolitan, and
took no little trouble in beating up for eligible
members. And he prided himself, with excellent
reason, on having filled for many years the hono-
rary office of treasurer to the Literary Society,
perhaps the most select fellowship in England.
The members, like the French Academicians, are
limited to forty, and a single black ball excludes.
On the lists are the names of archbishops and
lords chancellors, statesmen, diplomatists, famous
travellers, and many of the immortals in letters
and the arts. In fact, they are rolls of fame and

248 DAYS OF THE PAST

of all that has been most distinguished since the
first year of the last century.

I felt exceptional regret for the death of Sir
Frederick Bramwell as a near and hospitable
neighbour in the Kentish Weald. His was a
rarely versatile intellect, and to the last he showed
his irrepressible vitality. A great man of science,
and in incessant and lucrative employment as a
practical engineer, his other interests were mani-
fold. His brother, the Baron, is said to have said
of him, ' He knows as much law as myself and
all other things.' He was a voracious and
miscellaneous reader ; no one was better versed in
the best contemporary fiction. He was deeply
concerned in all the scientific inventions >vhich
could be turned to popular and profitable account.
His services and great authority were constantly
retained on arbitrations and commissions of inquiry.
He was constantly putting in an appearance at
scientific gatherings in the provinces, from the
British Association downwards. I have often seen
him sitting crumpled up of a bitter morning on
the platform of his railway station, and read on the
following morning a brilliant speech delivered at
Leeds or Liverpool. But he never bored the
uninitiated with transcendental talk; he had a play-
ful humour and a happy wit. One day he professed
to grumble at the charming country place of which
he was both fond and proud, as being down in a
hollow amid damp meadows. I remarked that

FRIENDS OF THE ATHEN^UM 249

he was fortunately situated in a most picturesque
and interesting neighbourhood. ' So your idea of
happiness,' he retorted, 'is a place from which you
are always glad to get away.' In an obituary
notice in a New Jersey journal, his great friend,
Monsignor Doane, told a characteristic story of a
speech of Sir Frederick's at a scientific dinner at
Cambridge. It was very late when he got upon
his legs, and he said the only thing that occurred
to him in connection with applied science at that
hour, was the striking of a lucifer match and
applying it to a bedroom candle.

CHAPTER XIII

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN

No recollections are more pleasant or more varied
than those associated with the rod or the gun.
They carry you back into all manner of scenes,
from the forest and the moor to the fields and the
coverts, from the birch-fringed Highland loch to
the breezy down, the swamp, and the seashore.
Moreover, they lead you into strange countries,
among men of rude manners and unfamiliar speech.
Wonderfully fresh they are too, and the fresher the
further you go back, at least so I find them. I
conjure up the spot where I shattered the head of
my first rabbit, with a heavy double-barrel I could
hardly bring to my shoulder, as he sat under a
spruce bough. It was not much of a performance,
for the range was little over a couple of yards, but
the thrill of sanguinary satisfaction that ran through
the veins surpassed that when I whipped the first
trout out of the burn with a worm on a string and
a hazel rod. Boys are neither bloodthirsty nor
deliberately cruel, but, when healthy and country-
bred, they take naturally to sport as the young-
spaniel or terrier. And in spite of all the senti-
mentalist or humanitarian can say, it is a law of

250

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 251

beneficent nature that the passion should grow on
them. As I have said somewhere else, the man
with the o"un is the friend of the weak and the
protector of the helpless. But qtii s excuse s accuse,
and it is idle arofuinp: a case which has loner since
been satisfactorily settled by experience, conscience,
and common sense. The first rabbit and the first
trout were followed In due course by other moments
of rapture and hours or minutes of intense excite-
ment. The first sioht of the distant deer in his
native wilds — not as I had seen them before, from
the top of a stage coach, deliberately crossing the
road in advance, conscious apparently that they
were out of season and safe. The first mad rush
of the first salmon ; the fall of the first woodcock
in the coppice, when I snapped at him, haphazard,
through the boughs of an oak tree ; the dropping
of the first snipe after a multitude of discreditable
misses, etc. etc.

Looking back upon changes in the country and
the revolution in shooting methods, the laudator
temporis acti makes melancholy moan. Shooting is
far less of a sport and much more of a business asso-
ciated with social functions. I am inclined to agree
with old Donald, Frederick St. John's keeper and
constant companion, that agricultural advance and
the progress of reclamation have been playing sad
havoc with everything. I see oat crops waving
now over the snipe bogs, which one could only
tread at peril of immersion to the armpits. Fields

252 DAYS OF THE PAST

on the home farm have been drained, where you
were sure to find any number of hares squatting
under the tufts of rushes. Though to be sure that
scarcity is very much owing to the late Sir WilHam
Harcourt's exterminating Act, passed just at the
moment when tenants were dictating terms to the
landlords. Even on tolerably well-watched estates
there used to be but a rough kind of preserving,
and the rheumatic old head keeper would never
dream of leaving the blankets to keep a chilly out-
look for possible poachers. Indeed, unless he had
set his snares for hares or rabbits, there was little
to tempt the poacher to nocturnal raids. Then the
youth could walk the woods through the shooting
season, seeking anything that offered a shot from
rabbit or weasel to hawk or wood-pigeon. Now
the home coverts, with carefully tended undergrowth,
perhaps with dummy birds on the branches and
bell-wires stretched over the ground, are strictly
tabooed. The protected haunts of the hand-fed
pheasant are held over for two or three big shoots ;
and even if you are privileged to join in the fun,
such as it is, it is concentrated and comparatively
tame.

When Colonel Hawker travelled down to Scot-
land, on his several shooting trips, he seems to
have lighted from the coach where he pleased, put
his gun together and gone out trying his luck.
When St. John, many years later, kept house at
Invererne and elsewhere in Moray, he tramped the

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 253

surrounding- country for days, for anything from
deer and ptarmigan down to duck and snipe. His
wanderings included those famous moors of The
Mackintosh, which now, with the system of scientific
driving and strategical butts, are rich in record
bags. I never was privileged to take such roving
liberties, and those prehistoric experiences were
before my time. But I remember that when out
with the gun, we were nowhere over particular
about marches, and trespassers, after brief and
benevolent expostulation, often arranged to club
for luncheon with the aggrieved.

But I do remember the startling boom, when
Scottish landowners realised the value of sporting
property. It was the railway which in the first
place brought it about. When the Southerner had
to travel north by ' Defiance ' or Royal Mail, Loch-
aber or Badenoch, to say nothing of Sutherland
or the Ord of Caithness, lay altogether beyond
the ordinary experiences of Piccadilly or Pall Mall.
The favoured few brought up reports of the grand
days to be enjoyed in such regularly patrolled
forests as Braemar, Athol, or the Blackmount. The
Great North Railway ran to Aberdeen and Inver-
ness, and afterwards the Highland line was opened.
Impoverished Highland lairds had struck a gold
mine ; but the most sanguine were slow to believe
in the prospective value of their solitudes. To
take a single example of the rapid rise. In 1854,
to their bitter subsequent regret the Mackenzies

254 DAYS OF THE PAST

parted with their hereditary wastes of Applecross.
They were sold to the Duke of Leeds for ^135,000.
On the death of the Duke, a few years afterwards,
the property came into the market in three lots and
it fetched ^206,000. Further subdivisions brought
successive startlino- advances. The same thinof has
been going on everywhere, though latterly there
has been a reaction. Sheep were swept from the
hills, as the black cattle had vanished before the
sheep ; forests were subdivided at fancy rents and
enclosed with wire-fencing like a Queensland cattle
run or an Argentine estmicia. When you run up
against wire-fencing in the wilds of Ross or Inver-
ness you are reminded of the barbed hedges in the
Vale of Harrow and of the villa cockneydom of
Tooting or Balham. And apropos to villadom, the
primitive but comfortable shooting-lodges have
been replaced by the Gothic castle or the Italian
mansion. There are house parties and motor cars
and French cooks and ladies' maids, where in your
little pine-panelled den, like the state cabin of an
old paddle steamship, you used to be awakened by
the crow of the grouse to take a header in the loch
under the window. You might turn out in your
night-dress or m. puris nahiralibits without the fear
of scandalising anybody. Travelling the winding
mountain road from Dingwall to Loch Maree not
long ago, I passed the site of one of those familiar
forest lodges. There was not even a sign of the
ruins that mark the sites of Babylon or Nineveh.

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 255

But opposite glared a many-storied structural
edifice, of the most florid Corinthian order of
architecture. The old grouse or ptarmigan hills
— no great extent as deer forests go in the High-
lands— had been enclosed, and, as I saw by a
paragraph in a local journal the other day, the new
proprietor had killed one hundred stags last season.
Naturally the round number was suspicious ; but if
he had done anything like that amount of butchery
in the limits, he might as well have been browning-
broods of chickens in his poultry yard.

Some forty years ago, a man satisfied with
moderate sport, and who did not mind hard walk-
ing, could have a shooting of his own for a com-
parative trifle. I knew an officer of the coast-guard
who rented half a great parish on the bleak shores
of Buchan from Lord Seafield for ^12. There
was fair partridge shooting, some shreds of grouse
moor, and any quantity of duck and snipe ; as for
the rabbits they swarmed on the sandhills. He did
not squander money on keepers, but engaged the
farmers in his interests by gifts of game. Another
friend paid little more for a most picturesque and
accessible shoot on the banks of Loch Lomond,
where the early woodcocks sought favourite lying ;
where roe and black game abounded, with a sprink-
ling of wild pheasants. I ought to remember
the place, not only for the glorious views looking
down on the archipelago of the Loch, but because
I had a narrow escape from the fate of Mr.

256 DAYS OF THE PAST

Fawcett. I still carry between the eyes a pellet
that made a close shave of the eyeball.

The Highlands and the remoter Lowlands were
more primitive then, and, to my mind, infinitely
more enjoyable. Even if a man is no misanthrope,
as I certainly was not, for I would have gone any
day a hundred miles for a dance, there are times
when he loves to commune with nature in her
solitudes, and to play with some parody of the spirit
of adventure. Then away from the great high-
roads there was any extent of backcountry, practi-
cally trackless and unexplored. Even in the
immemorial passes through the hills, the ways
were little frequented, except by the keepers or
occasional drovers. There was no great exaggera-
tion in the old story of the stonebreaker, asked by
a southern tourist whether there was ever any
traffic. 'Oh, ay, it's no ill for that,' was the
answer ; * there was a packman body passed yester-
day, and there's yoursel' the day.' Once I was
myself taken by one of the natives for a packman
body. Knapsack on shoulder, I was walkino-
across from Braemar to Glen Tilt after a Braemar
Gathering. Half way across I was stopped by an
old wife in mutch and red roquelaure, who sighted
me from afar and rushed out of her turf-roofed
hovel to ask 'if I was sellin' things.' That walk,
by the way, illustrated some of the perils of field
and flood that might beset the guideless wayfarer.
You crossed many a streamlet, shrivelled up in its

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 257

dry bed in a droughty summer, but which might
come down at any time in raging flood after some
Avaterspout in the hills. Rivers like the Tilt or
the Bruar were regularly bridged, though the
bridges, then as in Scrope's days, would be as
regularly washed away in winter, to be brought
back and rebuilt in the spring. But the smaller
burns were only spanned by a pine stem, and as
they could generally be stepped across, they had
to await their turn for the restoration of com-
munications. That walk of mine came off on a
glorious day, but the burns were still half-bank
high, after a week of unprecedented downpour.
You had to cast about to find a practicable fording
place, and then it was gingery work on the slippery
pavement, stemming the swift rush, knee-deep or
up to mid-thigh. The rather that some croaking
ravens took an ominous interest in your proceed-
ings. The worst was that you were thrown out
of the track and had to regain it through bog
and boulder, and, though being benighted in moun-
tain mists was no novel experience, I was glad
enough to strike on the road at last and to reach
the Atholl Arms as the last lights were being
extinguished.

With all the undeniable drawbacks those pedes-
trian rambles were delightful when you were
exulting in health and youth. All the impedimenta
were a light waterproof and a short trouting-rod
strapped to a knapsack almost as light. It only

258 DAYS OF THE PAST

held a change of flannels and nether raiment,
slippers, and the indispensable toilette necessaries.
It was no use counting over much with the climate,
especially on the romantic western coast, unless the
flood-gates of heaven were actually opened. The
grouse and the sheep were your weather-glasses,
and even they sometimes spoke with uncertain
sound. The boots awoke you according to orders
at what ought to have been sunrise, but had it not
been for the tumbler of rum and frothing milk,
possibly you could hardly have summoned resolu-
tion to rouse yourself. Everything is wreathed in
volumes of fleecy vapour. You hear the muffled
bell of the early steamer at the little pier some-
where out of black, dreary space. But the grimmer
the day, the more you are set upon keeping mov-
ing, so you sling your knapsack and hope for the
best. The drizzle thickens and your spirits go
down. But the West Highlands, like West Ireland,
is a land of enchanting surprises, and suddenly
there are rifts in the watery clouds which quickly
lighten and brighten. Then the sun breaks out
in his strength, rejoicing as a strong man to run
a race, and the vapours vanish before him, rolling
up into nooks and corners of the valleys. By this
time you have scaled a commanding height, and a
glorious prospect to seaward opens before you ;
you look down a winding sea-arm with sea-wrack-
strewn shores to islands floating between the sea
and the sky, decked out in all the colours of the rain-

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 259

bow. In the foresfround are the brown sails of the
fishing-boats, glittering like burnished gold. But
your path lies landward, across the moors. For
long miles you have met no human being, and you
are in a solitude with no sign of habitation. All
the same it is a sensational walk for a naturalist
and sportsman. It is solitary but not silent. On
all sides is the clamouring of the winged tenants
of the wastes ; the cheery crow of the grouse cock
contrasts with the shrill whistle of the * whaup ' or
curlew, and the melancholy wailings of the lapwings
who swoop down over your shoulders. As you
track the course of the mountain burn, you hear
the wild, sweet song of the ring ousel — the moun-
tain blackbird — as you turn a sharp bend in the
brawling streamlet, there is the quack of alarm of
the mallard and his mate. And forty years ago,
when the war of extermination against the winged
'vermin' had scarcely begun, you sighted many
species of the picturesque raptores. The hawks
were there, from the peregrine winging his flight to
the distant sea-cliff, stooping at some startled brood
of grouse in sheer wantonness, never stopping to
pick up his stricken victim, to the pretty little
merlin nesting sociably among the moorfowl, but
never scrupling to take toll of them all the same.

Moorland it might be and no deer forest ; never-
theless in that forest-skirted country you might
happen upon outlying deer, jumping out of the
moss- pit where they had been bathing, and canter-

26o DAYS OF THE PAST

ing away within easy gunsliot, with blackened and
dripping hides. Not infrequently on these occa-
sions the long- Highland miles drew out into leagues,
and when you stumbled across some gillie or stray
shepherd, you learned that you were pretty sure
to be belated. As the gloaming came on, you heard
the bark of the prowling dog fox, and perchance
caught a glimpse of the marauder. There was
nothing of the sneaking gait of his persecuted Low-
land congener. On the contrary, with his pads on
his native heath, he carried himself with the stride
and spring of the mountaineer. Other night
prowlers there were none, for neither badger nor
otter are given to show themselves, and I seldom
chanced to see a oenuine wild cat. The eloamino-
had come on and the shadows were fallino-. If
there was a silvering of moonlight, it only confused
you when trying to puzzle out the doubtful path.
Should you once fairly lose it, the best plan was to
seek the friendly burn again, and follow it, though
it ran down through rough heather into tangled
copsewood. In such circumstances, if you knew
vaguely the lie of the land, the hooting of the night
owls was a cheery sound, for you knew you were
near the pine woods which must be threaded. In
these it was easy walking, for there is little under-
growth beneath the silver firs, and you trod softly
on a crackling carpet of pine needles. But the
flickering moonbeams cast a sinister light through
the dark foliage, and superstitious fancies were apt

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 261

to steal over you. You recalled wild legends of
the Lham Dearg, who haunted Rothiemurcus
glades, and the tale of Wandering- Willie, when
his forbear fell in with the black horseman who
led him to the scene of infernal revelry. It was
a decided relief, and worth going through much
more, to emerge at last on the open strath, and,
like Bailie Nicol Jarvie, to welcome the lights of
the clachan below you.

There was nothino- like such a walk as that to
make you appreciate the comfort of the inn. I had
considerable experience of the Highland inns, before
they developed into hotels, and were swamped with
southern tourists. If it was not there you found
your warmest welcome, at least the good folk were
glad to see you. If you were not exacting and did
not hurry them, they were sure to do their best.
When you came in dripping and muddy they looked
at you askance ; you might be a sturdy beggar
or a ' sorner ' who hoped to sponge on them. The
rod and the knapsack disabused them, and then
they were all kindness and hospitality. In the
change house, which answered to the Spanish venia,
the only fire was in the kitchen. The warm glow
of the peat and bog-oak was as exhilarating as the
odours which, if not refined, were refreshing. Venti-
lation they did not go in for. The prevailing scent
was 'bannocks and brose,' with a strong suffusion
of whisky. But a brood hen or two, who shared
the common sitting-room, showed there were eggs

262 DAYS OF THE PAST

forthcoming, and mutton hams and flitches, and
possibly kippered salmon, were swinging from the
blackened rafters. Never have I enjoyed supper
more than on these occasions, though Indulgence
to satiety has sometimes been followed by night-
mares and broken dreams, rehearsing the long day's
incidents. Especially before experience had warned
me against being lured into the good woman's spot-
less sheets. Latterly I always preferred a shake-
down of fragrant meadow hay in the outhouse.

With the better class of inn in small towns or
big villages, I established frequent and friendly
relations. In many of them the simple old Scottish
cookery was to be had in perfection, at least when
you could give them a day's warning. In soups
they excelled, and in light and simple sweets. In
many of these inns the venerable waiter, profoundly
interested in the prosperity of the house, was an
institution. I fondly remember old Malcolm at
Braemar, bowed with years, but active as ever,
and an encyclopaedia of Highland folk-lore. Also
another veteran at Forfar, who coached me up for
a visit to Glamis, with its haunting memories and
mysterious secret chamber. No one of them ever
tempted me into trying their wines, but Glenlivet
or Talisker was always forthcoming according to
the latitudes ; or at the worst, the more potent
spirit from illicit stills, strong of the peat-reek,
though mellowed by age.

But for the real enjoyment of the Highlands, one

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 263

ought to be temporarily at home in them, with
headquarters in a wild country with a variety of
game. Flat moorland brings brief sport: heavy
bags for a week or two, if the season and the weather
are favourable ; then birds packing, with weary and
profitless walking, and a precipitate departure for
the South. In the wilder districts rents are gener-
ally lower, and if you are keen on shooting of any
sort, you get infinitely more value for your money.
In Wester Ross, for example, the birds will sit in
genial days till well on in November ; then with the
coming of the black frosts, they are everywhere more
approachable. But it is not to the grouse alone you
devote your attentions : on the beats you may come
across anything and everything, from ptarmigan
and blue hares to wild-duck, snipe, and plover.

I spoke of a familiar forest lodge, and no shoot-
ing quarter brings back more agreeable memories.
Moorland it was, rather than ' forest,' though sur-
rounded on all sides by sanctuaries sacred to the
deer. It stood high, though sheltered, on the
western slope of the watershed between the
North Sea and the Atlantic. To the north was a
winding lake, bordered beyond by a line of cliff
and cairn, peopled by a colony of wild cats seldom
seen. As we sat of an evening in the porch, we
could hear their melancholy wailings borne over
to us on the breeze, mingled with the twitter-
ing of the swallows, which built under the low
rafters of the lodge. On drizzly days when the

264 DAYS OF THE PAST

walking was bad, we used to troll for trout or net
the bays for pike, and thither we repaired for the
morning header. Sleeping with open windows,
one was generally wakened by the crow of the
grouse cock, and the first impulse was to look out
for signs of the weather. If it promised fairly, the
dogs seemed to know it, and there was no chance
of going to sleep again, with the impatient chorus
from the kennels.

The quarters were cramped, but comfortable.
The bedrooms were so many small cabins, panelled
with pine, and the fittings were as compactly ad-
justed as in the old-time sea-going steamer. The
low-roofed sitting-room was relatively spacious,
communicating by a door and short passage with
the kitchen. There were pervading scents of
homespun and waterproofs in course of drying,
and of savoury cookery. We fared well with the
produce of gun and rod, the mountain mutton, and
supplies from the Dingwall butcher and Morell's
branch establishment at Inverness. Whatever the
temperature, the peat was generally kept smoulder-
ing on the broad hearth, to be blown into a blaze
of an evening, when the kettle was kept boiling for
the toddy. There were dull days, no doubt, when
remorseless rain was plashing against the windows,
for thoueh there was room enough to stretch the
legs, the provision of literature was scanty, and we
were fain to fall back on cleaning spotless guns, or
playing with the young dogs in the kennels.

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 265

Thouorh, on the whole, we set rouo^h weather at de-
fiance, and sought recreation abroad in one shape
or another. And when the sun broke through the
mists with glorious promise, and when the waters
had had some short time to subside, all was for-
gotten. The transformation scene was often
magical. You had done your dressing half in the
dark, and now the atmosphere was so clear as to
be strangely deceptive. Looking out from the
porch, across the rolling and broken expanse of
brown, green, and purple, the hills that skirted it
— haunts of the ptarmigan and eagle — seemed
so near, that you fancied you might have dis-
tinguished with the naked eye the sheep pasturing
in the corries. It was stiff walking before you
reached them, as you knew by experience, with
rather risky rock work to follow.

There was many a record of mixed bags in the
game book, though none of very bloody days,
except when there were musters for the massacre
of the hill-hare. First, in the swampy meadows in
the river vale, where the hay crop was precariously
stooked towards the middle of October, were
coveys of the small hill-partridge. Then came the
grouse, of which nothing is to be said, save that on
those moors there was a blessed immunity from
disease. The sweep of the epidemic used to be
as sharply defied as the passage of the cholera
through an Indian cantonment. There were few
firs, and it was not much of a country for black

266 DAYS OF THE PAST

game, yet there were mossy and brackeny bits
skirted by alders and birches, where you were
likely enough to stumble on a brood. Mallards
there were on the river and its tributary burns, and
often when one was walking listlessly, you were
brought sharply to attention by the rise of drake
and duck from some velvet-covered moss-pot.
Occasionally there were more sensational sur-
prises. The shooting, as I said, was forest-
enclosed, and in spite of the wandering shepherds
and their sheep-dogs, outlying deer were tempted
by the sweet grazing in the hollows. So I have
seen hart and hind spring out of the moss within
half-gunshot, and of course go away scatheless, for
it would have been cruel to pepper them with
smallshot. Next came the range of the mountain
hares, leading up to their rocky refuges in the
home of the ptarmigan, and there I once had
another very exceptional experience, more unusual
than walking up the wary deer. In a dense mist, my
cheek was almost brushed by the wing of a golden
eagle. To judge by his scream of consternation,
as he shot up into the fog, he was the more taken
aback of the two. Snipe were to be picked up
anywhere; there were frequent flights of the golden
plover, circling round the gun in crescent forma-
tion, and giving chances for deadly raking when
they settled in line on some low peat bank. With
September came the first cocks of the season, lying
half-exhausted in the heather, and, for the most

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 267

part, wofully out of condition. And there were
many birds to interest the naturalist, from hawks
on the hover, encouraged in the neighbouring deer
forests, to the ring ousel of the rocky rills, with his
plaintive song, and to the short-winged grebes that
had found their way thither somehow from the sea,
to rear happy families in lonely tarns.

That lodge was a resort of mine for successive
seasons, but in earlier years I had the rare privi-
leofe of beino- more than once the ouest of Horatio
Ross, the old deer-stalker. The most lovable and
kindly of men, I gratefully reverence his memory.
When I was absent on the Continent, and likely to
lose my election at the New Club in Edinburgh —
I had neglected to replace a seconder who had
died — he stepped into the breach. When I was
coming up for the Carlton, I chanced to meet
him in Pall Mall, and he took infinite trouble in
canvassing the committee. In his Highland home
he was the most genial of hosts, and Othello was
not in it with him in the multiplicity of his sporting
reminiscences, from steeplechasing and the hunt-
ing field to deer-stalking and pigeon matches at
the Red House. He had been hand in glove with
all the most famous sportsmen, and, when he had
pitted himself against them for heavy bets, had
rarely overrated his powers. EI is most remark-
able feats have become matters of history. What
impressed me most was his story of how he won
what seemed an impossible bet as to the number

268 DAYS OF THE PAST

of swallows he would kill with a pistol before a
nine-o'clock breakfast. It showed his shrewdness
as well as his skill. He posted himself at the
corner of the house, fluttered a white handkerchief
as the bird swept round, and dropped it when it
poised. Temperate, though no ascetic, taking his
two hours' exercise daily almost up to the last, he
was always in high condition. He might have
rivalled his old friend Captain Barclay in pedes-
trianism, and it scarcely taxed his strength when
he walked from Blackball on Deeside to Inverness,
as umpire in the match between two friends who
were dining with him. They made the bet over
the decanters, made the start from the dinner-
table, and Captain Ross, as he told me, did not
even chanoe his evenino- shoes.

o o

When I visited him in Ross-shire, he rented
Gledfield and Dibidale. Gledfield House was on
the banks of the Carron ; Dibidale was a narrow
deer-forest stretching northwards, and marching
with Mr. Mathieson's Ardross. In the Carron I
caught my first salmon by a marvellous and most
undeserved stroke of luck. It was an awkward
river for a tyro to fish ; the trees on the pools
hanging low over the water, so that much of the
casting had to be underhand. Moreover, there
had been an unprecedented spell of drought, and
for days not a fish had been risen by the experts.
Wearied and disgusted, I had been whipping away
listlessly, when throwing the heavy rod back over

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 269

my shoulder, I had a glimpse of the head and
shoulders of a salmon ; the casting-line snapped,
and circles of horse-hair festooned themselves round
the top joint. My feelings may be imagined.
But the very next day I hooked an eight-pound
grilse in the ' Lady's Pool,' silvery as if he were
fresh run from the sea. A hard fight I had, with
my heart in my mouth, for there were birches
behind and something like a cataract below, but
under the experienced directions of the veteran
keeper, the grilse was triumphantly cleiked, when
the out was fretted to a shred.

The lodge at Dibidale was in a wilderness of
heath and hills, on a brae sloping down to a burn
that murmured or brawled with the changes in the
weather. That burn is always associated in my
mind with 'watching the passes.' There was rich
grazing in Dibidale, and the deer would shift
southwards with the dawn from Ardross. You
were roused in the dark, to dress by candlelight.
A glass of rum and milk with a biscuit, and you
emerged from the door to go groping down the
brae in Egyptian darkness. The old keeper led
the way, swinging a lantern, and a long-legged
subaltern followed with a rifle under either arm.
You forded the burn on slippery stepping-stones,
and 'set the stout heart to the stey brae.' It was
an awkward scramble, and I know I used to be
pretty well pumped out, before we crested the
ridge and separated for our posts in the passes.

270 DAYS OF THE PAST

But when the sun showed a fiery ball over the
mountain to the west, the sights and surroundings
in themselves richly repaid you for the climb.
There was no snow and less sublimity, but I have
never seen more glorious sunrises from the Rigi
or the Faulhorn. Then the excitement ! Of
course it does not come up to the tremulous 'buck
fever,' when the novice is almost within rifle-shot
of a mighty hart, nearly collapsing after the long
and heart-wearing stalk. Yet the suspense of
waiting in hopeful expectation is intense. Each
deceptive sound tells on the nerves, and excite-
ment culminates when you hear the unmistakable
hoof treads, with the slipping of the foot on gravel
or shingle, and the occasional pause of suspicious
hesitation. It may not be the highest kind of
sport, but perhaps it is the most sustained strain
of the senses.

The worst was, that unless you were in the
hardest conditions, it took it out of you for the
rest of the day. There was always a resource in
the burn, where there was good trouting or
'guddling,' and the family kept their hands in at
rifle shooting, at which the practice was wonderful.
The hand of the old stalker was steady as ever,
and four of his five sons were crack performers.
Edward, as is well known, was the first winner
of the Queen's prize at Wimbledon, and Hercules,
the second brother, had a memorable record in
potting rebel sepoys in the Indian Mutiny.

RAMBLES WITH ROD AND GUN 271

It was most comfortable being quietly at liome
in your own lodge with your own friends, where
everything could be ordered to your own liking.
But I never passed a pleasanter August and
September than when we were quartered in the
villaa;e inn. The shootino- had huno- on the
market ; it had gone ridiculously cheap at the
last moment, and the mansion with the partridge
ground had been reserved. As to the quarters
first appearances were unpromising enough. There
was nothing poetical or romantic about the village
street, and the whitewashed, two-storied hostel
was prosaic in the extreme. But those first im-
pressions were deceptive. It is true the horse-
hair furniture of the sitting-room was the reverse
of luxurious ; the window sashes worked badly,
and in the bedrooms were stuffy box-beds. But
as we were out on the moors most of the day, and
came home tired, these slight drawbacks did not
greatly signify. The landlord proved the best of
good fellows, and catered for us in sumptuous style.
With the profusion of game — for we had made a
capital bargain — we might have dispensed with
the attentions of a butcher. But each evening the
table groaned under saddles and sirloins, and when
they went down to the kitchen, the landlord and
the keepers seemed to keep a free supper-table
for all and sundry. Naturally we trembled for the
mauvais (juart d'heitre^ but the bills were most
mysteriously moderate. I think the tame dreari-

272 DAYS OF THE PAST

ness of the village gave a keener zest to the breezy
freshness of the moor, and the charms of the semi-
Highland scenery. Changing the paving-stones
for the spring of the heather, the spirits went
up automatically. Wild it was on the western
horizon, where you looked up to the quaintly
named hills, famous alike in history, legend, and
song, the Tap O'Noth and the Buck of the
Cabrach. Below them, cornfields and copses ran
up into the heather, and the snipe bogs were inter-
spersed with oases of green rushes, where the dogs
were sure to come to a stand over broods of black
game. There were crystal springs where v^^e made
our midday halts, and at one of them, the Well of
Correnie, a madcap prank brought me once to
humiliatincj g-rief. The luncheon basket used to
come out on a lively young cob who had scarcely
been broken to the shafts or the saddle. One
day it came into my head to make a shooting pony
of him, so I mounted and blazed off a barrel. In-
continently he bolted. Trying to hold to the gun,
I was shot off into a moss-pot. I emerged half-
choked but little the worse, though recovering the
sun o;ave us infinite trouble. As for the cob,
like the scapegoat of the Pentateuch, he went off
into the wilderness, and after a long chase a gilly
came back with him, ' baith o' us sair forfoughten,'
as he sadly declared, before recruiting with a
* caulker ' and a heavy supper.

CHAPTER XIV

KEEPERS AND HILL SHEPHERDS

Not a few of my most enjoyable days have been
passed in company of keepers and simple-minded
hill shepherds. They were intelligent, companion-
able, and instructively conversable when they came
to know you well. As for the old keepers, they
taught me anything I know in the way of sport
or natural history. Their knowledge was great,
and their methods were eminently practical. The
first of my tutors was a veteran, who, I am sorry
to remember, was something of a scamp. He took
his duties easily ; but that was the fashion of the
time, or the neighbourhood. He never thought of
leaving the blankets to look out for poachers, and
he lay in bed the better part of the Sunday, for he
held that if a man kept sober through the week, he
was entitled to get drunk of a Saturday night.
Old Craigie was well paid but not pampered, and
all his habits were in the rough. He shared a loft
at the ' barn yards ' with two or three of the
ploughmen, and his couch with a couple of his
favourite terriers. He made no pretensions and
gave himself no airs. When I knew him he may

s

274 DAYS OF THE PAST

have been sixty, though he looked considerably
more, and his wish seemed to be to slip through
the world and the woods unobserved. Death on
the vermin, a deadly enemy of hawk, polecat, or
weasel, he trod the soft carpet under the firs and
the crackling leaves in the beech woods with the
stealthy step of the Red Indian. His weather-
bleached velveteens, much the worse for wear,
blended well with the foliage and the withering
bracken. His keen, grey eyes were roving every-
where, reading * sign ' like print on each scrap of
soft ground. He and his terriers had an abiding
feud with the otter, and loved nothing better than
tracking the nocturnal marauder to his holt, and
marking him down for sport with some couples of
crossbreeds. His constant companions were a
pair of rough terriers, never more or less, who
shadowed him at his heels and answered to a
crook of his little finger. They had frequent
opportunities of showing their stuff The estate
he had in special charge — there were two others
within walking distance and also under his
guardianship — had been little cared for through
a long minority. The woods were untrimmed,
and where the ground was damp, undergrown
with almost impenetrable thicket ; the ill-drained
meadows grew luxuriant tufts of rushes, where
hares, * maist as big as lambs,' as he said, used
to squat ; and the gravel banks and loose stone
dikes were honeycombed with subterranean pass-

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 275

ages, and literally swarming with rabbits. The
tenants protested they were 'just devoured with
the beasts.'

As trapper and vermin-killer, with an eye for
nests of all sorts, Craigie was the most fascinating
of companions for a boy. Shooting of some sort
was going on all the year round, for rabbits and
wood pigeons must be killed down, and there was no
nursing- of the covers for big' autumn shoots. The
hawk would glance off the nest among the topmost
spruce boughs ; the flash of the gun and down he
would come, perchance with broken wing, fighting-
still on his back with beak and talons, while up I
would hurry, hand over hand, to make prize of the
eoro-s or the savage nurslings.

Craigie was on the best of terms with the
tenants, for he had carte blanche to supply them
liberally with rabbits and so far stop their grumb-
ling. When we crossed the thresholds without
the ceremony of a knock, the whisky bottle was
produced as a matter of course. Nevertheless,
there was a standing cause of quarrel with the
good wives, whose cats would mysteriously dis-
appear. Not that there was really much mystery
about it, for those stravaiging cottage cats were
the most mischievous of poachers. Naturally,
Craigie never pled guilty to many an unhallowed
burial in a fox-hole or rabbit burrow, but there were
always the notorious proclivities of his shadows,
invariably named Rory and Mark. Sometimes

276 DAYS OF THE PAST

there was what the Scottish Law Courts call hame-
sucken, when the cat was slaughtered on its own
premises. Mark would fly straight at the throat ;
Rory had a deadly knack of cracking the spine.
It was sharp if not happy despatch, and in the
woodlands that was the invariable finish of a
scrambling, yelping chase, when the quarry had
been treed and brought down crippled. Since
then I have had many a feline friend and favourite
who confidingly shared the hearth-rug with the
dogs, but I confess with shame that, in those
boyish days, there was nothing I found m.ore ex-
citing than the cat chase. Craigie, though he took
things easily, had a method of his own with
poachers. On the home estate he had little
trouble ; his vagabond neighbours had a kindly
regard for him and sought their pleasure or profit
elsewhere. But one of the outlying properties,
although almost unpreserved, somehow always
showed hares and partridges in plenty. Yet, like
the Morayshire of old times, it was a border
territory where all men took their prey. One year,
on the Castle farm, there was a covey of white
partridges. The young laird was much interested,
and old Craigie was extremely anxious to save
them. The man he was most afraid of was a
miller, who, renting a small shooting, made it an
excuse for raiding all around. So, as Craigie told
me, ' I took Watt to the inn ; I gave him all the
whisky and porter he could drink and gat his

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 277

promise to spare the birds.' The covey dis-
appeared ; it must have been netted bodily. Watt
was more indignant than Craigie. Poachers had
been poaching on the poacher's privileges of chase.
He had accepted blackmail for the albinos and
his honour was in question. He ran the offenders
down at considerable trouble, scandal, and expense,
and handed them over to justice.

Craigie fell latterly on somewhat evil days, for
he had trouble with his minister and the kirk
session. Consequently his popularity declined
with the tenant folk, who were zealous kirk-goers,
and the whisky tap was turned off at his favourite
resorts. Moreover, he was falling into the sere
and yellow leaf, his eyes were growing dim, and
his joints were stiffening. He could no longer
leap the ditches or fly the tottering dikes. Sooner
or later the rheumatism must inevitably come up
with the rustic who has set weather at defiance
and seldom changed his clothes. Craigie was to
be retired on a pension, and consented after much
grumbling. For he had to confess, and it showed
his constitutional reticence, that he was to have
a home with a son who had made money in
Australia, and had the grace not to be ashamed
of a letterless father who had never corresponded
with him for the best of reasons. He had all
possible comforts in his closing years : how far
he was happy is another question. When super-
annuated judges or bishops stick to their benches,

278 DAYS OF THE PAST

often the mere love of lucre has little to do with
their reluctance to retire.

M'Intyre — that was not his real name — suc-
ceeded Craigie retired. He was a man of very
different type and temper. Though of Highland
breed he had migrated young, and to all intents
was a Lowlander. It is five-and-forty years since
I began the long and lasting friendship, and I re-
member when I saw him first, how I was impressed
by his fine presence and air of simple dignity.
He stood well over six feet, and amonor the
beaters at a battue he looked like a noble deer-
hound in the scratch pack of the Highland fox-
hunter. With his advent there was introduced a
new system of preserving and regular night-watch-
ing. He had a couple of aides sent out on outpost
duty, and he drilled them thoroughly. You felt
that M'Intyre was your equal — your superior in
many things — and soon he was the valued friend
of the family. The dogs and the boys took to
him naturally. He had little trouble in breaking
the dogs, for his methods were kindness and gentle
firmness. One sharp word of command would
check the wildest youngster in a mad burst, or
bring the most self-willed old ruffian to heel. The
boys of the house, through successive generations,
came to look up to him and love him as a father,
and the most anxious of mothers could safely trust
him with their morals. The kennels and his cot-
tage were a quarter of a mile from the mansion, the

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 279

path leading through the flower-gardens and the
Httle coppice, with the Holy Well commemorating
the site of an old hermitage, where a brown-
speckled trout kept solitary state. If a boy was
missing after breakfast, it was at the kennels he
was sure to be found, somewhere between the
ferret hutches and the row of beehives. Out of
the shooting season a long stroll through fields
and woods with M'Intyre was intoxicating joy.
There was endless excitement in the bird-nesting
in the fields and fallows, in brake and coppice ; in
the hunting up the teal or waterhen in the sedges,
or the quest after pheasant eggs in spinney or
hedgerow in the springtime, when the trouble was
to elude the watchful rooks. Our guide could tell
all about their habits ; and there was seldom a
migrant he could not recognise, or a skulker he
could not identify by the note.

His master had grown up with him, and they
were close companions. Of the two, the keeper
was scarcely the less welcome guest when they
went the round of neighbouring houses in the
shooting season. When he had organised the
autumn shooting parties at home, it was pleasant
to hear the hearty greetings of the gentlemen and
to see the cordial clasp of the hands. No doubt
he had handsome largesses in his time, for with
frugality he left a snug little fortune. But his
beloved master died before him and he never
altogether got over it. In fullest mental power

28o DAYS OF THE PAST

the laird suddenly succumbed to an insidious brain
attack. For weeks he lay between life and death ;
though the end was certain it was long deferred.
M'Intyre revolutionised all his habits. The man
who only breathed freely in the open air, shut
himself up in the sick chamber and became the
assiduous nurse. He slept in the dressing-room,
and through the day he was treading softly on
stocking-soles or stooping tenderly over the sick
pillow ; nor had he ever the satisfaction of being
recognised, for the patient was in a stupor of
unconsciousness. The watching, the worry, and
the grief told on that strong constitution. He fell
ill himself, and passed many a weary day in
hospital, though his attentions were gratefully
repaid and everything was done for his comfort,
till at last he was carried home to pass from his
cottage to the churchyard.

Old Peter of Strathtay comes in somewhere
between Craigie and M'Intyre. Like M'Intyre
he was a familiar of the household, and had taken
the exact measure of his old master's foot ; like
Craigie he had the primitive habits and something
of the stealthy gait of the savage. His back was
bowed with bearing burdens of game, for he loved
long solitary rambles and would sleep out of a
night in a haystack or under a gravestone. His
passion was night wandering ; his methods were
those of the poacher, and his dogs had been
broken to them. The old fellow took a fancy to

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 281

me, so sometimes I was privileged to accompany
him ; and well I remember those sensational
nights with the lessons to be learned from the
wild book of nature. The nights, as he chose
them, were generally starry, with fair moonlight,
and the moon might be wading in watery clouds,
with the sougfh of a sisfhingr wind that threatened
to bring up a rain burst. One night the moon
was suddenly eclipsed ; half the heavens were
overcast with what seemed the wings of some
monstrous sea-fowl in rapid flight. Peter, like
Craigie, had his inseparable attendants. The
one-eyed old otter-hound gave a mournful growl,
the limping terrier whimpered and tucked his tail
between his legs. 'It's likin' to be an ill night,'
said Peter ; ' but God be praised, we 're no that far
from shelter, for the auld kirk is hard by.' Though
reputed to be haunted, it was one of Peter's
favourite refuges, and there we sheltered, while
the rain came down in torrents, in a low out-
building, where the parishioners in former days
used to keep watch against the resurrection men,
when villains like Burke and Hare were driving
their nefarious trade. There, making himself com-
fortable with pipe and whisky flask, he curdled
my blood with his soul-thrilling ghost stories,
till when the storm had passed as Peter had
foretold, my nerves were strung to a pitch that
made me exceptionally impressionable. Yet it
was a cheery change to emerge into starlight and

282 DAYS OF THE PAST

moonlight from the gloom and the ghoulish
tales ; though all the night watchers and the
night walkers seemed to have been roused into life
and action. The bats that had been clinofine to
the kirk rafters in the daytime came flapping
across our faces, and swooping down on my white
collar like gulls on a winged companion. The
kirk owls were vociferous, and then we came
across their silken-winged congeries in the sylvan
glades we threaded. We heard the bark of the
wandering fox ; but that is one of the most
common of nocturnal sounds. Sometimes it was
answered by the bay of the watch dog at the
homestead or the yelping of the cottage cur.

Once — it was not on that night, but on another —
I remember Peter laying his hand on my arm. We
paused and listened ; then I heard the surly grunt as
of a pig or pigling : it was in a mossy glade, honey-
combed with rabbit holes and bestrewed with beech-
nuts. Then emerged from a bramble thicket a
family party, looking much what I should imagine
a train of South American peccaries to be. A
venerable dog badger headed the procession,
grunting stertorously and industriously grubbing.
The dogs, hushed by an uplifted hand, were
trembling with excitement. His abstraction was
complete, when he suddenly got a whiff of our
wind, sniffed, snorted, and would have scuttled,
but Peter's gun was at his shoulder and the grey
patriarch rolled over. Peter opined ' that the beast

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 283

was no that hurtful, though he had a keen nose for
the eggs o' pheesan or pairtrick ' ; but Peter, Hke
his grizzled otter hound, was death on anything in
the shape of vermin from fox or marten cat to
the generally innocuous hedgehog.

Peter, though bearing a Highland name, and
domesticated on the Highland border, was Lowland
born and bred. The genuine Highland keepers,
guardians of the wild deer-forests and solitary
wastes, were of a different stamp. They were
generally reserved and seldom garrulous, save
when under the influence of good fellowship and
fiery toddy. Though they might discourse in
the Saxon fluently, it was a foreign tongue ; for
the most part they thought in the native Gaelic,
and lisped with an accent of which they were shyly
self-conscious. Some of them had got so used to
self-communion in the solitudes, that they had
acquired a habit of thinking aloud, which they
could not always repress. Black John had found
a landward berth in a forest on the marches of
Ross and Sutherland, though he had been bred a
fisherman in the Lewis and had always a craving
for the sea. He had come, as many others of the
gillies, from the herring fishing to take service on
the hill for a single season ; but unlike most of the
islesmen be became a fixture, always protesting his
intention to flit. The fact was, he had got into
trouble poaching on the Long Island, and the
poaching virtis was in his blood. His master soon

284 DAYS OF THE PAST

learned his worth, for he had the eye of a falcon,
the scent of a sleuth-hound, an instinct for the
wiles and strategy of the deer, with the weather
knowledge of a black-faced ram or an old grouse
cock. He was a far safer guide than the glass as
to what the morrow was likely to bring forth.
There that prescience was of exceptional impor-
tance, for the forest was much mixed up with those
surrounding it. Dogs were seldom or never used ;
partly because the lessees were deadly shots,
principally because they could not afford to scare
the deer. The forest was full of fine feeding in
sheltered corries, and many a herd would migrate
thither to stuff to repletion.

John was habitually silent, seemingly sullen, but
there were times when he would become expansive.
As when a difficult stalk had been triumphantly
accomplished, when the deer had been gralloched
and admired, and the flasks had gone round with
compliments and congratulations. Keeping house
alone through the winter in the deserted lodge he
was given to brooding, but he had the rude piety
of the fervid Celtic temperament, and his mind was
a dark reservoir of legends and superstitions.
Once the floodgates were opened ever so little,
they came with a rush. A Catholic by creed, he
was something of a pagan. Professing unbelief
in them, he would weave weird fancies and tell
strange tales of the monsters said to lurk in the
depths of bottomless lakes, of witches — probably

f

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 285

skeins of wild geese — flitting overhead with un-
earthly screeches on the wings of the storm, and of
corpses of notorious evil livers which had played
blood-curdling cantrips when the door of the
deathchamber had been left ajar and the due pre-
cautions against the powers of hell had been
neolected. When I have heard him croakino-

o o

them out, I have been reminded of Southey's soul-
thrilling ballad of ' The Old Woman of Berkeley.'
Once wound up the way to keep him going
was a liberal supply of whisky. He was a hard
drinker, but could carry any quantity of liquor
JiGcreetly, and as his comrade Donald used
enviously to remark, 'John was never a hair the
waur.' John was a confirmed mysogynist ; he
delighted in a dance, but it was he who emphati-
cally expressed the conviction, that it was * the
weemen that aye spiled a ball.' John sulked and
smoked over the peat-fire through the winter.
Donald, who lived with his wife in a snug cottage
on the high road, was scandalously neglectful of
his domestic ties. Of a winter evening, and too
often in the summer time, he was to be found
either at the old toll bar, a chartered gossip shop,
where his habitual crony was a convivial road-
mender, or at the inn, a couple of miles down the
strath, a favourite stopping-place of drovers and
pedlers. John would only come out with his stories
on occasions ; Donald was always to be drawn.
He came of a sporting race of lax principles and

286 DAYS OF THE PAST

predatory habits. His father, who had been head-
keeper and henchman of the laird in the savage
Torridon district, where the bastions and but-
tresses of orranite have been worn into rifts and
caves in course of ages by the Atlantic surges,
could tell of the times when the kino's warrant
scarcely ran there. He had been at the making of
the first road, not much more than seventy years
before, which first opened up communications.
That revolutionary improvement was far from
welcome to men who eked out a precarious subsist-
ence by smuggling, poaching, and illicit distilling.
It brought the sheriff, the revenue officer, and the
gauger to their doors. As a child Donald had sat
at the feet of a arandfather who could tell of the

o

golden age. The son of the second generation
had been half-reclaimed when taken into the laird's
service, but the patriarch had used to go out with
the bands of free shots, who roamed the wastes in
such strength that the most daring of foresters dared
not mell or meddle with them. They lay out in their
plaids, they levied contributions on the shepherds,
or bartered muirfowl and venison for meal and
mutton.

Likely enough Donald embroidered romances
that had lost nothing in the relation. An inimit-
able raconteur, he had the fire and flow of the
Neapolitan improvisatore. Probably he was never
strictly veracious when he recounted adventures of
his own ; but at least he gave them an air of vivid

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 287

realism, as he struck the attitudes and rehearsed
the scenes. He told of marvellous escapes when
lost in the mists or blindingr snow-drift — but these
are frequent experiences of all hillmen. Of how he
was most nearly brought to death's door when a
cairn of loose stones came down in a landslip — he
called it an earthquake — where he lay for four-and-
twenty hours with a broken ankle, hearing at last
the shouts of a search party, but fearing that his
own response was too feeble to attract their atten-
tion. It was only when he was silenced, and in the
depths of despair, that a far-ranging collie smelt
him out. But the tragedy that brought tears to his
eyes was the fate of a favourite dog. The poor
brute in eager pursuit of a wounded fox, had got
* rock fast ' on the ledge of a precipice where there
was no turning back ; and Donald, after being
fruitlessly lowered over the beetling cliffs, had to
abandon the helpless Bran to his fate, and to listen
day after day to piteous appeals, becoming fainter
and fainter as strength ebbed away.

Donald's stories carry me south to very different
scenes in the Isle of Purbeck. Burdon, hereditary
keeper on a broad Dorsetshire estate, stretching
seaward to the chalk downs and St. Alban's Head,
had many a tale to tell, handed down from his
fathers, of smugglers and wreckers, of signal lights
flashing out from solitary homesteads or the hovels
of half-savage squatters, of trains of horses with
clanking chains, winding up on the chalk-tracks

288 DAYS OF THE PAST

through the Combes, and of wrecks of noble
merchantmen Hke the Halsewell, East Indiaman,
when the countryside from far and near turned out
to save Hfe or look out for salvage. Burdon was
the type of the portly English yeoman, broad in
the shoulders and broader in the beam ; the brass
buttons of his coat behind were shining oases in
a vast expanse of weather-worn velveteen. Seen
from the front his corporation was Falstaffian, and
he had taken life luxuriously from the cradle. His
cottage, sheltering under a clump of pines, was such
a combination of old English quaintness and snug-
ness as Birkett Foster delighted to paint. The
incessant yelping from the adjacent kennels — they
included a boisterous little pack of dwarf beagles
which would have sent Carlyle into a lunatic
asylum in a week — was music to his accustomed
ears and lulled him peacefully to sleep. Not that
he needed lulling, for his constitution was somnifer-
ous. He has been seen to drop off to sleep on his
sturdy legs after a solid luncheon, as he was
watching the dogs working in the turnips, and when
he sat of a Sunday under his master, a squire-
parson, had he not been privileged, his stentorian
snores would have scandalised the small congreo-a-
tion. His cottage showed every sign of free
housekeeping — huge, home-baked loaves in the
cupboard, flitches in the chimney corner, a cask of
strong home-brewed ale from the Hall always on
strike. The living-room, decorated in sylvan

KEEPERS AND SHEPHERDS 289

fashion, was in excellent taste. Dressed skins did
duty for carpet and hearthrug. These could be
taken up and shaken, when he came stumping in
with muddy boots. Guns, traps, and game-bags
adorned the walls, and on the shelves were such
zoological and ornithological curiosities as silvered
pheasants, pied badgers, and phenomenal pikes.
On the gable and on the pollarded elm, hard by,
were mouldering- Montfaucons of 8:ibbeted vermin.
Burdon, with all his love of ease, had not been
averse to a rough and tumble in his youth, but
latterly he had devolved the duties of night watch-
ing on his deputies. Besides the corpulence and
shortened wind which made it a stiff business at
the best of times to breast the chalk hills, he went
with a halting limp, the souvenir of an affair with
poachers. He had been pitched down a chalk-pit,
where he was left for dead, and dead he nearly was
when picked up some twelve hours afterwards.

Punctually each morning he went through the
ceremony of going to the gun-room for the orders
he seldom got and never desired. As punctually
he adjourned to the servants' hall to share a
tankard with the old butler. He had two pro-
mising lads who were being brought up to the
ancestral calling. Both were keen sportsmen and
quick shots. But while Samuel was told off to
superintend the marking and signalling — indis-
pensable in that country of meadow and moor,
chequered with copses and crossed by chalk-

T

290 DAYS OF THE PAST

ridges — Garge's business was to follow hard on
the guns, with a greybeard of the home-brewed
slunof to his shoulders. Ascetic athletes assure us
that cold tea is the best thing in the world to
walk on. It may be so, but for myself, in the
North, I have always stuck to spring water laced
with whisky, and though I should not recommend
strong Dorsetshire ale as a liquor to train on,
I never found it throw me much out of condition.
Anyhow Burdon had flourished on it, and in the
days of one's youth, with a superabundance of
exercise, you could venture safely on any liberties.
There was nothinof we liked better than to turn
into the keeper's cottage, when homeward bound
after a long day in the coverts, and gratify his good
lady by reckless indulgence in tea with the richest
of Dorsetshire cream and with the golden butter
steaming on the cakes she brought us hissing hot
from the griddle. We left the dinner to take care
of itself, nor was the confidence often misplaced.
Peace to the memories of that kindly couple : they
sleep under the yew trees outside the little church
where Burdon was used to snore and slumber.

CHAPTER XV

THE SHEPHERDS AND THE POACHERS

I HAVE made friends with sundry Highland shep-
herds, and have a great regard for them, and much
sympathy with their hard and solitary lives. The
sweetest of tempers would be apt to turn sour
in the lonely shealing, isolated from all human
companionship, with its manifold cares and respon-
sibilities, with the ceaseless strain on the nerves.
As a rule the shepherds hasten to get married, but
imagine the lot of the celibate, with no company
but his collies. His evensong as he goes home
in the gloaming, is the scream of the eagle or the
croak of the raven, and through the nights those
dogs of his are baying the moon or answering the
challenge of the prowling fox. Weary and soaked
to the skin, he has to do his own cooking, and as
he has neither leisure nor energy to ' shift his
clothes,' no wonder rheumatics steals upon him
early. He knows the lie of the land well, but
many a time when belated in darkness or mists,
he has to sleep out in some cleft of the rock, on
a couch of damp heather shoots with his plaid for
a coverlet. He is answerable for the sheep, which

291

292 DAYS OF THE PAST

are periodically mustered and numbered. Reading
the weather like a book, in late autumn he sees the
signs of a 'breeding- storm,' and whistling to his
dogs he wanders forth to head back the sheep from
the heights to the hollows. The sea-fowl with
wild cries are drifting landward, the grouse are
restless, and, surest symptom of all, the fox with
light bounds is hurrying to his home in the cairn,
stopping from time to time to prick his ears and
listen. The storm bursts and the rain descends
in torrents : all the more reason for the shepherd
going forward, for he knows that on the morrow
there will have been drownings in the strath, and
that eagles and ravens will be battening on the
'braxie.' He does what may be done before dark-
ness settles down, and then if it be possible, he
would get back to his fireless fireside. But each
burn and rill is rising in spate, and the stream from
which he fills his water-butt is half breast hio-h and
raging furiously when he gropes his way to the
post that marks the ford and the stepping-stones.
Within a gunshot of supper and the box-bed, he
may have to curl up in the moss flow, with his
whimpering dogs, famished and shivering.

Yet that is a trifle to being abroad' \n the winter
blizzards, when the flock may be smothered in the
snowdrifts. The bitter wind pierces through the
thickest clothing, and he is likely enough to get
lost in the blinding snowflakes. A slip on the
rocks may sprain an ankle, or treading carefully as

SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 293

he may, he may fall into a treacherous snow-
wreath. Once caught to the armpits, there is
slight chance of extrication. All things considered,
it is wonderful that the casualties come so seldom,
and that, save in exceptional cases and in the
lambing season, so few of the sheep are missing.
These sheep are extraordinarily hardy, and seldom
succumb to anything but suffocation. There is
little to choose between the Highland black-faced
with the *snuff-muir curled horns and the aliens
of southern breed. Both wear warm under-vests
of close wool, with shaggy overcoats as impervious
as Irish frieze. They can exist for days on starva-
tion fare, and like the deer have an instinct for
scraping among the snow, where they are likely
to get at the coarse but nutritious herbage. Where
the shepherd's strength is taxed to the utmost, is
in such a storm as is described on Exmoor in
Lorna Doone, and in the Highlands he has to go
far further afield than Jan Ridd, to dig into the
drifts and save the survivors.

The shepherd has other enemies to fight than
the snow and the rain floods. I do not believe
foxes or eaHes do much harm to the old sheep,
but they are terribly destructive in the lambing
season. All the more, that since the extension of
the deer forests, the eagles have been generally
strictly preserved, which is gratifying from the
picturesque point of view. But if a sheeo is
crippled or ailing, the eagle is always on the look-

294 DAYS OF THE PAST

out, g-uided by the ravens and hooded crows. For
the eagle is the most voracious of gluttons, and the
best chance of the shepherd taking- his revenge, is
when he weathers on him when ooroed to the beak
with drowned mutton. Then the prince of the air
and the mountains may be knocked senseless with
the staff. It is not so easy to circumvent the fleet
and wily fox, who does infinitely more harm. He
has his lair in the recesses of the half-impregnable
cairn, laughs at the comparative lumbering of the
swiftest collies, and is only to be forced from his
hold by varmint terriers. Consequently none of
his rare visitors is more welcome to the shepherd
than the professional fox-hunter with his mixed
pack. With the ' tail ' of his professional dogs
come keepers and gillies, each with his own canine
attendants ; and then dens are stormed, and there
may be merciless slaughter of prolific vixens with
their bloodthirsty litters.

The keepers should be as welcome as the fox-
hunter, and so they often are and always ought to
be. Any sensible man must come to that con-
clusion when he sees the refuse of the fox's larder
on the stone-slip from the cairn or on the ledge of
the cliff. There is a blending of feathers, fur, and
wool — sometimes, even the relics of sea-trout and
salmon. The fox is the common enemy who
should bring keeper and shepherd together ; but
though the keeper may have as much at stake, it is
the shepherd who commands the situation. With

SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 295

the forest he has no concern, but on the moor he
is practically master. So a diplomatic and smooth-
spoken head-keeper is invaluable, for if he once
gets to feud with the guardian of the sheep, it is a
very one-sided affair. The shepherd is out early

and late, with his keen-scentinp- doo-s raneinof
' 0000

before him. He knows the nesting-place of each
brood of grouse or blackgame, and can net the
young coveys, if so disposed. Should he scorn
to make a profit of the quarrel as is often the
case, if 'his back has been set up,' he can mali-
ciously smash the eggs. A good deal of netting of
the heather goes on in the second week of August,
when the birds are smuggled to the South which
are sold at the poulterers' on the Twelfth. Nor-
wegian they are called : C7^edat JndcBus, for the
British Isles have a monopoly of the red grouse.
Too often, it is matter of certainty that the shep-
herds must be in league with the poachers, for they
are the best of all watchers, when you enlist their
friendly assistance.

And that is very easily done, for, take them all in
all, they are an honest and self-respecting set of
men. Many a weary league from the kirk, their
Sunday reading is often the Bible and the Pilgjdms
Progress. The shepherd with his trials and
troubles is naturally short in the temper. If he is
misanthropic, it is because he so seldom sets eyes
on a fellow creature. But only take him in the
right way, and he is the most kindly of hosts and

296 DAYS OF THE PAST

the most friendly of companions. The diplomatic
keeper drops in with a whisky bottle in the game-
bag, and the latest copies of the county paper in
his pocket. He brings the freshest gossip from
market or kirkyard ; he discusses the price and
prospects of wool, and professes to have at his
finger ends the last quotations for ewes or wethers
from the sale-yards of Aberdeen or the Falkirk
Tryste. A morning call is especially welcome, and
in confidential chat on questions of heather burn-
ing, the keeper can twist his host round his finger,
much to their mutual advantage.

But the day to be marked with a white stone in
the shepherd's calendar is when the shooting lessee
— stranger though he may be — who has previously
established himself in favour, graces the shealing
with his presence. On the first visit the host was
probably as 'stand-off' as his dogs, who jumped
up on the turf-sodden roof to yelp savagely at the
sportsman's setters. But when the shepherd finds
that his visitor pulls off his stalking cap as he
stoops under the lintel and shows no shadow of
condescension, he meets him with the frank
cordiality of a gentleman ; and when one of these
solitaires gets into a flow of talk, it would be
hard to find a more entertaining companion.
Condemned in ordinary to silence they meditate
the more ; they surprise you with startlingly
original sentiments, and the commonplaces and
ordinary incidents of their daily lives are matter

SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 297

for thrillino- romances. The morning call is all
very well, but I must say it is somewhat trying to
accept a night's quarters. Once I taxed the
hospitality of Angus Chisholm, a special friend,
and I never cared to repeat the experiment.
Angus was capital company, but he was a
bachelor and no hand at cookery. The slices of
the mutton ham were scorched and impregnated
with peat smoke ; the braxie he pressed on me as
a special delicacy was diabolically ' green ' ; it took
all my wit and tact to pass it down to the retriever
at my feet ; and the spirits which were his pride, if
I was not greatly mistaken, had come fresh from an
illicit still. When it came to turning in, the sheets
on the bed he insisted on resigning had not even
the delusive purity of the cottage where there is a
housewife. I knew well that the vermin would be
on the rampage, and there I drew the line, at the
risk of hurtinof his feelinos. As it was, after the
whisky I had a troubled night on the settle, en-
veloped in plaids and sheepskins.

Angus was a magnificent fellow, but he went
with a limp, the souvenir of a terrible experience.
In an iron frost he slipped — fortunately near his
own door — and broke an ankle. The cold was
intense, the pain was severe, the limb swelled to
portentous size, he was miles away from help of
any kind, and twenty or more from a doctor. For
three days and nights he lay untended, his body
racked with pain, and his mind with anxiety for

298 DAYS OF THE PAST

the flock left shepherdless. He dragged himself
out to the peat stack for fuel ; he repeatedly re-
kindled the smouldering peats, * slooking ' handfuls
of meal in lukewarm water. Sometimes he slept,
and occasionally he swooned, not knowing how
long he had lain in unconsciousness. Giving him-
self up for lost he made a manful fight, and rescue
came when it could be least expected. A belated
poacher tried the door and found Angus in a
' dwam,' with a collie stretched on top of him. He
was a handy rascal ; put things shipshape as far as
possible, fomented the limb, fed the patient, applied
the whisky freely — externally and internally — and
with daybreak hurried off to seek for the surgeon.
Angus's grand constitution stood him in good stead,
and except for that limp, as he said himself, ' he
was never a hair the waur.'

The shepherds of the olden time and the hill
crofters, for fear, favour, or kinship, used to stand
in with the poachers. Like the scattered keepers
they had little choice when the country was terror-
ised by roving bands, or by athletic stalkers of
local fame who preferred to work singlehanded.
It was in the cottage of a weather-beaten veteran,
who by the way could tell another thrilling story
of a wife lying unburied for a fortnight in a
memorable snowstorm, that I was privileged to
' become acquent ' with big Duncan Mackay.
Duncan Mohr, as he was called, had been a
mighty man of mark and muscle. Though

SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 299

advanced in years, no two of the agents of the
law would have much cared to tackle him. He
had always been generous of gifts which cost him
nothing but powder and shot, and many a bless-
ing was invoked on his head by the widows, the
orphans, and the ailing. I doubt not he kept his
good friend the shepherd well supplied with muir-
fowl, hill-hares, and shoulders of venison. Had
there been elections for parish councils in those
days he would have walked in easily at the head
of the poll. For there was no denying that
Duncan was the most munificent of poachers. His
story is typical of hill society as it once was. He
might have lived happy in the universal respect of
his neighbours, but with Duncan, as with all men,
there was a rift in the lute. Partly from fear and
partly from good fellowship the keepers of the
chief never 'steered ' him. It is true they had to
watch many a league of hill and many a mile of
half-hidden salmon water, and, as Duncan had
small difficulty in dodging them, his sport became
unpalatably tame. Sometimes when Satan got the
upper hand, he would actually throw himself across
their path, but his friends were blind, or deaf to
the gun-reports, and Duncan was far from a well-
contented man.

Highland property rose in the market and the
chieftain was tempted to sell. Duncan heard the
news with sorrow, and indeed his lamentations
were so loud that his motives were suspected.

300 DAYS OF THE PAST

The ungrateful hill folk declared that the old
stalker was grieving at the prospects of a stricter
rule. It was rumoured that the Southerner who
had bought the estates was to begin with sweeping
chanofes. He went about the revolution orener-
ously enough. The ancient keepers were to be
pensioned, but they were to be replaced by a corps
of zealous strangers. As the ill news spread,
Duncan brightened up. His chance had come
and he mioht sate himself with risks and adven-
tures. No need now to thrust himself on the
keepers' notice ; the game was all the other way.
His cottage was watched and his outo-oing-s were
shadowed. With all his native gifts on the alert,
he found it hard to keep his own larder supplied
with game ; his pride was hurt and necessarily his
benefactions were restricted. It was the latter
trouble he felt most acutely. Many a night he
slept out on the heather in his plaid, for fear of
compromising his friends by seeking shelter in
some secluded bothy. He even took to reducing
his charges of powder, thereby increasing the
trouble of his stalking, and — what he regretted still
more — the suffering of the wounded deer.

He grumbled, of course, but on the whole he
enjoyed it. Now there was no lack of sensation ;
there was tlie double zest of hunting and being
hunted. Then, to cut the story short, came an
incident which again changed the course of his
career. The new proprietor, though a novice at

SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 301

the deer - stalking, was as zealous on sport as
himself and as free handed. Duncan could not
help admiring him, for like the last Glengarry of
famous memory though lacking his forest craft, he
would go on the deer path for a day or more, alone
and unattended. Naturally, he generally came
home empty handed, which, as Duncan explained,
was the more to his credit. One dark autumn
evening Duncan had actually gone astray in the
o'atherinof oloaming" and drifting" mists. He

0000 o

deemed himself lucky when he struck a torrent
bed in a corrie which must lead him down to the
strath. Among treacherous land-slides and rugged
boulders, with the bit burn he could not see
murmuring guidance in the blackness, he heard
groans and uncanny speech, as of some wandering
soul in pain. It was a mischancy place, Duncan
was superstitious, and more than inclined to take
to the hill again. But like Rab Tull in The
Antiquary, he kept a Highland heart, said a bit of
a prayer, and held forward. In the burn bed he
picked up the new proprietor, who had had an
ugly fall and was badly hurt. Duncan, who played
the Good Samaritan, made light of the rescue, but
the grateful Saxon thought otherwise. And his
gratitude took the unwelcome form of giving per-
emptory orders that his preserver was to have free
licence and liberty. Duncan was a saddened man
when I met him. He seldom cared to take down
rifle or rod : he had gained flesh but fallen off in

302 DAYS OF THE PAST

spirit and sinew. Yet he liked the new lord of the
soil so well, that shortly afterwards he conde-
scended to ask a favour. It was a small loan to
help him to emigrate to join a kinsman in North
Western Canada, which he faithfully promised to
repay. So the old poacher when well on in the
seventies left his native glen, simply because
agreeable poaching had become impossible.

Duncan Mohr had his counterpart in Kerry. In
West Ireland, where the law was even weaker,
there were fewer temptations. On the stretches
of barren hill the grouse were kept down by the
hawks and the hooded crows. On the wide moor-
lands with their quaking bogs, there was little to
be shot save duck and snipe. Though the red
deer still ranged the Kerry hills, there were no
regular forests. Moreover the lawless occupants
of lonely cabins were seldom rich enough to buy
a fowling-piece or pay for powder and shot.
Dragging a salmon pool or spearing the fish by
torchlight was another matter. Yet many a law-
less poacher has been bred in the far West, and
the Irish Celt has an insinuating impudence of
his own, to which his graver Gaelic cousin can
make no pretension. A Kerry landlord was sorely
troubled in that way by a veteran dependent for
whom he had a real esteem. Mister Spillane — he
was no kin to a well-known Killarney guide —
had been born on the estate and engaged as a
supernumerary on the keeper's staff, before he

SHEPHERDS AND POACHERS 303

listed. With a regiment in India his sporting
aptitudes recommended him to a notable regi-
mental Nimrod who took Spillane for his servant
and constant attendant in shooting expeditions.
No Zouave was more resourceful in foraging for the
camp kettles. Spillane came back to his ancestral
glens with a pension and settled in a cottage near
the Castle. He was grateful for free quarters and
the run of the Castle kitchen. And he showed his
gratitude by killing salmon, when there were any
to be caught, and leaving them at the back door of
the big house with compliments and kindly wishes.
In vain the master expostulated, swore, argued,
and even entreated. He pointed out that his best
water was often spoiled for himself and his guests.
Spillane was smiling, good-natured, and agreeably
obtuse. ' Sure, your honour, if I knew that you or
any of the company were to be out, it 's always
glad and willin' I would be to lave the pools for
ye.' At last the good-natured baronet gave him
up as hopeless, and, being loath to resort to
eviction, resigned himself to grin and bear it.
Now the last of that generation of wild free-shots
is gone, and we shall never look upon their like
again.

CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST OF THE ROAD

I SAW the last of the road before it was superseded
by the rail. Each year the pace has been growing
faster ; ilying Scotchmen and flying Irishmen with
few stoppages have been accelerated ; now you
may take your meals leisurely in Pulman dining-
cars, and the blood horse, the pride and boast of
England, is giving way to the motor car, the
abomination of the road. I have been gradually
converted from a progressive Conservative into a
reactionary old Tory. The pace has been getting
too fast to last, and must surely result in crash and
catastrophe. Telegraph, telephone, and wireless
telegraphy have intensified the hard struggle for
life, while Krupp and Whitehead, Vickers, Maxim
and Company, with all the inventors of explosives,
scattering mutilation broadcast, have added im-
measurably to the horrors of death. But I grow
rhapsodical and sentimental. Nevertheless, senti-
ment will come in, when I recall, in the rose-
coloured lights of old memories, the glories of the
old coaching days. As 'Nimrod' remarks in his
famous Quarterly article, roads and coaching had
come to perfection just as the latter ceased to exist.

304

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 305

Some forty years ago, when shooting in Stafford-
shire, I remember being struck by a vast range of
empty stabHng, with an imposing pile of Georgian
building, which had once been a busy posting
centre, giving occupation to hundreds and enrich-
ing the farmers far and near. A small tenant
lived in a corner of the old mansion, the roofs of
the stabling were falling in, though owned by one
of the most liberal of noblemen, and silence reigned
in the weed-grown yard, which used to be voci-
ferous with the shout of ' first pair out.' Almost
as pathetic are the memories of the old London
coaching houses. Where and what are the hostel-
ries now, whence coaches scattered in all directions?
The Bull and Mouth, with its long galleries of
subterraneous stabling, associated of old with the
despatch of the mails, has been swallowed by the
General Post Office. The Saracen's Head, Mr.
Squeers's house of call, vanished with the construc-
tion of the Holborn Viaduct. The Belle Sauvage,
where old Mr. Weller used to put up, is the head-
quarters of an enterprising publishing firm. Tempora
mntantnr. The Gloucester Coffee-house is gone,
where coaches on the western roads would spare
half a minute to pick up west-end passengers, and
Hatchett's, the White Horse Cellar, has changed
character and been fashionably transmogrified
out of all knowledge. I used to know Hatchett's
well, in the interval between the demise of the
professional coaching and the birth of the amateurs.

u

o

06 DAYS OF THE PAST

When bachelor hotels were scarce in London, you
got a comfortable and tolerably cheerful bedroom
there. There was less to be said — I have said it
already — in favour of the coffee-room, yet I liked
it for its associations with the romance of the past.
You thought of the scrambles before break of day,
when waiting travellers hustled for a place at the
fire, bolting the scorched toast and choking over
scalding coffee. Or of the evenings when, chilled to
the bone, they were helped down by the ladder, to
feel their frozen feet, and find a lumbering hackney
coach to reach distant quarters in a December fog.
It is a blessed thing that, in recalling the past,
we are inclined to ignore the discomforts and only
remember the pleasures. The walls of many a
country coffee-room and parlour are still adorned
with Fore's admirably graphic sporting sketches.
In these both sorrows and joys are reflected. You
see the mails loading for the night journey in the
yards of the Swan with Two Necks or the Bull
and Mouth, the passengers, in top hats and the
tightest of overcoats, nerving themselves for the
ordeal they regard with apprehension. You see
with sympathetic exhilaration the coachman spring-
ing his lively team of bays, with glistening coats
and sinews like whipcord, over Hartford Bottom to
get a few spare minutes in hand against casualties.
You see the up-and-down ' Quicksilvers,' keeping
time to the minute, exchanging flying salutations
as they cross in the deep cutting, illuminated by

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 307

the reflected blaze of the side-lamps. Then you
have the grrimmer side of the pictures, the hard-
ships, the hazards, and the spice of veritable peril.
The coach has charged an unopened turnpike in
the fog, for the guard has got astray in his bearings,
or the turnpike man has been deaf to the horn.
The leaders are down in the shivered timber, one
of the wheelers is plunging on the top of them, and
we can fancy the feelings of the nervous passenger
on the box seat who is screaming in chorus with
the old lady inside. Or we see in the memorable
storm of 1836, both Holyhead mails half buried in
the snow, a chariot with luckless ladies within
being steadily submerged in the drifts, and the
coachman of the up-mail, who has rashly jumped
down, engulphed to his armpits, and helplessly en-
cumbered with innumerable box-coats. The guard,
with prompt decision, is going off with the other
wheeler and the post bags, but what must the
shivering passengers go through before they are
again in blissful communication with fire, food,
and civilisation ?

As for the disagreeables, perhaps the most un-
pleasant of all was that unholy hour of the early
start. Things were not quite so bad as in the times
of Colonel Hawker. The colonel, indefatigably
energetic, though suffering from an old wound and
much of a vialade iinaginaire, curious in pills and
patent medicines, is always being called at 4 a.m.,
or taking a hurried header into damp sheets, before

3o8 DAYS OF THE PAST

being roused again to re-establish connections.
But they were bad enough, even in my boyhood.
In winter the outsider started thoroughly chilled,
and had never a chance of o^ettine warm. Our
grandfathers, going on the principle of the survival
of the fittest, had taken neither luxurious nor reason-
able precautions against cold, and we of another
generation, bred in their Spartan school, were
following the fashion. Ulsters and railway rugs
had not been invented, and the first of the looser
and more comfortable innovations were the Inver-
ness cape and the South American poncho. The
burly coachman might envelop himself in coats and
capes till he was guaranteed against any ordinary
upset, though helpless if he were pitched head fore-
most into snow. The ordinary traveller wore no-
thing beyond the everyday winter walking clothes.
The Duke of Beaufort, by an exceptional instance
of astuteness, once brought a horse rug, to the envy
of his fellow-passengers, when travelling as a lightly
clad schoolboy from Brighton to Badminton. Tom
Brown was a type of the traveller of those days,
and Tom was the son of a wealthy squire and the
darling of a doting mother. He had nothing where-
with to fight the cold but a tight-buttoned Peter-
sham : and so I have fought frost and bitter North
Sea breezes myself, when sitting crumpled up and
crouching behind the coachman's back on the roof
of Royal Mail or ' Defiance,' Serious smashes were
comparatively rare, but drowsiness was a danger

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 309

difficult to o^uard acrmnst. The outsiders on the
seats behind the coach-box or facing the cruarcl were

o o

hanging between earth and heaven. One foot was
on the sHppery straw on the footboard, the other
often dang'Hng in space. Even when wide awake,
a lurch might prove awkward ; and there were sharp
corners in the narrow streets of many an antiquated
borough town, where the top-heavy vehicle took a
perilous swing. When you began to nod towards
nightfall, or dropped into a snooze in the small
hours, you were sitting in the very shadow of Death.
On the box you were somewhat safer, for you were
under the eye of the experienced coachman. In
later days when going north for salmon-fishing
or grouse-shooting, travelling outside through the
night from Aberdeen, I used to catch at Inverness
the northern mail for Tain or Dingwall. One
glorious spring morning I scrambled up beside the
driver, an old acquaintance. Had I refreshed my-
self with laudanum instead of rum and milk, I could
not have felt more sleepy. 1 1 is a grand bit of gallop-
ing ground that skirts the firth, and my friend put
his horses along. The ocean ozone, laden with the
intoxicatinof fragrance of the sea-wrack, mio^ht have
lulled a victim of chronic insomnia, and if the
driver's elbow had not been kept continually in my
ribs, I should certainly have been a subject for the
coroner, had there been coroners' inquests to the
north of the Tweed.

In winter or rough weather there was a choice of

3IO DAYS OF THE PAST

discomforts, but, perhaps, on the whole the inside
may have been preferable, though it was a case of
tight packing in mixed company. You might have
the agreeable society of the most fascinating of her
sex. But it was much more likely that luck would
be against you, with a corpulent lady by your side
and a gouty gentleman opposite. I remember one
bloated land agent, notorious for good living and
always on the road in Kincardine and Angus. He
had the consideration to pay for two places, yet
his portentous bulk made his advent a terror to his
opposites. Difficulties would always arise about
dovetailing the legs, to use a familiar Americanism,
and any movement to get at the pocket-handker-
chief would provoke sulks and scowls or shrill
remonstrances. You ran the ascending scale in
sensations of discomfort, from pins and needles in
the legs to agonising cramps. There might be the
man with the hackino- couoh or the mother with the
squalling baby, with an unpleasant habit of being
coach sick. The nets suspended from the roof
were bulging with loose parcels and umbrellas.
The space below the seats was encroached upon
with the fore and hind boots, for each cubic inch
had been economised. The side pockets were
stuffed with bottles and packets of cakes and
sandwiches. There was a prevailing odour of spirits
and peppermint drops, and the loose straw that
carpeted the bottom was fusty and often damp. It
was not the accommodation of a Pullman dining-

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 311

car, and yet it was then regarded as comparatively
luxurious. For the price of an inside seat was
half as much again as that of an outside place.

When I was a boy the last of the coaches were
still in their glory. Excepting Chester, perhaps,
no town in the kingdom could make such a show
as Aberdeen. At three in the afternoon, groups
would gather before the Royal Hotel in Union
Street to see half a dozen coaches or more draw up
before the door. The Post Office was round the
corner, and the mails, timed everywhere sharp to
the minute, were specially well horsed and appointed.
The guards in their gold-laced scarlet made a
grand show, and as they climbed to their tripod, a
fragile-looking seat on iron supports, when the
coachman had gathered up the reins and the
helpers had swept the clothes from the horses,
they woke the street echoes with music, more or
less melodious. Some were content with a simple
performance on the ' yard and a half of tin ' ; others,
with a finer ear for symphonies, played popular airs
on the key-bugle. The last of the mail bags was
pitched into the boot, and all the teams were away
to the chime of the church clocks. The mails were
admirably horsed, but they were rivalled or excelled
by the southern ' Defiance.' It was owned by
Captain Barclay of Ury and Watson of Keillor, a
wealthy gentleman farmer. In spite of hilly roads
and the poorer horse provender of the North, it
ran the Shrewsbury ' Wonder ' or the Devonport

312 DAYS OF THE PAST

' Quicksilver ' hard. Moreover there was less limit
to luggage than on the mail. Yet summer and
winter, including stoppages for meals and the
passage of a stormy ferry with change of coaches,
it punctually did its ten miles an hour. Lavishly
horsed as it was, the wear and tear of horse-flesh
was considerable. In those days I made no
pretensions to the box seat ; I did not court such
snubs as gave David Copperfield his first fall in
life. But I had generally a place immediately
behind, for I had been recommended to guards and
coachmen by a relation — an old ally of Barclay's —
mentioned in Nimrod's Northern Tour as having
sold Lord Rodney a Tilbury horse for the unprece-
dented price of seven hundred guineas. It was glory
to travel by the 'Defiance,' but the great draw-
back was that early start. It did not go off in the
afternoon, but at 5 a.m. A few minutes previously
you were stretching yourself on the pavement
before the Royal, having swallowed a cup of boiling
coffee and bolted a crust. ' Up you get,' said the
friendly guard ; and there you were, with a tight
overcoat and a flimsy plaid by way of leg wrapper.
The first two stages were about the bleakest drive
in bleak north-eastern Scotland. With a bright
dawn there were magnificent sea-views, but I
thought of nothing but the jolly breakfast at the
Mill Inn, Stonehaven. Regularly as the coach
pulled up at seven, the ' captain ' was to be seen on
the steps. He was always there to inspect his

THE LAST OF THE ROAD

o'^

teams, and he regularly dined early, in order to meet
the down coach. What he wanted was horses that
would go the pace ; and his coachmen were selected
for his own qualities — strong arms, cool judgment,
and iron nerve. One memorable morning I had the
honour of being presented to him by my father, an
old neighbour of his in the ' Howe of the Mearns/
and I well remember what struck me most in the
old athlete was the twisted cordage of muscle on
the back of the hands that had dealt so many a
knock-down blow and mastered so many a team of
queer ones. His tastes and traditions survived.
If any county gentleman had a vicious rogue of
blood with some substance, he was passed on to the
' Defiance ' and very soon brought to his bearings.
One day, with Barclay himself on the box seat, we
ran a reckless race with his neighbour Hepburn of
Riccarton, who was driving a blood mare in a light
dogcart. We were passed and repassed, but the
heavy-weight was out of the running, and the
captain was much disgusted when beaten on the
long- staoe. With such horses we were not un-
frequently on the brink of grief There was a
changing place on the North Esk, with an awk-
ward slope to an ugly bridge, and there by some
fatality we often had trouble. One time our
leaders were a kicker and a bolter ; the one was
plunging in the traces, while the other was lashing
out over the bars. Or o;i'*&nother occasion there
would be a sullen lyr^ite who cast himself down.

314 DAYS OF THE PAST

after having an old set of harness thrown under
his hoofs 'to let him dance on the leather,' and
then could only be persuaded to get up by firing
an armful of straw under his belly. By that time
the three yokefellows were all on end, like so
many unicorns rampant. When the coachman
could ease the straining wrists, they must have
nearly torn his arms out of the sockets. It amazes
me now that accidents were so rare, and the
smashes and capsizes were far from frequent.

Another marvel is how, even in these easy-going
days, the coaches sufficed for the traffic. From
end to end you must book in advance, in defiance
of ulterior arrangements or the elements. At
intermediate stations all was haphazard, especially
on side roads served by a single 'daily.' Rivals
were put on the roads, but they generally were
driven into bankruptcy. At one country house,
which was very much my home in early days, we
were lucky in having a blacksmith's forge to wait
at. Often have I sought shelter by the glow of
that smithy fire when Vulcan was hammering a
horse-shoe or fastening a ploughshare. When the
' Earl of Fife,' sarcastically criticised by * Nimrod,'
was sighted rising the brow of the hill, you specu-
lated anxiously on the roof load and strove to
count the heads of the passengers. But even if it
were crowded, by favour of the guard, an active boy
could generally bestow himself precariously on the
top of the luggage. Guards and coachmen exer-

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 315

cised a despotism, tempered by tips. Proprietors
who could not control them in details, left a great
deal in their power. By tacit understanding, if they
gave a friend a lift, they might pocket the douceur ;
all that was expected of them was, that they should
not be found out. They made a good thing of
the delivery of letters and small parcels, never
entered in the way bill. The fore boot was under
the legs of the coachman, as the letter-bags in the
mails were under the feet of the guard. But on
the stage coaches the hind boot was a locker opened
from beneath, and the burly guardian was to be
seen balancing himself on the back step, extracting
or tossing in parcels without the coach slackening
its speed.

The coachman was wont to get handsome
perquisites by handing the reins over to aspiring
amateurs. The arrangement did not always come
off so smoothly as might be desired, when there
were fractious travellers with nerves. I recollect a
gay young gentleman foolishly taking the driver's
seat before the start and gathering up the reins
with a flourish. One of the insides protested in
vain, till he announced himself as a well-known
and litigious local lawyer, declaring that unless
driven by the coachman, he would get out and
take a postchaise and four at the expense of the
proprietors. The young Jehu had to knock under
and climb down ; but he was a youth of resource
and a part owner to boot, so he forthwith

o

i6 DAYS OF THE PAST

took out a licence as 'extra coachman,' entitling
him to peril lives and limbs at his discretion.

Naturally, with so much in their power, guards
and coachmen were courted on the road. Nor
was it altogether out of gratitude for favours to
come, for it was their business and interest to
make themselves agreeable, and they were recom-
mended to their masters by their social qualities.
I made a memorable night-journey from Inverness
to Aberdeen on the northern ' Defiance.' It was
the last professional trip of a popular guard. At
every stage, friends already ' well on ' as Tam
O'Shanter, were sitting up to give him a ' send-
off': jovial allies scrambled on to the roof to
convoy him to the next stage : raw whisky and
hot toddy flowed like burn water : the night owls
were roused with song and catch ; and when I
was dropped in the morning at Inverury, the
' Defiance,' usually regulated like clock-work, was
a full hour behind her time. The most remarkable
tribute to the merits of the oruard was that
neither he nor the coachman were called over the
coals.

Borrow makes a savage onslaught on the crack
coachmen of his time ; but Borrow, with the per-
versity of his very original talent, was always
' contrairy ' or in extremes. So far as my ex-
perience goes, like Mark Twain's quartz mining
cast, ' I think different.' I found them capital
fellows, and kindly protectors of unsophisticated

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 317

innocence. I knew they were welcome guests in
many a sporting mansion, cordially invited to the
dinner-table when the cloth was drawn. One
instance I recollect, when the rubicund coachman,
though modestly seated on the edge of the chair,
joined in the talk with respectful independence,
but firmly declined a third bumper of old port —
not that he or his colleagues made a practice of
temperance elsewhere, and it was marvellous the
amount of strong liquor those seasoned vessels
could carry soberly and discreetly. For they were
hand-in-glove with each jolly landlord down the
road, and had a fatherly or loverlike smile for every
blooming barmaid. Yet they lasted well, dying
for the most part in a green old age. Talking of
talks with them, I recall another veteran, crippled
with complications of gout and rheumatism, who
was persuaded by a friend of mine to cross
Burntisland Ferry in surveillance of a pair of
young cobs who were to be broken to harness.
It was a bachelor household, and he was per-
suaded to dine with us. He had driven in South
England as well as the far North, and when he
dropped into vein of reminiscence, he engrossed
the conversation. He not only was eloquent on
experiences of his own, and some of them were
sensational enough, but he had the traditional
episodes of the southern flyers at his finger ends,
in fog, snowstorm, and blizzards. The habitual
performances of some of the long-distance drivers

3i8 DAYS OF THE PAST

might almost surpass in dogged strength of en-
durance the performance of their great patron
Captain Barclay, when he walked the thousand
miles in the thousand hours. He told of the
notable guards who were at least as tough. Like
the coachmen they were well conditioned men, who
had matured and hardened in the service. But
whereas the coachman could envelop himself in
box-coats and horse-cloths, the equally bulky
ofuard had to face the elements in lighter o-arments.
The very tripod on which he perched himself
seemed to have been devised by the authorities to
chill his legs and keep him wakeful. The sensa-
tional days of Bagshot Heath and Epping Forest
had gone by, when he had an arms' chest with
blunderbuss and horse-pistols in front of him.
Nevertheless, no corpulent elderly gentleman in
the islands more habitually put limbs or life in
peril. I have referred to the risk in picking up
parcels, and playing the acrobat over the hind
boot on a coach in rapid motion. Wrists and
arms were under the wheels, when he was putting
on or taking off the drag at a declivity. Or a
trace would snap to the startling of the team, and
then he would be down among lively heels in the
dark to repair damages with the rope he had
ready for such contingencies. In black fog or
blinding snow-drift, it was he who had the re-
sponsibility of guiding the coach, when bearings
were lost and landmarks obliterated. He stuck

THE LAST OF THE ROAD 319

to the craft so long as steerage was any way
practicable, but when the stranded ship must
be abandoned, it was his charge to get forward
with the mails, even if passengers were left to be
starved or frozen. Deaf to appeals, he unhar-
nessed the leaders, mounting barebacked on the
one, and loading the bags on the other. Then
the heavy weight started to ride postillion over
perhaps a hundred miles or so of snow-shrouded
country, where all trace of a highway was lost,
and which might have puzzled an Arctic explorer.
Some of the deeds of those men who came in
to be lifted out of their seat, fainting and frost-
bitten, deserved the Victoria Cross. I may wind
up with my own recollection of a comparatively
trivial incident which happened in my nursery
days. A guard who was livid with chill, and
racked with rheumatic pains, came at late day-
break to the laird's hospitable halls, to seek neither
a warm bed nor a doctor, but a remount from
the stables. The horse he had been riding had
foundered. In fact it had slipped a leg down the
chimney of a cottage, buried out of sight in the
snow-fall of one terrible night.

Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majefty
at the F.dinljurgh University Press

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