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FORTY YEARS ON

Photo FJhott & Fry

FORTY YEARS ON

LORD ERNEST HAMILTON

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LIMITED LONDON

Printed in Great Britain by
RicHAKD Clay & Sons, Limited,

BUNUAY, SUFFOLK.

d)A.
5b5

M ) ^O ^ A

CONTENTS

CHAP.

PAOB

THE SIXTIES

II.

BLESSED SHADES .

III.

FAMILY HISTORY .

IV.

BARONS COURT

THE SEVEN SISTERS

VI.

HARROW

VII.

MY FATHER .

106

VIII.

VICEREGAL DAYS .

123

IX.

DRUMLANRIG

130

LANGHOLM .

147

XI.

SOLDIERING .

159

XII.

HOUNSLOW .

172

XIII.

BALLINCOLLIG

188

XIV.

POLITICS

203

XV.

PARLIAMENT .

222

XVI.

KLONDYKE .

225

XVII.

PERU .

247

XVIII.

THALASSA, THALASSA

275

XIX.

PETWORTH .

293

XX.

IN MEMORIAM
INDEX .

300
303

1 Gv':C693

ILLUSTRATIONS

LORD ERNEST HAMILTON .

HERMIONE, DUCHESS OF LEINSTER

LADY CATHERINE HAMILTON

JAMES, FIRST DUKE OF ABERCORN

WALTER FRANCIS, FIFTH DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH

DRUMLANRIG CASTLE ....

WILLIAM HENRY, SIXTH DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH
THE DUCHESS (lADY LOUISA HAMILTON)

WHITE PASS ......

AUTHOR AND PARTY ON PERUVIAN PAMPA

FOUR GENERATIONS .....

Facing pa^ge
Fro7tliipirce

AND

16
82

112
136
144

152
240
256
300

Oh ! the great days in the distance enchanted !

Days of fresh air in the rain and the sun,
How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted

Hardly believable forty years on.

E. E. BowEN.

CHAPTER I

THE SIXTIES

To those who may raise the objection that the
title of this book is not quite in keeping with the
heading of the opening chapter, I would merely
observe that the title is meant to strike a polite
average between the first and last post of observa-
tion, and is therefore not the cowardly evasion
that it might at first sight appear. I may add,
in further explanation, that it is intended to be
a quotation from the last verse of the famous
song, and not the first verse — a distinction which
many will appreciate. In the last verse the singer
claims one gain as against several losses, but sighs
in doing it, as well he may ; for, though length of
memory in another may have some value for the
general public, it must always be but a shaky
compensation to the possessor for the shortness
of wind which buys it. Nevertheless, the long-
winded and the short-memoried may be glad to
read of the be-haloed days of yore, when Plancus
was Consul and the grass grew green on the top
of the hill ; while the short-winded and the long-
memoried may not be sorry to conjure up once
more visions of forms and features which were
once familiar but which have long since passed
on ahead.

I must admit at the start that I do not approach

FORTY YEARS ON

my subject in the spirit of a blind laudator
temyoris acti. There must always, of course, be
a certain glamour about the long past, which
perhaps raises it above its true value, partly
because it has slipped away from us, but mainly, I
think, because long-past days were the days when
limbs were strong and wind was sound and golden
apples hung within reach. Apart from the natural
regret which we must all feel at the loss of such
things, my own view is that the world has, on
the whole, gained more than it has lost during the
past half-century. I know that few of my con-
temporaries will agree with this heresy, but, none
the less, I must adhere to it. Of course, in
certain directions, there have been irreparable
losses — not merely money losses, but losses of the
sacred customs and traditions which moulded the
lives of preceding generations, and which, in a
large degree, have helped to make England what
it was and what, alas ! it will never be again.
For all these vanished glories and joys we shed
the sad tear, not so much because they represent
a personal loss, but because, with their passing,
England as a nation seems shorn of some of its
most distinctive features. It would almost seem
as though one of the stripes had been ripped out
of the Union Jack.

All ill winds, however, blow good to somebody,
and in other directions there have certainly been
gains. Men and women of the upper classes are
more enlightened than when I first remember
them; girls arc more natural; conversation is

THE SIXTIES

less vapid ; sentiments are more real, and humbug
is less fashionable. In the Sixties, which is the
first decade of which I have any clear recollec-
tion— and it is wonderful how clear that recollec-
tion is — a strong vein of humbug, both of self and
others, ran right through Society with a big S.
The affectations of the middle century, in fact —
although moribund — were by no means dead, and
the elderly practised them without shame.

It has been suggested that the affectations of
early Victorian days were a natural rebound from
the coarseness of the Georgian period. In the
depths of the country, where things move slowly,
this Georgian coarseness survived long after
London had shaken it off. The mere foxhunter
of early Victorian days was, we cannot but
believe, a very coarse fellow indeed. Surtees has
bowdlerised him in his immortal works — and quite
properly too — but, reading between Surtees' lines,
it is not difficult to guess at the gross boorishness
of his Jug Boystons, Jack Spraggons and Lord
Scamperdales. Out of the saddle and at close
quarters, these gentry must have left much to
be desired.

In an over-eagerness to prove their aloofness
from the manners of these rude sons of the chase,
the Victorian fops of the Dundreary type went to
the other extreme and made themselves ridiculous
by an extravagant affectation of refinement. They
lisped; they drawled; they pronounced their
" r's " hke " w's." They waved scented handker-
chiefs in the air and eschewed all games and

FORTY YEARS ON

sports as being rough and coarse. Gaiety bur-
lesque drew a far from exaggerated picture of this
type in the famous verse : —

" Au re voir, ta-ta,
I heard him say,
To the Lady Cranbourn Alley

While bidding her good-day.
I'll stwike you with a feather,
I'll stab you with a wose,
I'll shoot at you with wafers
And give you fearful blows ! "

In the Sixties, though foppery was on the wane,
and had its contemptuous scoffers among the more
virile school, there were still, among the older
generation, many surviving specimens of the
Dundreary idiot. There were also their feminine
counterparts, who strove, with only partial
success, to outshine the Dundrearys in effeminacy.
One of the chief, and not the least ridiculous
affectation of the cult was the deliberate mis-
pronunciation, where possible, of every word in
the English language. Septuagenarians might
still be heard describing how " The dear Dook was
obleeged by the heat to set in a gyarden cheer,
under the laloc trees, drinking tay out of yallow
chancy coops, while his leddy on the balcony ate
cowcumbers and reddishes off goold plates brought
to Oxfordshcer from Roome," etc, etc. Even
the middle-aged, through the force of example,
adopted some of these mispronunciations. They
spoke of terriers as " tarriers," and of yellow as
" yallow," but the young eschewed them alto-
gether. Certain names, however, such as Pall

THE SIXTIES

Mall, Berkshire and Derby, have permanently
taken on the corrupted vowel sound.

The mid- Victorian girls were as natural as their
mothers allowed them to be, but the habit of
artificiality was still too strong to be entirely
shaken off in one generation. Nevertheless, the
girls, even though not quite natural, were very
sweet. Their complexions were clear and fresh
and wholly innocent of the modern disfiguring
pastes and powders. The most strenuous pre-
cautions were taken to preserve these complexions
in their original purity. The first gleam of sun-
shine, no matter how weak and watery, was the
signal for every young woman and girl to hoist a
parasol. Lawn tennis, hockey, golf and other
similar exercises, where maiden cheeks have to be
exposed to sun and wind, were of course unknown.
Croquet and archery were the most violent forms
of exercise allowed. No girl or woman could
swim. Swimming would have been considered
highly immodest, as swimming necessitates a
swimming costume. When ladies did bathe,
which was seldom, they did so in conventual
seclusion. Enveloped from head to foot in thick
blue sackcloth, they crept into the sea under the
shelter of huge hoods which extended from the
bathing machines to the water. Here they
pranced at the end of a rope for some minutes and
then emerged. Any man trespassing within eye-
distance of this immodest exhibition of the female
form was branded a barbarian in the first degree.

On dry land, feminine forms were pinched and

FORTY YEARS ON

trussed into all sorts of odd shapes suggestive of
anything rather than the work of the Creator.
The natural female shape was considered an
indecency, and immense pains were taken to
camouflage it in every way possible. Feminine
beauty was not perhaps more admired than it
is to-day, but it was certainly more discussed
and was invested with higher importance. The
charms of reigning beauties formed one of the
regular topics of dinner-table talk. They were
called " professional " beauties in those days.
They were not numerous, but their reigns were
long. Mrs. Asquith, in her Autobiography, gives
us a list of such beauties in the Eighties, and,
after singing their merits, laments the fact that
she can see no beautiful women to-day. This
is hardly understandable, because there are un-
questionably many more beautiful women about
to-day than there were in the Eighties. It could
hardly be otherwise with the expansion in all
directions of that indefinite body known as
Society. The fact of the matter is that to-day
female beauty is taken as a matter of course and is
not made a song of as it used to be. There are
any number of beautiful women in London Society
about whose beauty no fuss is made at all. In
the Eighties their charms would have been shouted
from every housetop in Belgravia and Mayfair.
They would have been set on pinnacles on which
they would have remained till they were grand-
mothers, objects of feminine gush, while men made
love elsewhere.

THE SIXTIES

While registering my opinion that the women
of to-day are on the whole just as beautiful as
the women of the Eighties, the Seventies and the
Sixties, and perhaps more so, for they are more
like women and less hke penwipers, I must make
one exception in favour of the late Duchess of
Leinster, in my opinion incomparably the most
beautiful woman I have ever seen— one other
always excepted. All Lord Feversham's daugh-
ters were beautiful— astonishingly beautiful— but,
if the four Yorkshire sisters had stood in com-
petition before Paris, I think he would have given
the apple to Lady Hermione, afterwards Duchess
of Leinster. As a child of sixteen or so, when
she and her sisters used to play about in Belgrave
Square, her beauty was so dazzling as to be
almost unbelievable. It was not only that she
was divinely tall and absolutely flawless in shape,
feature and complexion— a very rare combina-
tion—but she also had on her face that look of
radiant goodness which, for some mysterious
reason, is seldom seen on the faces of any except
those doomed to an early death.

Drawing-room conversation in the Sixties was
mainly anecdotal, as indeed it must always be in
a Society which has no knowledge of the practical
side of life. The raconteur, from whom people
now flee as from the plague, was then in great
request. Even he, however, would only tap
his stock of anecdotes on occasions worthy of
the effort. Election results were discussed with
feverish interest, but only in the light of pure

FORTY YEARS ON

party. No attempt was ever made to analyse
party propaganda. For the rest, conversation
revolved round the simple topics of food, health
and the weather, and in no case was any attempt
made to soar above accepted generalities. Few
indeed, in mid- Victorian days, had the temerity
to exploit original ideas. The intellectual level
of the day did not demand any such excursions,
and such as made the attempt were eyed suspici-
ously. Although health and the weather were
generally recognised as suitable subjects for
dinner-table talk, at moments when conversation
was flagging, undoubtedly the most popular sub-
ject for discussion was food; for, whereas in the
former case Society merely passed on the views
of the doctor or the gardener, on the question of
food it could air first-hand opinions. It was also
very well up in its subject, to which much study
and attention were devoted. The meal known as
" dinner " was little short of a religious rite. It
was no longer the disgusting orgy that it had been
in the early nineteenth century, but it was still a
function to which everything else in the day was
subordinate. People went out specially to get
up an appetite for dinner. They refrained from
doing this or doing that for fear of " spoiling
their dinner." Other meals were of no account.
They were, I think, even looked upon with dis-
favour as poachers on the preserves of the final
great gastronomic function. None of the old
school would look at five-o'clock tea for fear it
might imperil their powers of enjoyment later on.

THE SIXTIES

In a Society so naive and simple-minded as
that of the Sixties, the professional classes, as may
readily be imagined, ran joyous riot. No layman
had sufficient knowledge to question, in the
smallest particular, the dogmatic utterances of
the doctor, the parson, the lawyer or even the
gardener. Doctors, I think, were held in the
highest reverence of all the professionals. Their
status was almost that of magicians wielding
mysterious and supernatural powers. They
exercised unchallenged sway over every affluent
household. As a direct consequence, sickliness
became the fashion of the day. Robust health
was looked down upon as vulgar. Mothers with
the greatest reluctance admitted that their
children were not diseased. "Oh, no; he (or
she) is not really strong," was the common form
of apology for red cheeks and large appetites.

In spite, however, of the many little weaknesses
which are inseparable from an age in which prac-
tical knowledge is looked down upon as savouring
of the middle-classes. Society of the Sixties had
many joyous aspects for the few who had the
entree to the best houses. I was but a diminutive
onlooker of the doings of those days. My joys
were the never-failing and never-changing joys of
childhood in every age. I trundled hoops and
chased butterflies ; but, young as I was, my mind
is quite clear as to the happy-family fashion in
which the great world lived. Society, of course,
was very small and very clearly defined. Every-
one knew everyone else in that exclusive circle,

FORTY YEARS ON

and as well might the Pope of Rome have tried
to enter Mecca, as the self-made millionaire to
find a footing in that sacred throng. Although
many within the guarded gates were very rich,
there was no glaring parade of wealth. Tastes
were very simple. The artistic sense among the
upper classes was quite undeveloped and yet, to
a certain extent, the ends of art were achieved
unconsciously. Shiny chintz covers draped chairs
and sofas both in town and country, and gave
to the living-rooms a certain air of freshness
and distinction which even the hideous wall-
papers could not entirely dissipate. Furniture
was solid and very ugly. Sheraton and Chippen-
dale ware was pronounced " gimcracky " and
pushed away out of sight in lumber-rooms.
White paint and pale shades of green or blue were
shuddered at as being " so cold." Chocolate or
maroon was preferred. Reds of all shades were
in great request as looking " warm." Tables were
concealed under crimson plush covers, and up the
corners of walls ran gilded laths.

Amidst these surroundings, long- whiskered men
lounged about in peg-top trousers and loose coats
fastened by a single button under the chin. Out-
of-doors they wore Glengarry caps. The ladies
wore crinolines and flounces and the same loose
jackets buttoned under the chin. On their heads,
when out-of-doors, they wore very shallow flat
hats with curly brims. No more disfiguring
female dress has ever been devised by the ingenuity
of man.

THE SIXTIES

The men and women who, thus attired, gathered
round our hearth stand out very clearly in my
memory. The Jocelyns and their family; the
Elchos and their very large family ; the Pophams ;
Hugh Greville; Alfred Montgomery and the
husbands of my four eldest sisters, Lichfield,
Durham, Dalkeith and Mount-Edgcumbe. All
of these came and went in constant rotation and
are clearly photographed upon my mind, but the
two figures that, from the first, dwarf all others are
those of my father and mother. As the youngest
of a family of thirteen, and twenty-four years the
junior of my eldest sister, I have naturally no
recollection of youthful parents. From the very
first my father and mother stand out on the screen
of life as old people, but as old people who over-
shadowed all competitors as objects of adora-
tion— my father stalwart and magnificent, the
handsomest man of his day, a little aloof, perhaps,
but all the more adorable on that account; and
my mother the very embodiment of Christian
charity, refusing to believe evil of any and shed-
dinof sweetness and kindliness on all around her.
These two, so utterly different the one from the
other and yet each with so compelling a person-
ality, hold the stage unchallenged through all the
changing scenes of my early life.

These scenes changed with exciting frequency.
When I first opened my eyes upon the world, we
were in occupation of Brocket Hall, which my
father rented from Lord Palmerston. Although
we left this charming place when I was five, and

FORTY YEARS ON

although I have never revisited it, my recollec-
tion of the house and immediate surroundings is
very clear. I can see, as though photographed,
the house with its divided staircase, the lake, the
home-farm across the lake and the bridges at
each end. Of stirring incidents, however, my
mind seems barren. The most outstanding seems
to be that of Jack Durham ^ (then Jack Lambton)
kicking the donkey-boy. I must have been five
at the time, and Jack Lambton, although my
nephew, was three years my senior. We were,
I remember, watching the donkey pumping up the
water for the house. The boy in attendance
thought good to encourage the donkey's efforts
by kicking it in the stomach. Jack Lambton
watched this procedure in silence for a minute or
so and then, without a word, seized the donkey-
boy by the collar and kicked him as hard as he
had been kicking the unfortunate donkey, but in a
different quarter. Whether the boy, who must
have been some years older than Jack, made any
resistance, I cannot remember. But the inci-
dent is interesting as marking Jack Durham,
even at that early age, as the fearless champion of
the weak and the sworn foe of all dirty dealings.

When I was five, we migrated for three years to
Beaudesert Park, which my father rented from
Lord Anglesea. As in the case of Brocket, the
topography of Beaudesert is very clearly im-
printed on my mind, but once again no incident
seems worthy of record except, perhaps, the inci-

1 John, third Earl of Durham.
12

THE SIXTIES

dent of my nurse throwing the slop-basin at the
nursery-maid.

Our nursery occupied a corner room on the top
floor and was connected with the lower regions by
a small turret staircase. On the memorable even-
ing in question, our tea-table was laid, but the
tea did not arrive with its customary punctuality.
The delay would seem to have incensed our worthy
nurse more than the occasion warranted, for,
when the nursery-maid eventually appeared
through the door of the turret stairs bearing the
tray, she was saluted by the slop-basin, hurled
at her head with accurate aim and considerable
force. The girl placed the tray in safety, wiped
the blood from her face and then gave vent to a
suitable flow of tears. There, as far as I know,
the incident closed. Why the girl made no com-
plaint is more than I can say, but it is possible
that the nurse knew things about her which would
have squared accounts had she complained.

At the above scene, as may be supposed, I
gazed in open-eyed amazement, wondering what
it all meant, for the nurse in question was a
particularly kind woman whom my brother and I
absolutely adored. The explanation, as we after-
wards found out, lay in the brandy-bottle. The
good nurse had occasional recourse to this bottle,
which, instead of exhilarating, as it should have
done, produced exactly the opposite efiect, and
made her, for the time being, a danger to her
neighbours. We children, too, suffered occasion-
ally from unaccountable fits of fury born of

FORTY YEARS ON

brandy, but we bore no ill-will for them, although
wondering a good deal what it all meant. I
remember well that, when this nurse's time came
to leave, I tried hard to recall all the acts of
violence from which I had suffered at her hands,
so as to soften the pang of parting from one whom
I loved so dearly.

Apart from this one incident, Beaudesert is
chiefly associated in my mind with the singing of
pretty little Mrs. Popham. Mrs. Popham had a
very sweet voice and sang, to a guitar accompani-
ment, little songs of which the words and music
were her own. By comparison with modern
drawing-room performances these songs would
now seem simple and crude, but they certainly
had a sweetness and pathos about them which the
modern song misses. Mrs. Popham's singing of
them made a lasting impression on my youthful
mind. I never tired of hearing the following
ballad sung, sitting in rapt silence beside her, as
directed by the words of the song, which are, of
course, supposed to be addressed to a child :

" Sit beside me ; I will tell

Why my heart is always aching,
Why I gaze across the vale,

Watching shadows circles making.

" In the winter, years ago.

Long before you can remember,

All the earth was white with snow

In the month of cold December.

" I was waiting at the gate.

Watching, sick at heart and weary ;
He was never home so late,

Crossing o'er the mountain dreary.
14

THE SIXTIES

** Never since that winter's day

Has my heart been free from sorrow,
For beneath the snow he lay,

No one found him till the morrow.

" That is wh}^ I look so pale,

Why my heart is always aching,
Why I gaze across the vale,

Watching shadows circles making."

The beauty of the musical setting and the sweet
quahty of the singer's voice gave a charm to
these simple words which can hardly be described.
My other favourite, " They told me the old house
was haunted," had a happier ending :

" They told me my heart would be broken,

My young life be withered away ;
But in answer I gave them a token

Of what I had found there that day.
For though the wild fir trees were creaking,

And ghosts were in every part,
I found what I long had been seeking —

A heart I could take to my heart."

That was the song of Littlecote, where the
ghost of Wild Dayrell was supposed to haunt all
the successors of that Judge Popham into whose
hands the property had passed after the trial and
acquittal of Dayrell on the charge of murder.

In 1866 my father was appointed Lord-Lieu-
tenant of Ireland and we left Beaudesert for the
Viceregal Lodge. This to my small-boy's mind
was a tremendous event from which I anticipated
every sort of pleasurable excitement. These
hopes were not fully realised. Small boys of
eight are a misfit in Viceregal functions, so that it
was little of the Court festivities that I saw during
my father's first term of office. There were certain

FORTY YEARS ON

supreme moments, however, when my brother
and I found that we were not without an official
value. When State " Drawing-Rooms " took
place we were brought forth from our schoolroom
obscurity and given temporary official rank as
pages to our mother. Gorgeously attired in white
satin breeches, blue poplin tunics slashed with
silver braid and tin-bladed swords, we proudly
took up our position behind the throne. We
dearly loved these full-dress functions. The
excitement of seeing the Dublin ladies file past
for presentation never palled. When we recog-
nised friends or acquaintances among those
presented our excitement was doubled. Un-
doubtedly, however, our greatest joy was when,
as occasionally happened, one of the Dublin ladies
became overcome by bashfulness at the prospect
of being kissed by the Lord-Lieutenant. It was
the custom of the Court that every lady presented
should submit to a salute from the Viceregal lips.
This rite was as time-honoured and invariable as
the baptismal ceremony, and yet no Drawing-
Room ever passed without one or two of the
victims being overcome by a sudden access of
modesty. It was never the young or pretty ones
who raised objections, but always some mature
dame or damsel of many Dublin winters. These
would back and shy and giggle and simper till
in the end Gustavus Lambert was forced with the
aid of his underlings to drag them squealing up
to the throne, there to receive the Lord-Lieu-
tenant's reluctant kiss upon their wrinkled cheeks.

THE SIXTIES

We two small pages used to welcome these displays
of modesty with frantic enthusiasm.

On the occasion of one Drawing-Room, when
the ladies were disappointingly forward, and
when proceedings were therefore a trifle dull, my
brother discovered that there was just room for
two small boys to creep in between the throne and
the wall behind it, and there to curl up and go
to sleep. It did not in the least disturb us
that we emerged from our resting-place with our
beautiful liveries coated with the dust of ages.
Those who had charge of our morals were very
much disturbed, and dusted our coats (and our
breeches too) with a vigour which convinced us
that in the long run it was more profitable, even
though more wearisome, to stand.

Gustavus Lambert, the Chamberlain, whose
duty it was to lead the recalcitrant Dublin ladies
to the sacrifice, was a singularly striking and
picturesque figure, for, when not in official
uniform, he invariably wore a tight blue frock-
coat with cross bars of braid, and Hessian boots.
He had a very dignified bearing and a very tightly
waxed moustache which, in combination with his
Hessian boots, made him an object of ceaseless glad-
ness to my eyes. Lady Fanny, his wife, who was
a Conyngham by birth, was little less striking in her
own way. A very handsome woman of the Spanish
type, she had a predilection for dresses of Zingari
colours which, in those days of expansive crino-
lines, produced some fine colour effects. They had
a galaxy of extremely good-looking daughters,
o 17

CHAPTER II

BLESSED SHADES

One of the first figures of public interest to
which long memory carries one back is that of
Queen Alexandra, who, as Princess of Wales,
visited my father at Dublin Castle in 1867.
H.R.H., as I remember her, was then a vision of
smiles, side-ringlets and general loveliness. It is
no more than the bare truth to say that in the
Irish metropolis she won all hearts, and, among
them, that of an insignificant but adoring boy
of eight and a half.

My small, and probably dirty, hands were at
that time badly disfigured by a number of warts.
The application of caustic to these warts had
turned them brown, which cannot have added
to their attractiveness. H.R.H. took the most
solicitous interest in my complaint and examined
my repulsive little hands with the tenderest care.
After listening to a recital of my woes— for my
warts were a source of great shame and distress
to me — she promised that she would charm them
away for me. A certain rite was gone through,
to the best of my recollection with hazel twigs,
but, be that as it may, the fact remains, that
from that day on my warts began to disappear
and have never shown any tendency to return.

BLESSED SHADES

It is not to be wondered at that I worshipped
with a lasting adoration the lovely Princess who
had worked this Hans Andersen miracle on me.

H.R.H., in common with other members of the
Royal Family, had the gift of never forgetting a
face and seldom forgetting an incident, no matter
how trivial. When, some fourteen years later,
the Prince and Princess of Wales came to stay
with my father at Barons Court, I was duly
presented and made my bow. H.R.H. graciously
shook hands with me and then, retaining my
hand, said: "But where are the warts?" I
explained that her magic had effected a per-
manent cure, at which she was greatly pleased.

The next occasion on which I came in contact
with their Royal Highnesses carries with it less
pleasing recollections. In 1885 the Prince and
Princess of Wales paid a friendly visit to the city
of Cork, and part of my regiment formed the
escort while the remainder kept the streets.
My own troop was stationed in Patrick Street,
where an immense crowd had collected. On the
approach of the Royal carriage, to my horror
and unspeakable indignation, the entire crowd
gave vent to a chorus of boos, hisses and shrill
howls of execration, to which H.R.H., wholly
undismayed, replied with her invariably sweet
and winning smile. So far from disarming the
crowd of its malice, this turning of the other
cheek seemed only to incense it the more, for
presently onions began to fly through the air
and, finally, a miniature wooden coffin was

FORTY YEARS ON

thrown with accurate aim into the Royal carriage
and landed almost on H.R.H.'s knees. A more
despicable and cowardly return for a visit which
was undertaken solely with a view to doing
honour to Cork can hardly be imagined, and I
can answer for it that there was not a man in
my troop who would not gladly have turned the
point of his drawn sword upon the howling
crowd and charged. In the absence of orders,
however, we were powerless to move. Per-
sonally I was able to fmd a certain comforting
safety-valve for the indignation which was boiling
within me. I was riding a thoroughbred charger
named Gainsborough, one of whose peculiarities
was that, if I laid my hand on his quarters, he
would instantly lash out viciously behind. Never
was this slightly inconvenient habit of more
loyal service than on the day in question. I
backed him to where the crowd was thickest, laid
my hand innocently on his quarters and in an
instant the crowd in the immediate neighbour-
hood was scattered like chaff before the wind.
Half a dozen times I repeated the performance,
and then Gainsborough's opportunities for loyal
gymnastics were at an end, for that part of
Patrick Street was effectually cleared.

The subject of Gainsborough and his peculiar-
ities leads me by natural channels to another
incident which was less satisfactory to my self-
esteem. One of the playful beast's habits was
to give three tremendous buck- jumps whenever
I mounted him. On ordinary occasions this

BLESSED SHADES

display of spirits rather amused me and had no
disturbing effects. One day I was ordered to
escort the Duke of Albany through the streets
of Liverpool with the Rupert Lane squadron, the
squadron to be in full dress. This order meant
that my charger had to be decorated with a
heavy gold-embroidered cloth, since obsolete, but
known in those days as a " shabraque." I
inspected my mounted squadron on foot and
then proceeded to mount my own horse, who, as
usual, delivered himself of his three regulation
buck-jumps. To my horror I discovered on the
instant that the presence of this thick hanging-
cloth absolutely prevented my getting any grip
of the saddle. The first buck-jump disturbed
my equilibrium ; the second practically dislodged
me from the saddle, and the third shot me neatly
on to my back in the mud of the barrack square.
The incident would, in any case, have been
distressing, but, in all my best clothes, it was
little short of a tragedy. We had only just time
to arrive at our destination as it was, so that to
change my tunic was out of the question. All
that I could do was to get myself rubbed down
with a cloth and to mount again with the marks
of my discomfiture only very partially effaced.
Of this fact the small boys of Liverpool soon gave
me loud and hilarious proof. This, however,
was not the worst. My place, as commander of
the squadron, was close to the left door of the
Royal carriage. I had once before had the
honour of escorting H.R.H. from Egham to

FORTY YEARS ON

Claremont on the occasion of his marriage, and,
with the pecuUar gift of his family, he at once
recognised me and made friendly inquiries as to
the unusual condition of my tunic and pantaloons.
As we trotted along, I told him my sad story.
I have seldom seen anyone laugh more. The
populace was cheering lustily on both sides of
the street and, between his acknowledgments,
H.R.H. would, from time to time, turn his eyes
upon me as I trotted gloomily at his side with
my drawn sword at the carry, and would be
momentarily convulsed with mirth. The Liver-
2)ool Courier next day remarked that H.R.H.
was looking particularly well, and for this bright
and sunny aspect there is no doubt that I was
largely responsible.

A striking figure in the Viceregal days of
1866-68 was that of Lord Strathnairn, better
known as Sir Hugh Rose of Indian Mutiny fame.
This old Scottish warrior, desperate fire-eater
though he was reputed, and I believe justly, to
be, was the very reverse in appearance. He
had a mildly benevolent countenance, deeply
lined, and crowned by hair of most unmilitary
length, which fell over his face in long straggling
locks, suggestive of a Skye terrier. His manner
was almost ladylike in its urbanity and, in place
of affecting a military attitude, he habitually
stood with his hands limply crossed in front of
him. He spoke in a weak, husky voice, and his
whole manner, speech and appearance suggested
an amiable, absent-minded old lady rather than

BLESSED SHADES

a dashing general. And yet he was known to be
a leader of iron will, of indomitable courage and
of pitiless severity when circumstances called for
severity.

At the time I remember Lord Strathnairn he
was C.-in-C. of the forces in Ireland. His staff
worshipped him and, better than any of us,
knew how deceptive was his ladylike manner,
for his habit was to lead them to and from a
field-day straight across country at full gallop,
taking every fence exactly where it came in his
path. The moment, in fact, that he was mounted,
every suggestion of the amiable lady died an
instant death, as anyone can judge for himself
by a study of the remarkable statue in Knights-
bridge, of which every turn and twist is true to
life.

Lord Strathnairn took a great fancy to me, at
that time a small boy of some eight summers,
and my greatest delight was to be allowed to ride
behind him during an inspection of troops.

On one occasion the 92nd Gordon Highlanders
had a field-day and inspection in the Phoenix
Park. By virtue of the fact that my great-
grandmother had been the famous Duchess of
Gordon who raised the regiment, I was in the
habit of sporting a Gordon tartan kilt alternately
with one of Royal Stuart tartan, my right to
wear which was based on even more remote
family ties. Lord Strathnairn, always full of
little kindnesses, had made me, on my eighth
birthday, a very handsome present of a silk

FORTY YEARS ON

Gordon tartan plaid, and, shortly afterwards,
invited me to accompany him, in the capacity
of supernumerary A.D.C., during his inspection
of the famous regiment. Full of delight, mingled
with a bursting pride, I mounted my pony in all
my new glory, silk plaid, eagle's feathers and all,
and, accompanied by a guardian groom, rode
out to the Phoenix Park to await the arrival of
Lord Strathnairn, who was expected from the
direction of the Royal Hospital. Presently he
arrived — as usual at full gallop — and I fell in
behind him as he trotted down the line. My
new silk plaid had a heavy fringe, and, the
moment I started trotting, this fringe tickled my
pony's quarters so distressingly that he gave
them a vicious hoist in the air and shot me clean
over his head before the whole regiment. Even
to this day I remember the overwhelming
sense of shame with which I picked myself up
and ignominiously limped on foot down the
interminable row of grinning Highlanders.

In his last years Lord Strathnairn became very
absent-minded. At one Foreign Office reception
which he attended, he asked everyone he knew
to dine with him on the following night, and then
forgot all about it. Next night, some thirty-
seven hungry and expectant people disembarked
from various vehicles at the front door of his
tiny house in Charles Street. As there were no
preparations made and nothing in the house to
eat, there was nothing for it but to return the
way they had come. The guests immediately

BLESSED SHADES

concerned were not nearly so amused at the
incident as were their friends who heard about
it next day.

As may be gathered from the above incident,
Lord Strathnairn was particularly fond of enter-
taining and boasted a very excellent cook. It
was not his habit to forget his dinner-parties as
he did in the case of his unhappy Foreign Office
friends, but he sometimes forgot whether he was
dining in his own house or another's. On one
occasion, when dining with Lady A., and in a
particularly absent-minded mood, he suddenly
turned to his hostess and said : " My dear
Lady A., I really must apologise to you for this
extremely nasty dinner. I cannot imagine what
has come over my cook. I have never known
her so disgrace herself before."

In the midst of a disconnected jumble of
childish memories — memories in which there is no
chronological order but occasional very clearly-
cut incidents — the Viceregal cricket season of
1867 takes foremost place. It is not the actual
ebb and flow, success or failure of the cricket
matches that I remember, for in these things I
took no interest at the time. My recollection is
focused on the flannel-clad figures that these
cricket matches brought into prominence. Three
of these figures are as clearly photographed in
my mind as though the days that I am writing
of were the days before yesterday, instead of
being nearly sixty years away. The three figures
are those of Baby Stewart, R. H. Mitchell and

FORTY YEARS ON

Charlie Buller. All these three, I remember,
wore little pork-pie Zingari caps, with the I.Z.
monogram in front, cotton shirts buttoned close
up to the neck, and fniished off with a little
Zingari tie in a bow, and, invariably, a Zingari
belt with a snake clasp. A flannel or a silk
shirt open at the throat would, in those days,
have been considered highly indecorous, nor
would anyone appearing without a belt and tie
have been considered as fully dressed.

My clearest vision of the Baby Stewart of
those days pictures him in the Portico drawing-
room at the Viceregal Lodge, singing in his fine
tenor voice the solo in the Zingari battle-song,
with all the rest of the team joining in the chorus.
The I.Z. club of those days was a very small and
exclusive affair and its members esteemed them-
selves highly. It is difficult for any modern
cricketer who is entitled to wear the red, black
and gold to realise the pride of membership and
esprit de corps that filled the breasts of those
earlier members. The rule (now wholly dis-
regarded) which forbids the wearing of any rival
cricket colours was then rigidly enforced. At
the Viceregal Lodge the members of the team
used to come down to dinner with a broad red,
black and yellow ribbon across their waistcoats,
after the fashion of the Garter ribbon.

So Baby Stewart, as I say, sang the solo of
the Zingari war-song, looking very young and
handsome in spite of his big side whiskers, and
the rest of the team stood round in all the glory

BLESSED SHADES

of the club colours and lustily bellowed the
chorus to the tune of the " Red, White and
Blue " :

" So to-night let us pledge our devotion
'Neath the folds of the red, black and gold."

Baby Stewart, though a good singer and
generally an ornament of Society, was at no time
a cricketer of unusual prowess. The giants of
the team were R. H. Mitchell and Charlie Buller,
and as these two were, at the time, the respective
champions of Eton and Harrow, partisan feeling
ran very high as to which of the two was the
better cricketer. I was, of course, far too young
at the time to form any judgment of my own,
but I believe neutrals did not hesitate to award
the palm to Buller, who was generally reckoned
in those days to be only second as a cricketer to
young W. G. Grace.

Charlie Buller was one of the most remarkable
and certainly one of the most fascinating per-
sonalities that have ever flashed across the path
of Society. At the time I am writing of he must
have been about three or four and twenty, and
came nearer than anyone I have met to the lady-
killing, man-felling, fictional hero of the Guy
Livingstone type. My mental picture of him is
very clear. He was considered the handsomest
man in England, but I remember that, to my
childish mind, whose conception of manly beauty
was, I think, mainly based on a portrait of
Abednego in one of A.L.O.E.'s books, he was not

FORTY YEARS ON

particularly good-looking. He was about five
feet ten in height, with a square massive head,
of the Roman Emperor type, covered with curly
brown hair. He had a well-cut Roman nose,
humorous eyes that were always half-laughing,
and a rather womanly mouth. His neck was
thick and immensely muscular and his torso
that of a Hercules. This massive formation of
the head, neck and shoulders gave him, to my
mind, a slightly top-heavy appearance, but that
he was not top-heavy was proved by his clearing
5 ft. 6 ins. in the high jump at the Harrow School
sports. His manner was that of a sleepy cat and
his voice a gentle purr. His physical strength
was prodigious. All sorts of stories were afloat
as to the amazing feats of strength of which he
occasionally showed himself capable. I myself
have seen him, in later days, twist a kitchen
poker about in his hands as though it were a
piece of picture-wire. One of his favourite recrea-
tions was to put on the gloves with the leading
heavy-weight prize-fighters of the day. From
what I have been given to understand, the
professionals did not derive the same enjoyment
from this exercise as Charlie Buller did, for the
latter's punch was like the kick of a horse. The
ladies were said to go down before him like
thistles before a scythe, and he had room in his
heart for all. The extraordinary attractiveness
of the man, to men no less than women, is evi-
denced by the fact that his regiment (the 2nd
Life Guards) twice paid his debts — a case without

BLESSED SHADES

a parallel in the history of the Army. His
hopeless want of ballast, however, made the end
inevitable. He gradually drifted downhill. No
excesses seemed able to impair his amazing con-
stitution, but his chronic impecuniosity, coupled
with a certain disregard of recognised rules,
pushed him by degrees out of the Society that
had once raved so wildly over him. He tried his
fortunes in many countries, and from time to
time would reappear in London, flash like a
meteor across the path of his old friends, and
vanish again as quickly as he had come. The
last time I saw him was at Byfleet shortly before
his death. I was playing golf, when a shabby
figure suddenly emerged from a thicket and
accosted me by name. I had no difficulty in
recognising Charlie Buller, the one-time darling
of Society. He was much thinner than of old,
but still amazingly handsome and full of his old
irresistible cheeriness. He told me that, for
years past, he had been making a living as a
professor of boxing in America, but had been
forced to give it up on account of his heart. I
asked him to dine with me in London that night,
and he accepted the invitation but did not turn
up. I guessed the reason. A few months later
I heard that he was dead. Few beings have ever
lived so bountifully endowed by nature as was
Charlie Buller.

CHAPTER III

FAMILY HISTO'rY

My father, when he came of age, had inherited,
among other things, Bentley Priory, Stanmore,
where his grandfather had dispensed princely
hospitahty to Wilham Pitt and all the Jin de siecle
bucks of the eighteenth century. This great-
grandfather of mine — known in the family as the
" Old Marquis " — is deserving of a word of notice.
He was an extremely good-looking man and
highly esteemed by Pitt for his mental attain-
ments, but he had a leaning towards an ostentati-
ous display of magnificence, which, in these days,
would be thought both vulgar and ridiculous.
The housemaids who made his bed had to wear
kid gloves, and the footmen had to dip their
hands in a bowl of rose-water before handing him
a dish. His second wife had to be ennobled by
Pitt before he would condescend to marry her.
Both at the Priory and at Hampden House, Green
Street, he entertained in the most sumptuous
and extravagant fashion. On one occasion, at
a reception at the London house, the guests on
arrival found him surrounded by a bodyguard of
young ladies of fashion all clad alike in classical
costume, and so scantily that some of the guests
fairly gasped. Each wore on her breast a band

FAMILY HISTORY

on which were inscribed the three letters I.H.P.
Speculation was rife as to what these letters might
signify. Finally it transpired that they stood for
In honore Prioris, the Prior, of course, being the
Old Marquis. One of the aforesaid damsels— Lady
C. B.— was asked by a friend if she was really as
naked as she appeared to be. " Yes," replied the
maiden, with candid simplicity, " I really am."

The personal adventures of the Old Marquis
were many and varied. The particular adventure
by which he became possessed of a single diamond
of great size and beauty, which is still in the
family, has been so often recounted that there is
no need to repeat it here.

With the opening of the new century, Nemesis
began to overtake this votary of pleasure, and the
house of laughter and frivolity became the house
of mourning. The Old Marquis had married, as
his first wife, the beautiful daughter of Sir Joseph
Copley of Sprottborough, Yorkshire. This lady,
after presenting him with six children in quick
succession, died of consumption. In 1803,
Harriet, the eldest of the daughters, a handsome
girl with bright brown hair and a brilliant com-
plexion, who was engaged to the third Marquis of
Lansdowne, succumbed to the same disease at the
age of nineteen. Five years later, Claud, the
second son, a brilliant and athletic youth, followed
in his sister's footsteps. Catherine, the second
daughter and the most beautiful of a beautiful
family, had, at a very early age, married the great
Lord Aberdeen. Sir Thomas Lawrence has left

FORTY YEARS ON

us two portraits of this girl, taken at different
ages. She had raven locks, slumberous laughing
eyes, a very winning expression — which in the
later portrait has given way to a fixed look of
tragedy — and the fatal brilliancy of colouring for
which all the family were remarkable. She died
four years after Claud, leaving three daughters.
Only Lord Hamilton, the eldest son, and Maria,
the youngest of the family, were now left, for the
first Lady Catherine had died in infancy. Maria,
according to Lawrence's two portraits, was a
lovely girl with a bright sunny face, and auburn
curls falling over her shoulders. She was the
Old Marquis' favourite child, and, as the others
passed away, his love for his last-born seems to
have become so intense that he had little other
thought in the world. His letters at this period
are most pathetic reading, showing, as they do,
the agony with which he watched over this young
girl's health from day to day. So far she had
shown no signs of the disease, and everything that
money and the medical science of the day could do
was brought up into line to fight for her life. It
was all of no avail. The doctors of the day
believed that the night air was poison and recom-
mended their patients to sleep with closed win-
dows, nightcaps on and curtains drawn round
their four-post beds. Death could have asked for
no better auxiliary force. Maria died a year and
a half after her brother, at the age of eighteen,
and was followed to the grave four months later
by the eldest son, Lord Hamilton.

FAMILY HISTORY

The whole generation had now been wiped out
by consumption in the short space of eleven
years, and the Old Marquis, a broken-hearted
and desolate man, never held his head up again.
He joined his family in the churchyard at Stanmore
four years later.

Unfortunately the Copley curse was not yet
dead. Catherine had left three girls, who are
described as being so startlingly beautiful that
crowds used to collect and follow them on their
daily walk from Lord Aberdeen's house in
Grosvenor Square to the Park. All three died of
consumption before they had reached maturity.

The Hamilton-Copley alliance — disastrous as it
had proved in the case above cited— did not end
with the marriage of the Old Marquis to the lovely
Catherine Copley. The Old Marquis married, as
his second wife, his cousin, Cecil Hamilton. He
obtained a divorce from this lady, who, curi-
ously enough, subsequently married Sir Joseph
Copley, the brother of her predecessor, the first
Lady Abercorn. Three children resulted from
this marriage, of whom one married the third
Earl Grey. All three, however, died childless,
so that, for the second time, the Copleys became
extinct. The male line had died out in 1719,
but the name had been adopted by a brother-in-
law named Moyle, who took up his residence at
Sprottborough Hall. Moyle-Copley's two children
have already been dealt with. The daughter
married the Old Marquis, and the son married
the Old Marquis' second wife after she had been

D 33

FORTY YEARS ON

divorced. Both these collateral lines died com-
pletely out in the second generation, with the
exception of my father, his brother and his sister,
who thus became the sole survivors of the Moyle-
Copley blood. The name of Copley has since
been added to the name of Watson, but that
combination was not perpetuated, and it has now
been added to the name of Bewicke.

The extraordinary thing is that, although my
grandfather (Lord Hamilton) had died of con-
sumption, and although his mother, his brother,
all his sisters and all his nieces had died of con-
sumption, he left three children who showed no
trace of the disease. My father, his brother
Claud and his sister Harriet all lived to a good
ripe old age. Of my father's thirteen children
only one developed any symptoms of consump-
tion, and the next generation — a generation of
Victorian dimensions — has been wholly immune.
It is fairly safe then to assume that the Copley
curse is dead.

Lord Aberdeen, the widower of the beautiful
Catherine Hamilton, married my father's mother
a year after the death of her first husband (Lord
Hamilton), and, by this second alliance with the
family, became my father's guardian during his
long minority.

Lord Aberdeen took up his residence at the
Priory, from which my father used at first to
walk the six miles to Harrow School and back
attired in tight green trousers with brass chains
under his boots. Later on, however, he and his

34,

FAMILY HISTORY

brother Claud occupied the house next to " the
Park " at Harrow.

Six months after my father came of age— after
a minority of fourteen years — he married Lady
Louisa Russell and continued for some years to
live at the Priory. This delightful place, how-
ever, was within easy driving distance of London,
and my father's numerous friends found the house
so pleasant to stay in, and so difficult to say good-
bye to, that, in the end, he was forced, in the
interests of self-preservation, to sell the place
and migrate elsewhere. All its art treasures
were stored in the Pantechnicon till such time as
another permanent residence at a safer distance
from London had been decided upon. This ideal
residence was never found. While it was being
sought for, my father found lodging for his family
by occupying furnished country houses— first
Dale Park, then Brocket, then Beaudesert, and
lastly Eastwell. This last was rented from Lord
Winchilsea at the expiration of my father's first
term of office in Dublin, and remained our country
residence till he returned to Dublin for the second
time in 1874.

Eastwell was not appreciated by the adults of
the family, but my brother Freddie and I adored
it. The vastness of the park, the solitude and
silence of its giant beech-woods, and the wonderful
variety of its scenery presented us with practically
unlimited opportunities for adventure and explora-
tion. For the adults, however, its very vastness
was its condemnation. The house stands on the

FORTY YEARS ON

edge of the park, and by no means on the most
attractive edge. The one and only road through
the park cuts off the thin sHce on which the house
stands. The rest is out of reach of ordinary
mortals. The beautiful stretches of wood, hill
and valley at the Chollock end were inaccessible
to ladies, and only accessible to men for whom
long walks over rough grass had no terrors.
There were, and are, no paths.

Distance meant nothing, to my brother and me
in those schoolboy days at Eastwell. Our entire
time was spent in long exploratory rambles ; and
yet, so immense is the park that we had not yet
fully mastered its geography when we left at the
end of five years. The place still holds very
cherished memories for us, even though those
memories are nearly fifty years old, and twice
since we left have my brother and I journeyed
down there to revisit those old haunts of our
careless, tireless and intensely energetic boyhood.
Each visit has tended to confirm our early recol-
lections of the wonderful grandeur and beauty of
the northern end of the park. We might also
add the testimony of our very adult legs as to
its immensity.

So much for our country life. Up to my
twelfth year the London season was spent at
Chesterfield House, in those days a very imposing
residence. The two colonnades, which now jut out
so ludicrously at right angles to the corners of the
building, at that time ran parallel with the front
of the house, or, to put it more accurately, were a

FAMILY HISTORY

continuation of that front and connected it on
one side with the laundry, which stood where Lord
Leconfield's house now stands, and on the other
with the stables, the site of which is now covered
by No. 1 and No. 2 South Audley Street. Behind
was a big square garden running back to Chester-
field Street, and, for the whole distance between
this street and South Audley Street, the garden
wall dominated the pavement of Curzon Street.
A hundred years earlier, that is to say in 1750,
when the house was built, it stood in a wilderness
of waste lands. According to a picture of that
date by Edwin Eyres, there was nothing in the
way of buildings between Chesterfield House and
the Park. Stanhope Street, South Audley Street
and Hill Street simply did not exist, and Curzon
Street was but a row of low huts.

The great delight of our small lives at Chester-
field House were the dinner-parties, when the
footmen were dressed up in gorgeous pink
uniforms with silver epaulettes, heavy silver
aiguilettes, white stockings and powdered hair.
These splendid figures were a never-failing source
of delight to our eyes, and when we had inspected
them all at close quarters and admiringly fingered
the dangling aiguilettes, we would take up our
position on the big marble staircase, from which
point of vantage, if we crouched behind the
banisters, we could see the entry of the party into
the dining-room without being seen ourselves.
None of the guests, however, excited our admira-
tion to the same extent that the footmen did.

FORTY YEARS ON

As far as I remember, the custom of dressincr
footmen up in coloured liveries for dinner-parties
did not survive the Eighties. Thereafter foot-
men were degraded to dark knee breeches and
coats, and lost much of their picturesqueness.
They retained, however, for many years their
white stockings and powdered hair.

A Court " Drawing-Room " was even more
exciting than a dinner-party, for then the State
coach would emerge from the stables in all the
glory of its pink-and-silver box trimmings, its
pink-and-silvcr coachman in his three-cornered
hat, and its pink-and-silver footmen hanging
ludicrously on behind. The acrobatic difficul-
ties of these last two were accentuated by the
presence in one hand of a long knob-headed mace
after the pattern of a bandmaster's baton.

Another carriage little less exciting than the
coach was the " Chariot " (pronounced Chary ot).
The " Chariot," as I remember it, was a facsimile
of the coach, except that it was a coupe with two
seats only and a glass front. The other carriages in
the stables were the " Clarence," a roomy closed
vehicle upholstered in drab cloth which seated
four inside; the " Barouche," in which the ladies
took their air in the Park; the " Sociable," which
to my recollection looked exactly like the
Barouche, but which, I believe, boasted some
subtle distinction of its own ; the " Victoria," and
my father's brougham, which was always driven
by the second coachman. Landaus had not yet
come into vogue in those early days.

FAMILY HISTORY

I think we were very happy at Chesterfield
House. We kept green frogs and silkworms,
which we fed respectively on flies from the
windows and on mulberry leaves from the tree
in the garden. The silkworms behaved very well
and made lovely little cocoons of silk for us.

In the mornings we rode in Rotten Row (it
was considered very bad form in the Sixties to
talk of " the Row "), and in the afternoons we
played in Hamilton Gardens — generally with the
Tankerville children. Twice a week we were
instructed in the rudiments of dancing by a lady
whom we always addressed as (and whose name
we honestly believed to be) Muddy Muddy Lide,
which was our nursery-maid's interpretation of
Madame Adelaide. She always brought with her
two little French girls, with whom we used, most
reluctantly, to gyrate round our enormous school-
room, while Muddy Muddy Lide sat ponderously
twisted round at the piano, and instructed us in
raucous tones over her right shoulder :

" Baisse les epaules, Frederic. Glisse les pieds,
Ernest, an lieu de gigotter comme un saltimhanque.
Ah ! Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! Quels petits
chameaux ! "

Then my mother would look in through the door
and ask, full of smiling pride :

" Les petits font du progres, Madajne Adelaide? "

" Mais oui, Madame la Duchesse ; assurement
ils font du progres. Voyez done comme ils sont
gracieux, tous les deux.^^

I doubt, however, if even a maternal eye could

FORTY YEARS ON

have discerned anything gracieux in our ungainly
leaps round the room.

The little French girls, as I remember, were
perfectly self-possessed, and tried to enliven our
exercise with polite conversational remarks to
which we, as became uncouth young Anglo-
Saxons, replied in half-shy and half-sulky mono-
syllables. For this lack of gallantry we could not
even plead the excuse of unfamiliarity with the
language, for, thanks to a succession of French
nursery-maids, and a succession of winters spent
in the south of France, we could, when we so
pleased, gabble the language fluently enough.

We thoroughly enjoyed our rides in Rotten

Row — two small boys in kilts accompanied by an

immaculate groom named Sam Dyer, whose very

pleasant face and manners were unfortunately

marred by alcoholic tendencies which eventually

led to his downfall. Our joint stud consisted of

two Shetland ponies named Poppy and Tommy.

Poppy was the pink of respectability and always

behaved with decorum, but not so Tommy, who

invariably shot his rider off the moment we

reached the tan of Rotten Row, after which he

would trot sedately back to the great gate of

Chesterfield House and there set up a shrill

trumpeting till the gate was thrown open to him

by old Morley, our corpulent but faithful janitor.

I think, in spite of this bad behaviour, that

Tommy must have had a lurking sense of decency

under his shaggy forelock, for, to the best of my

recollection, he never attempted to get rid of

FAMILY HISTORY

either of us till we reached the soft tan. Then
either my brother or myself (we took it in turns to
ride him) was quickly on his back and Tommy
trotted home. We had not far to fall, the tan
was soft, and Tommy never trod on us or kicked
us, so that, except for the ignominy of it, we did
not in the least mind being kicked off.

One summer (I cannot fix the exact date) after
cannily weighing the matter backwards and
forwards in my mind, I resolved on a desperate
plunge, and betted my brother six marbles that I
would reach Albert Gate on Tommy's back before
he did. After a few minutes of cautious reflec-
tion, he closed with the bet, which I am sorry to
say remained to the end undecided, as neither of
us ever reached Albert Gate on Tommy's back.
Tommy saw to that. Finally, Tommy was sold
as incorrigible, and for the future we took alter-
nate rides on Poppy, to the general disappoint-
ment, I have little doubt, of the frequenters of
Rotten Row, to whom the daily excursion of our
kilted forms over Tommy's head must have been
a familiar and exhilarating sight.

When my father's lease of Chesterfield House
was up, Mr. Magniac bought the property for
building purposes and we migrated to Hampden
House, Green Street, which remained in the
occupation of the family for some fifty years.
Curiously enough, the house was already asso-
ciated with the family, for it had been the town
residence of my great-grandfather, the " Old
Marquis."

FORTY YEARS ON

In the meantime, while we were being shuttle-
cocked about from one hired place to another,
Barons Court, our real home in Ulster, wasted its
sweetness on the desert air, for it was seldom that
the family went near it. The furnished places in
England condemned it to a forlorn grass-widow-
hood which it was far from deserving.

It was not till 1878 — more than sixty years after
he had succeeded to the title — that my father
was at last persuaded to acknowledge Barons
Court as his permanent country residence. By
that time he was in his seventieth year, and I
think his lifelong dream of " a place in England "
had o-rown faint. He felt himself too old to
undertake a serious hunt for another furnished
place and, although one or two were visited —
including Shillinglee, afterwards the home of my
fifth sister — he finally resolved that, for the rest
of his life, Barons Court should shelter the
family.

In those days, although the gardens, lakes and
park at Barons Court were, as in my opinion they
still are, unrivalled for peaceful beauty, the house
itself was severely bare of all but the very neces-
saries of life. Home-made furniture, white-
painted and relieved by a green line, was all that
many of the bedrooms could boast of. Drugget
carpets served in the passages and stairs, and
dimity curtains shaded the bedroom windows.
At convenient spots in the long intricate passages,
huge baize-lined hampers acted as storage depots
for peat fuel. It was not till the winter of 1879

FAMILY HISTORY

that the earnest and persistent representations
of the whole family prevailed upon my father to
beautify the house at Barons Court with the
Priory statues, books, pictures and furniture
which for so many years had lain hidden in the
Pantechnicon.

From that time on Barons Court became not a
palace by any means, but a respectably furnished
house to which guests might, without shame, be
invited to enjoy the very excellent woodcock
shooting, and there my father lived the greater
part of each year till his death six years later.

It is a curious fact that although my father
never unbent towards the people among whom he
spent these last years of his life, and invariably
treated them de haut en has, he nevertheless
inspired them with an unbounded admiration
which very nearly approached worship.

" The Deuk's a nice affable kind of a man," I
overheard one say of my brother.

"He is that," replied his companion; "but
give me the ould Deuk. Sure he'd look at you
as though you were the very dirt under his feet."

I might add that the actual phrase used was
" ould the Deuk," that being the invariable form
of words round Barons Court, the idea being
that, as one speaks of old Mr. Brown or old
Sir Thomas, so he should speak of old the Duke,
or old the Duchess.

The veneration in which my father was held
by the country people around almost surpassed
belief. One day, some little time after my

FORTY YEARS ON

father's death, three of my brothers and myself
paid a visit to an old pensioned retainer who
received us with many manifestations of delight.

" Sure," he said, " it's the proud man I am to
see so many of ould the Deuk's ancestors standing
round me this day."

It was quite clear, in spite of the slight mixture
of genealogical terms, that our only value in his
eyes lay in our relationship to our father.

When the late Duke of Clarence visited my
father at Barons Court in 1883, it was found quite
impossible to make the people realise that he was
superior to my father in rank, or to accord him
any of the reverence due to royalty.

" There's but one Deuk," they declared with
Unitarian insistence; "there's others may call
themselves so, but they're of no account." Shades
of Norfolk and Buccleuch !

CHAPTER IV

BARONS COURT

Although, as I have said in the preceding
chapter, Barons Court did not become the per-
manent family residence till 1878, we used,
prior to that date, to pay it occasional flying
visits, to which my brother Freddie and I always
looked forward with feverish excitement.

It was a far cry to Barons Court in those days,
for though the Irish Mail left Euston no later
than it does to-day, we did not reach Newtown
Stewart till 3.45 the following afternoon, instead
of at ten o'clock in the morning, as at present.
During the lengthy passage of the Channel, my
brother and I were always placed on our backs
on the floor of the ladies' saloon, with a red plush
bolster under our heads. In this position we
complacently chewed ginger-root, while our nurse
was heroically sick from pier to pier. We were
both immovably good sailors, but I am afraid
we took an unholy joy in the sufferings of our
fellow-travellers, without the diversion of which
we should have found the passage very tedious.
So greatly did we look forward to the discomfiture
of the other occupants of the ladies' saloon that,
the moment the sea came in sight, we would crane

FORTY YEARS ON

our heads out of the train windows and dance
with deUght if the waves were white-crested.
Inhuman Httle brutes ! I beheve, however, that
a subtle analysis of our minds would have re-
vealed the fact that vanity at our own immunity,
in contrast to the others round us, was at the
bottom of our elation. We did not then realise
that the majority of passengers are immune,
and that it was only because we were housed
with the habitual sufferers that we stood out
as such heroes. We honestly believed in those
days that everyone on the ship was sick except
ourselves.

The short journey from Kingstown to Westland
Row, the drive across Dublin, and the reception
by obsequious gold-capped officials at Amiens
Street, were all things of unmixed joy, but then
came the interminable journey to Newtown
Stewart, which was anything but a thing of joy.
We ate cold chicken and drank light claret
poured out of wicker- covered bottles into very
shaky glasses. My brother and I generally
got through a tin of butterscotch as well. But
even these pastimes did not materially shorten
the endless journey with its long, purposeless
waits at squalid little stations. When Omagh
was at length reached we were in our own country
and all our weariness left us. The brown rushing
Mourne and the purple back of Bessie Bell were
old friends, only dimly remembered perhaps,
but still very friendly and " homey," and they
never left us till the picturesque little town of

BARONS COURT

Newtown Stewart leaped suddenly into full view
as the train emerged from a short tunnel.

The whole of the four-mile drive from the
station to the house was vibrant with mild
excitement, for the people, the cottages, the
fields and even the gates were utterly different from
everything we were accustomed to in England.
When, however, the carriage plunged from the
bleak countryside into the first of the Barons
Court woods, and the rabbits were seen scurrying
away from the sound of the wheels into the bushes,
our excitement passed beyond the mild stage.
The climax was reached when the carriage swept
round the bend past the entrance lodge, and the
placid waters of the Lower Lake could be seen
stretching away up the steep wood-choked valley
towards the house. Three successive buck-jumps
from the carriage followed as we crossed three
steeply-bridged burns, and then the round island
of Philip McHugh, with its encircling cloud of
cawing rooks, hove in sight. All these things,
until seen, were but dim memories in our child
minds, confused as they were by the quick changes
of our nomad existence, but the moment they
were sighted they became intensely familiar and
filled us with an entrancing sense of home.

On the whole, however, such of our nursery
days as were spent at Barons Court were not
exciting and have left but a blunt impression.
We not only never left the park, but our exercise
ground, as far as I remember, never extended
beyond the gardens and the adjacent Middle

FORTY YEARS ON

Lake, so that the greater part of the park was
to us, at that age, unexplored ground.

I remember one very hard winter when the
Middle Lake was so hard frozen that carts from
the home farm crossed it and a huge bonfire
was lighted in the centre.

Through that same winter my brother and I
lodged and boarded a tortoiseshell butterfly
who answered, or was supposed to answer,
to the name of " Butty." Butty was first caught
in late autumn flapping torpidly on a window-
frame, and, in pity of his plight, we built him a
very handsome house with our box of wooden
bricks. He had a drawing-room and dining-
room, with a fine, two-flight staircase leading
up to his bedroom. Every evening, before we
retired for the night, Butty was helped up the
staircase to his bedroom with a pencil, to which
he obligingly clung. Next morning we helped
him down again to his dining-room, where he
had his breakfast of sugar and water. He was
not very active, but he lived all through the
winter, and when the spring sunshine came, we
let him fly away. He must have had some fine
tales to tell to the next generation.

Nursery days were followed by days of governess
control, and our knowledge of Barons Court
became a little more extended, but not by much.
The two home farms and our model villages of
Letterbin and Ballyrennan were the only places
outside the confines of the park proper that our
duties or our pleasures ever led us to. The expedi-

BARONS COURT

tions to the villages had no charm for us, for they
were generally of a charitable nature and asso-
ciated with the carriage of large wicker-covered
jam-pots filled with jelly, puddings or soup.
The home farms were more interesting, for each
boasted a water-race, a mill-wheel and fascinating
sluice-gates which could be raised or lowered
with most exciting results. We generally left
the farms pleasantly wet from head to foot.

On one historic occasion I remember, in those
governess days, we made the ascent of Bessie
Bell, the mountain which rises behind the house
on the east side. The back of the journey was
broken by means of " outside " cars, but the last
stages, up to the heather-crowned summit, had
to be done on foot. I remember that all who took
part in the expedition talked for days after as
though they had scaled Mount Everest or, at
any rate, the Matterhorn, and my pride at having
been one of the party was unbounded. As a
matter of fact Bessie Bell is a round-topped
hill whose summit is only 1400 feet above sea
level and 1200 above Barons Court House.

The Bessie Bell episode stood out in those days
because it was one of the few occasions on which
we left the beaten track of our daily exercise.
Victorian governesses were not adventurous.
Excursions beyond the margins of gravel highways
held vague terrors for them. They meant, for
one thing, damp shoes, which were known to
be the root of all evil, and torn clothes, which
were a scandal to the well-regulated; so off the

E 49

FORTY YEARS ON

footpaths and high roads we were never^allowed
to stray. The lakes, too, at which we looked
from a distance with such longing eyes, had
nameless terrors for our guardians, as being
bottomless pits into which small charges suddenly
disappeared for ever. So these, too, were given
a wide berth. It was only when Harrow life
began, and we experienced that glorious relief
from constant supervision which is the privilege
of the public-school boy, that my brother and I
began to realise the unlimited possibilities for
enjoyment that Barons Court Park offered.
The park is long and narrow and fills the bottom
of a valley, the steep sides of which are thickly
wooded with fine timber. At the south end a
clear brown stream, about six feet wide and one
foot deep, burrows its way into the park under
an arched stone bridge. After a tranquil and
uneventful course of some 500 yards it broadens
out into the Upper Lake, a small but very lovely
piece of water, fringed by yellow reeds with high
woods behind. At the foot of the Upper Lake
are some very massive sluice-gates through which
the clear brown stream, in enhanced volume,
continues its journey towards the sea. It is
by now some ten feet in width, and for half a
mile wends its way through the only flat ground
in the park, passing under three bridges of wood
and stone, and gathering strength as it goes,
till it reaches the Middle Lake. The Middle
Lake (half a mile long) and the Lower Lake
(three-quarters of a mile long) are really one sheet

BARONS COURT

of water, for they are on the same level, but
they are separated by a long narrow channel
spanned by a fine stone bridge. The terraced
garden runs down from the house to the edge
of the Middle Lake, and there, concealed in a
large clump of rhododendrons, stands the boat-
house, the starting-point of almost all our school-
boy expeditions. The boat-house at Barons
Court differs from all other private boat-houses
that I have seen in that it is high and dry on land
and has no boats in it. This is, perhaps, because
it is in Ireland. All the boats are on the placid
waters of the lake, either moored alongside the
miniature wooden pier which juts out from the
edge of the bulrushes, or else dancing at anchor
some thirty yards out with the wavelets lapping
musically against their sides. The boat-house
itself has a peculiar and entrancing smell com-
posed, in equal parts, of tar, paint and fish-scales.
It contains an untidy but fascinating miscellany
of coracles, paddles, landing-nets, fishing-rods,
trimmers, eel-pots, bait-cans, etc., which, like
Tennyson's stream, go on for ever, while one
generation after another of those who use them
passes away. The same may be said of the boats.
When we were boys, the fleet consisted of three
ancient but smartly-painted rowing-boats, two
flat-bottomed home-made boats, a sailing-boat
(which was never used) known as " Crazy Jane,"
a canoe and four coracles. Of this curious
assortment our favourite, by immeasurable
distance, was a roomy craft which bore the

FORTY YEARS ON

traditional name of " Tlie Ladies' Boat." The
Ladies' Boat was a short tubby boat in which
one could with safety have danced a fandango.
At the same time she was so light, by reason
of extreme age (and rottenness) that she would
skim over the water without any effort on the
part of the rower in any way commensurate
with her size. Her shortness too and her light
draught made her particularly handy for working
up the winding creeks that in places cut through
the reeds, when we were so minded, so that one
may safely say that practically the whole of
our life on the Barons Court lakes was spent
in the Ladies' Boat. This wonderful old boat
was, even in those days, reputed to be sixty
years old, having been built for my father on
Loch Laggan in Inverness-shire; and she is still
going to this day, looking in her annual coat of
oak-grained paint as smart and spruce as the
day she was launched, and gaining every year
in lightness and handiness.

In this old boat, many years ago, my brother
and I first probed the hitherto forbidden mysteries
of the Middle and Lower Lakes. We pushed up
the creeks formed by the confluent burns, through
the long protecting screens of yellow reeds and
bulrushes; we explored the island, with its
ruined castle and historical legends, and we
christened with high-sounding names all the little
landing-piers, formed out of large, loose, flat
stones which my father had caused to be built
here and there about the lakes. We took, in

BARONS COURT

fact, forcible possession of the lakes, the boats
and boat-house, and of Hugh Gormley, who was
the official guardian of all these things. Most
of our time during the holidays was spent on
the water. We fished for pike to a certain extent
with trimmer and rod, but our main interest
was in exploration and navigation rather than in
sport. After peopling the island and various
parts of the shore with imaginary inhabitants,
we instituted a fast but slightly-irregular mail-
service between the landing-piers afore-mentioned,
each stage having to be covered in a scheduled
time which left little scope for resting on one's
oars. In order to prevent the engines from becom-
ing utterly exhausted under this high pressure
it was always arranged that they and the steering
gear should change places between each stage.
When a strong sou' -wester blew straight down
the lakes, the delivery of mails on the return
journey was indefinitely postponed, for our prac-
tice was to leave the boat at the foot of the Lower
Lake till the wind changed, or for poor Gormley
to row laboriously back against wind and wave.
Occasionally the engine and steering depart-
ments failed to work in harmony, and, when this
happened, there was a temporary dislocation
of the mail-service. On one occasion, as the
result of a difference of opinion between the two
departments, a short but lively naval engagement
took place on the Lower Lake, but luckily without
serious casualties to either side. Our most
historic battle, however, occurred one morning

FORTY YEARS ON

at the boat-house, on dry land. My brother
had been running the mail-service by himself,
and, having comj^letcd the grand tour in scheduled
time, was proudly approaching the home station.
In a desire to help him to manoeuvre the boat
alongside the little pier, I tried to grapple one
of the rowlocks with a boat-hook, but in so doing
inadvertently poked the point of the boat-hook
through my brother's cheek. In quite unneces-
sary vexation at this trivial accident he sprang
ashore and, seizing a sickle lashed to a pole which
was conveniently leaning against a tree, he made
a retaliatory sweep at my legs. With a con-
vulsive bound in the air I avoided the blow,
and, having thus saved my legs, I made use of
them to run with all my powers up to the house,
pursued by my bleeding and infuriated brother.
Luckily he was hampered by his weapon, whose
mission in times of peace was to cut weeds,
and I reached the shelter of the house unwounded.
Half an hour after we were as good friends as
ever, although for many years to come there
was hot argument between us as to who had
won the battle. He claimed the victory because
he had put the opposing force to flight ; whereas
my argument was that the only casualties were
on his side, and that mine was merely a strategic
retirement carried out in good order and without
loss. The point is still in dispute to this very day.
One of the first and most gratifying discoveries
of our enlarged outlook was that no fewer than six-
teen burns, great and small, tumbled down to

BARONS COURT

the lower waters of the lakes through the park
woods. Some of these burns were full of unsus-
pected beauties and attractions — rocky pools,
waterfalls and so on. The largest and most
picturesque was unfortunately afflicted by so
offensive a smell that we gave it the name of
Cholera Burn. It was some years later before
we learned that the cause of the smell was that
the burn, in its upper reaches, passes through
the precincts of the home farm. All these sixteen
burns, each of which had its peculiar character-
istics, we got to know by heart. We grew to
learn every detail of their windings, their pools,
their rapids and their shallows, and in this know-
ledge believed that we were alone — and probably
with justice. Adults do not concern themselves
with a minute survey of petty burns. But to us
they were a revelation and a ceaseless joy. One
of our favourite amusements was to build an
artificial dam below some deep pool and then,
having amassed a mighty reservoir, to kick the
dam away and accompany the released rush of
water the whole way down till it became merged
in the greater volume below.

Although all the lakes had a charm for us, the
Lower Lake was always our favourite. This
is an exceptionally beautiful piece of water and
with a distinctive character of its own, for, though
double the size of the Middle Lake, its waters
are much calmer. The thickly-wooded hills
which fence it in tend to keep all ruffling breezes
from its surface. Only the south-west wind,

FORTY YEARS ON

which blows straight down its length, can raise
its waters into waves, and very big waves these
sometimes are, crested with foam. But, with
all other winds, its waters are like glass, with
only the shadow of an occasional squall flitting
across its surface.

In late October, when the surrounding woods,
reflected in the water, have taken on their
autumn tints, the beauty of the Lower Lake has
to be seen to be believed. From the round-
topped, alder-clad island in the centre, with its
faithful reproduction in the glassy water, and
from the yellow reeds that fringe the shore to
the purple crest of Bessie Bell showing above the
tree-tops, everything seems to point to this one
spot as the chosen home of eternal peacefulness
and beauty.

Barons Court, in our schoolboy days, was an
unpretentious place, but I think on that account
all the more adored by my brother and myself.
We honestly believed that there was no place
in the world to compare with it, either in natural
beauty or as a playground. We went there
very seldom in those days and almost always
in the spring, viz. the Easter holidays. The
winter climate was considered too damp and the
summer climate too stuffy. My dreams of those
halcyon days are therefore always associated
with the month of April, and with daffodils,
primroses, short mossy turf, cawing rooks and
baby rabbits. The window of the bedroom I
occupied looked out upon a stretch of smooth

BARONS COURT

flat grass to the north of the house, beyond which
a long shce of the Lower Lake showed up through
a gap in the pine trees. On this stretch of smooth
fiat grass, in the early morning hours, proud
cock pheasants would strut about in the dew
below my window and wake me with their
enchanting spring crow. Even now the crow
of a cock pheasant takes me back with a rush
to those far-off days and to the unbelievable
gladness that filled my soul when, on the first
day of the holidays, I leaned out of my window
and sucked in the fresh morning air with its faint
flavour of peat smoke. That room is now a
changed thing, garnished and swept and decked
out with smart trappings. It must always remain
a delightful room because of its position and the
view that it commands, but, in my eyes, the better
part of its glory left it when the white-painted
furniture, tartan table-cloth and worn drugget
carpet gave way to its present splendour. Boys,
I think, are rigidly conservative and bitterly
resent the removal of old landmarks with sacred
associations. I know we did.

In the halcyon days the garden precincts were
enclosed by a four-foot fence of flat pointed
palisades, home-made and painted a vivid green.
One of the gates through this fence was almost
under my window. It opened with a creak and
shut with a clang, and it made music to my ears
sweeter than any opera, and almost as sweet as
the crow of the cock pheasants, or as the more
distant call of the water-hens from the edge of

FORTY YEARS ON

the lake. When this fence was replaced by a
modern wire fence which took in a great deal
more ground, my brother and I felt the blow most
keenly. It took us several years to get accustomed
to the new fence with its dull, wrought-iron gates
which neither creaked nor clanked.

In the matter of boats we were even more
conservative. My father bought a brand-new
blue boat from the Thames, very smart and very
superior, and proudly launched it on the Middle
Lake, but, from the very first, my brother and I
turned the eye of cold disapproval on it. It was
an interloper and we would have none of it. Our
old favourites were all painted in grained oak
with a green line round. The colour of the new
boat was voted a jarring note. It was moored
alongside the little wooden pier in a tempting
situation, but on the other side of the pier, next
the bulrushes, lay the Ladies' Boat, in the berth
which had now been hers for thirty years, and,
where these two were in rivalry, there could be
but one issue. The blue boat's life was a dull
one.

In due course came the inevitable break-up.
My brother left Harrow and went to France in
preparation for the Diplomatic Service, and
thenceforward my holidays were spent alone.
It was not the same thing. The gingerbread
was there but the gilt was off it. I am not ashamed
to say that, in all our boyish adventures and
enterprises, his was the master mind. He had,
of course, the advantage of two years over me,

BARONS COURT

but, altogether apart from this, he had an inven-
tive genius which was never at rest and which,
for originahty of outlook, I have never known
equalled.

All our undertakings were of the most innocent
and childish nature, and were never, I think, in
any way malicious, but it must be owned that
we had little respect for the intrinsic value of
property, so long as it suited the purpose for
which we required it. I remember, on one occa-
sion, when a south-west gale was blowing, my
mother, in hopes of putting dangerous enter-
prises out of our reach, had ordered the boat-
house, which contained all the sails and masts
for the rowing-boats, to be locked up. We had
no suspicion whatever of why the boat-house
had been locked up, but, feeling that it would
be a pity to waste such a splendid wind, we wan-
dered up to the house in search of something
which would take the place of the regular sails.
On a table in one of the lobbies we found a shawl
which seemed to have been made specially for
the purpose, for it was of very considerable size,
wonderfully soft, and so flexible that it was
easily knotted round the billiard-cue which we
requisitioned to act as mast.

The combination of cue and shawl proved a
colossal success. We flew before the wind from
the head of the Middle Lake to the foot of the
Lower Lake, with the shawl bellying gallantly
in the wind and the cue bent like a bow. At
the foot of the Lower Lake, as may be supposed,

FORTY YEARS ON

we left the Ladies' Boat, either for tlie wind to
change or for Gormley to bring back, and, with
mast and sail in hand, walked proudly back to
the house, highly pleased with ourselves. Just
opposite the bathing-house we met our mother,
who, with a cry of horror, pounced upon our late
sail and examined it with anxious eyes for holes.
It turned out to be a priceless Rumporchuddah
shawl, so marvellously fine that, in spite of its
size, it could be passed through a wedding ring.
We listened to a recital of its virtues without
enthusiasm, and were a good deal surprised that
our mother showed little interest when we added
a testimonial to the effect that it was the best
improvised sail we had yet come across. She
took very good care, however, that we should
not come across it again.

After my brother Freddie had gone to France,
my school holidays, whether spent at Barons
Court or elsewhere, took on a different character.
Pursuits which had thrilled when there were two
of us, lost their zest when I was alone. In self-
defence I had to fall back on sport, in which we
had so far taken but little interest. By the time
I, too, had left Harrow and joined the army,
Barons Court had become our permanent residence
and all my long leave was spent there, but the
golden epoch was closed. The call of the lakes
was still very strong, and much of my time was
devoted to them, but the official sailings of the
Ladies' Boat were necessarily abandoned; partly
on account of the loss of dignity which they

BARONS COURT ~

would have entailed on an officer in H.M. army,
but chiefly, I think, because I was alone. I took
to prowling about with a gun in search of pigeons,
wild-duck or snipe — sometimes alone and some-
times in company with old Taylor, the Scotch
head-keeper, than whom no better companion
on such expeditions ever lived.

Taylor had a genius for tackling difficult
situations which was never at fault and which
always excited my admiration. On one occasion,
when the snow was lying thick upon the ground, he
and I had been shooting some little outlying bogs
and strips of wood beyond Crockfad. In the
late evening, in a very dim light, a woodcock
was flushed from a little gorse covert and flew
very low across a field close to a farm-house. I
fired at it and missed it, but killed a very fine
white goose which I had not noticed in the snow.
There were about fifteen geese in the flock,
and it was a curious sight to see them form up
in a perfect circle round their fallen comrade
and, with necks outstretched, " keen " a kind of
cackling lament over him. I was greatly dis-
tressed over the accident and suggested finding
out the market price of the bird and paying for
it then and there; but Taylor would have none
of it. " We'll just give it the man in a preesent,"
he said sturdily and, seizing the bird by the neck,
strode up to the door of the farm-house. In
response to a vigorous knock, the farmer, a man
named Davidson, opened the door. " His lord-
ship's comphments," said Taylor, " and he'd be

FORTY YEARS ON

verra pleased if you'd accept a preesent of this
fine goose which he has just shot " ; with which
remark he turned on his heel and walked uncon-
cernedly away, leaving the dead bird in its
astonished owner's hand. I never learned
whether further restitution was made by the
Estate, but the probability is that this was so.

Taylor and I and the second keeper, Porter
Adams, used to make long expeditions in search
of very small bags, for all the coverts close at
hand were of course reserved for the big shoots
and closed to my forays. I could never under-
stand why Taylor, who was thirty years older
than myself and not unacquainted with rheuma-
tism, showed so little enthusiasm over these long,
wet, and rather profitless days. There was a
certain beat known as " The Grange," fifteen
miles off on the Foyle, which was his pet aversion,
as we had to wade all day in wet slosh up to the
knees. The place, however, was alive with snipe,
and legends of great bags made there in old days
filled me with ambitious hopes which over-ruled
all poor Taylor's protests.

My hopes were never realised. The first time
I went there, snipe rose at every step, but almost
invariably well out of shot. A network of foot-
prints in the marshes and many quite fresh
cartridge cases strewn about made it quite clear
that, though the place was supposed to be strictly
preserved, I was by no means the first visitor
that year.

" Brogan," I remarked to the local watcher,

BARONS COURT

as a cloud of snipe rose a hundred yards off,
" the snipe seem very wild."

'' Ah, well," said the old scoundrel, without
a moment's hesitation, " the birds is young yet,
and not used to the sound of a gun. If you were
to come in a month's time, now, you'd have a
far better chance."

" Well," I replied, " if the sound of the gun
makes them tame, in a month's time they should
certainly lie nearly as well as 5^ou do, Brogan."

" They should indeed, my lord," he replied,
quite unabashed; but, as a matter of fact, I
think my witticism missed its mark, for, though
the natives say many things that make one laugh,
they are not always quick to take English forms
of humour.

When the month of October was reached, we
used to go down almost every day to the River
Mourne just below its junction with the Derg,
three miles from Barons Court. The fishing
at that time of year was by no means bad, but
the fish which we caught w^ere not good eating,
being flabby and dark-coloured owing to the
flax-water. Some were almost repulsive in
appearance. One of the worst and reddest-
looking monsters that I ever saw caught met
its fate in the following way. Several of us
had been flogging the water all day without
the slightest response on the part of the fish.
Towards evening, the late Lord Hillingdon (grand-
father to the present peer) drove out from Barons
Court to see what success we had met with. He

FORTY YEARS ON

found us lazy and despondent, and the rods
lying inactive on the bank. As he had never
fished for sahnon, he was very anxious to try
his hand, and we accordingly launched him in
the boat with old Alec McBay at the oars. All
Lord Hillingdon's previous fishing experiences
had been with a worm and float, and, knowing
no other way of angling, he dangled the fly in
the water with a very short line, exactly as if
he were fishing for perch. Smiles of derision
had hardly formed on our lips before a large
salmon leaped from the water, engulfed the
dangling fly and careered gaily with it down the
river. The excitement both in the boat and on
shore now became intense, and when, after a
short but fierce struggle, the fish was finally
brought to shore, congratulations were showered
on the novice who had so signally put to shame
all the expert fishermen.

The fish was a sixteen-pound male fish, bright
red and of repulsive appearance. Lord Hilling-
don, however, could see nothing that was not
beautiful in it and, in the pride of conquest,
insisted on packing off his trophy then and there
to the clerks in his London bank, who, as in duty
bound, ate it and were, I believe, very ill for many
days after.

The two watchers on the river at that time
were Alec McBay and Paddy McAnany. What
Alec McBay's real name was — whether Macbeth
or McVeagh — I have never learned. Probably
it was Macbeth, for McVeagh is an essentially

BARONS COURT

Catholic name and Alec was a devout Orangeman ;
but McBay was the name by which he was known
and the name to which he answered. McBay's
house stood just above the pool known as " The
Feddens," and his housekeeping was done for
him by his two young daughters — very decent
and respectable-looking girls, but with a startling
vocabulary at their command. One day I caught
a very big fish in the Feddens, which was laid
out for admiration on the turf just below McBay's
house. Presently out came the two girls, and
for some minutes they contemplated the fish in
silence. At last the elder one spoke.

" Well, if that's not the biggest ould thief
I've seen pulled out of the Feddens for many
a long day," she remarked calmly; only " thief "
was not the word she used.

" He is that," the younger sister agreed, " and
he's well out of that, anyway, the ould thief " ;
only, once again, the word used was not " thief."

After these few preliminary remarks, the two
sisters fairly let themselves go, and my astonished
ears were assailed by such a string of terms
impeaching the dead fish's morals and ancestry
as I had certainly never, up to that time, asso-
ciated with maiden lips. The extreme respecta-
bility in manner and appearance of the two
damsels and their calm demeanour throughout
increased the amazement with which I listened
to this unprovoked outburst.

The practice of showering abuse upon the
victim of one's gun or one's rod is a common

F 65

FORTY YEARS ON

one in Ireland and is, I believe, intended as a
slanting compliment to the sportsman. The
greater the villainies whieh can be attributed
to a dead grouse or a dead salmon, the greater
the glory of the hero who has slain him.

Paddy McAnany was, of course, a Roman
Catholic, as his name indicates, but he and Alec
McBay, in spite of religious and political differ-
ences, were in reality very staunch friends.
Occasionally, however, they would indulge in a
little good-humoured banter on the subject of
their differences.

" I know right well what an Orange meeting
is," Paddy said to the other one day ; " you
all sit drinking round a table and shout ' To hell
with the Pope ' till you're all so drunk you can't
shout any more, and then the devil comes along
and wheels you all home in his barrow."

" And that's no more than the truth," Alec
said, laughing, " and 'twas only the other night,
as he was wheeling me home, that he whispered
in my ear what good friends you and he was,
Paddy, and of the snug place he's keeping for
you down there."

" Well, I wouldn't wish to be parted from you,
Alec, anyway," Paddy retorted gravely.

The rest of us never touched upon the subject
of politics with our various Roman Catholic
henchmen, nor, at election times, did we ever
canvass them. I believe they all voted against
us, nor indeed did they ever make open pretence
of doing otherwise; but we thought none the

BARONS COURT

worse of them on that account, knowing the
extreme difficulty of the position in which they
found themselves. Dan Devine, our native
coachman, would invariably wave his whip in the
air and shout " Hamilton for ever," in tones of
the utmost enthusiasm, when driving me through
a Protestant village at election times, but I have
little doubt that he always voted against me.

Paddy McAnany was my most devoted
adherent in all matters of sport, and I verily
believe would have done anything in the world
for me, except vote for me. Long after Barons
Court had ceased to be my home, and long after
I had ceased to represent North Tyrone in Par-
liament, I went over to Ireland on one occasion
to vote for Mr. Emerson Herdman, the Unionist
candidate. After making my cross, I returned
by train from Strabane to Newtown Stewart,
and at Victoria Bridge Station I saw my old friend
Paddy McAnany get out of the train, looking
a good deal aged from when I last saw him.
I called to him, and we greeted one another
warmly and with mutual pleasure. After the
usual inquiries as to each other's welfare, and
just as the train was moving off, some imp of
mischief prompted me to say, " Paddy, you
old villain, you know you voted all wrong."
The moment the words were out of my mouth I
regretted them, for the look of distress on poor
Paddy's face told only too plainly that my shot
had gone home. He was a man of few words
and with no skill at all in lying, so he simply

FORTY YEARS ON

remained silent and looked sheepish. I reproached
myself, not only for the rest of that day, but for
many days to come, with having broken our
hard-and-fast rule of never touching on the sub-
ject of politics, and what made me do it on this
occasion I really can't say ; but I can say this :
that had I in the smallest degree foreseen the
serious fashion in which Paddy would take what
I only intended for chaff, I would have gone far
before putting him to such embarrassment. I
never saw him again. Shortly afterwards he
had a stroke and, a year later, he died. He was
a good fellow and a staunch friend, and could
tie a fly as well as any man in Ireland.

One of our Roman Catholic retainers who
undoubtedly did vote for the family, for he
proclaimed his vote openly, was an under-keeper
locally known as Chairlie Morrison. His real
name was Charlie McPatrick Morris, being as
he was the son of one Pat Morris, but as Chairlie
Morrison he lived and as Chairlie Morrison he
died. His death was universally attributed by
those of his own faith in the district to the fact
that he had voted as he did, for his action was
very adversely commented on in the Draguish
Chapel on the Sunday following the poll. His
death six months later left no doubt in the minds
of any of those who had been present in the chapel
when his conduct was denounced that the wrath
of Heaven had overtaken poor Chairlie Morrison
for his impious action in voting for the Unionist
candidate.

BARONS COURT

The beaters at our woodcock shoots in the winter
were fairly equally divided as to religion and
were all pretty good friends. In peace time, that
is to say, when war was not being waged against
the woodcock, they were foresters, and some
of them were very fond of airing their technical
knowledge when the opportunity offered.

" Did you see that woodcock down, Mont-
gomery? " one would ask.

" I did, my lord; she's down just beyond the
Picea Pectinata yonder." Next time it would
be behind the Abies Nordmanniana.

There were three of these Montgomerys among
the beaters, all very handsome fellows and of
aristocratic descent, for their family had at one
time been big landed proprietors, and they were
no doubt direct descendants of old Sir Hush
Montgomery, who was one of the pioneers of the
invasion of Ulster from Scotland. The eldest of
the three had a wonderfully poetical vocabulary,
and would sometimes give the most surprising
replies to simple questions.

" Did that hen pheasant fall, Montgomery ? "
one of my brothers asked of him, after he had
discharged both barrels at a very high rocketer.

" She did not, my lord," was the reply, in
Montgomery's very slow bass tones ; " she's
away across the lake lamenting of her wounds."

Another of our beaters, named John Dogherty,
was overheard one day addressing the following
exhortation to a rabbit cowering for concealment
under a clump of bracken : " Come out of that,

FORTY YEARS ON

ye cowardly little divil, and show yourself to the
jintlemen, and join in the sport." A tremendous
whack with a stick followed, and the poor rabbit
shortly afterwards " joined in the sport " by
turning two complete somersaults and then lying
still.

Our woodcock shoots were very good fun, for,
although we never made sensational bags, we
had a great many different beats, on all of which
there was quite enough shooting to be enjoyable.
The best bag ever got was ninety-two woodcock
on Bessie Bell. Another good day was when
four guns, of whom I was one, got eighty-two
woodcock at Tavanagh. I was scarcely more
than a boy at the time and, as I shot with
" passed-on " guns which did not suit me, my
contribution to the bag on that occasion was a
light one. Had I been up to the standard of the
otliers we should certainly have beaten the Bessie
Bell day. The other three guns were Lord
Newport, Sir William Hart Dyke and my brother
Claud, all very good shots. Nowadays, alas !
the woodcock shooting at Barons Court is not
what it was. The woods have grown up, the
heather undergrowth has died down and the
woodcock have passed on elsewhere.

CHAPTER V

THE SEVEN SISTERS

From the days of muscular adolescence at
Barons Court, I must now make a backward
leap to the days of sailor suits, velvet knicker-
bockers and kilts.

The first vision which I can clearly focus of
our domestic circle and its accessories during this
period seems to rest on three sisters at home, one
brother at home, four brothers who came and
went, and four elderly and semi-phantom sisters
to whom were attached old and formidable
husbands. They were not, of course, really old,
nor even elderly, but to the eye of six everyone
over thirty might just as well be eighty for all
the claims that they can lay to youth. My
eldest sister, who had married Lord Lichfield —
after three times refusing the late Duke of
Manchester — was, in point of fact, twenty-four
years older than I was, and, in consequence, a
somewhat awe-inspiring figure to my callow eye.
With every year that passed, however, some part
of that awe evaporated and was replaced by a
corresponding influx of affection, with the result
that, by the time I had reached the age of under-
standing, the lovableness of my eldest sister's

FORTY YEARS ON

nature had taken complete possession of me, and
blown all my childish awe to the winds.

Of all my four shadowy married sisters, my
second sister, Lady Durham, was the most
shadowy. Although we were very often at Lamb-
ton Castle in early days, she was seldom visible,
for reasons which may be briefly described as
maternal reasons. In my recollection, therefore,
she is not very clearly defined, but the impression
which remains is that of a very beautiful woman
with the face of an angel, which, from all accounts,
was an exact reflection of her nature. She died
at the age of thirty-five, having had thirteen
children in seventeen years. Li those days of
Mosaical belief, stupendous families were thought
to be pleasing to the Almighty and, if human
sacrifices are pleasing, it is not to be doubted
that they were. My three eldest sisters had
thirty-four children between them.

Lambton Castle was a truly joyous place for
children on account of its size and its many
staircases and intricate passages, and because it
was always more or less crowded with people of
the proper age, that is to say, between six and
sixteen. It was a wonderful place for " Jiide and
seek " and all kindred games. Our favourite
game was known as " stag." A yelping and
inquisitorial pack set out in search of the hidden
stag and, after having found and forced him to
break cover, chased him in full cry down the long
passages and staircases till he was finally brought
to bay. He then became one of the pack, and

THE SEVEN SISTERS

another stag volunteered for service. When
the pack was in full cry, the game, as may be
imagined, was not one to soothe invalids or
those engaged in literary composition. George
Durham ^ would sometimes emerge from his
study with hunting-crop in hand, and send some
of the pack yelping away in deadly earnest.

The thing of most joy at Lambton was its
colossal hall, one hundred and twenty feet long
and as high as a cathedral, and, like a cathedral,
with a vaulted ceiling, which, either by daylight
or lamplight, was full of dim and ghostly shadows.
At one end was a huge stained-glass window
portraying the family's private dragon, known as
the Lambton Worm, and at the other end two
galleries connecting with the first and second
floors of the house. A vast place it was indeed in
those days, and full of mystery and fascination.
Now I believe it has been clipped at one end and
brought within more reasonable bounds.

One little trivial incident in those early days
at Lambton stands out very clearly in my
memory. My brother Freddie and I happened
to be there on the occasion of our sister's birth-
day, and, before leaving London, we had provided
for the event by spending all our joint capital
in buying a present for her. I can see that
present now. It was a hideous sham leather
arrangement for holding writing-paper and enve-
lopes— mud-brown in colour, covered with gilt
scroll-work and with a hard round top— a perfect

1 George, second Earl of Durham.
73

FORTY YEARS ON

gem of mid-Victorian monstrosity. We thought
it beautiful and, with a view to adding to the
shock of dehght which would be hers on seeing it,
we resorted to a piece of guile. I went first into
her room (she was as usual ill in bed) with a
little glass tube which imitated the call of a
nightingale, and gave it to her as our joint
birthday present. On seeing it and hearing it
— to my great consternation — she burst into
tears, but quickly recovered herself and kissed
me, smiling. Then I gave the pre-arranged signal
and brother Freddie entered, proudly bearing
our hideous London atrocity. " Ah ! but this
is our real present," we cried exultantly, and
watched for signs of stupefaction at its beauty
and costliness. She praised it and kissed us
again and said it was beautiful, but even we saw
that it had failed to touch her as our little penny
glass tube had done. We wondered why at the
time, but I think I know now. We never saw
her again. A few months later the news came
to us at Eastwell Park that she was dead. The
thirteenth child had proved too much. The
grief in and around Lambton was, I believe, such
as is very rarely seen. Men, women and children
agreed that, if heaven had gained an angel, earth
had certainly lost one. George Durham was
never again the same man. A chronic gloom
settled on him and was reflected in a face so
sombre that it used to frighten us as children.
Later on we learned to like it.

It is a curious fact that my third sister, Lady

THE SEVEN SISTERS

Dalkeith,^ with whom I became so closely and
happily intimate in later years, hardly came
into my early life at all. Her home in Scotland
was too far away, and her husband an eldest son
who had not yet succeeded, and who was there-
fore not completely his own master, as the others
were. With the other sisters, and with their
husbands and children, we were in close and
constant touch. In the case of the Mount-
Edgcumbes, it was at Cannes that we mainly
foregathered, for Mount-Edgcumbe itself was
almost as inaccessible as Scotland, and it was
rarely that we found our way there. Every
winter my fourth sister and my mother made the
journey to Cannes for the sake of health, and
with them went all the Edgcumbe family and
such members of our family as were unattached,
while at Cannes, the two families were always
close neighbours, for Mount-Edgcumbe ^ had a
villa near the Croix des Gardes which abutted on
the garden of the Bellevue Hotel, where we stayed,
and all our days were spent in passing from one
house to the other, and in joint expeditions to
the beauty spots of the district. The residential
part of Cannes was in those far-off days very
small indeed, and the country round quite wild
and unbuilt over.

While the Edgcumbes shared our winters, it
was the Ansons and the Lambtons with whom
we were mainly thrown at other seasons of the

^ Afterwards Duchess of Buccleuch.

2 William, fourth Earl of Mount-Edgcumbe.

FORTY YEARS ON

year. With these two alUed famihes it was our
habit to exchange liospitahty on a wholesale
scale which even now fills me with wonder when
I look back upon it. Nowadays such invasions
in force as we were in the habit of making on our
" in laws " would of course be utterly out of the
question, and I fancy they must have been
something out of the common even in the days
of which I write. I think the relations between
my father and his two eldest sons-in-law must
have been more brotherly than fatherly. In
any case, we used at regular and not long-divided
intervals to bear down in full family force on
George Durham at Lambton, or on the Ansons
at Shugborough— a party consisting of father,
mother, daughter, maid, valet and two sons —
and remain with them for periods running into
weeks. They in turn would pay us long and
equally comprehensive visits at Beaudesert, East-
well Park or the Viceregal Lodge, as the case
might be. While at Beaudesert we were, of
course, in very close proximity to the Lichfields
at Shugborough, being, in fact, only separated
from them by eight miles of Cannock Chase, at
that time a lovely expanse of heather, bracken
and moorland, but now, alas ! made hideously
profitable by a number of coal-mines. Beau-
desert Park touches one end of the Chase and
Shugborough Park the other, so that to ride
across from one house to the other was an easy
and a pleasant undertaking. In the case of
lengthy visits in bulk from one establishment to

THE SEVEN SISTERS

the other, the transport of all concerned —
parents, children, servants and luggage — was
effected in the family carriages. The incoming
guests were usually accompanied by a certain
amount of live-stock in the shape of horses and
dogs. I remember that, on one occasion, George
Durham came to Eastwell with three daughters,
nurse, nursery-maid, valet and groom — the latter
being in attendance on the eldest daughter's
pony, which also formed one of the party. As
this formidable cavalcade journeyed the whole
way from Co. Durham to Kent, it may easily be
understood that the visit was not exactly in the
nature of a flying one.

During the course of this particular visit, the
pony above-mentioned was responsible for bring-
ing about my humiliation in the eyes of the whole
Eastwell stable establishment. The pony had a
great reputation in Co. Durham for speed. I
also boasted a pony of about the same size which
also had a great (and deserved) reputation for
speed. And so it came about that one day it was
suggested from some quarter or another, that the
two should have a race across the plain in front
of Eastwell House to the foot of the Reservoir
hill and back. After luncheon the ponies were
brought round and the entire house-party crowded
out under the portico to watch the race; and off
we started. I regret to have to record that I
was shamefully beaten, being completely out-
jockeyed by my niece. The fact was that I had
had it ceaselessly dinned into my ears by my

FORTY YEARS ON

parents and others that I must not gallop across
the Plain (as we called it) on account of the
masses of rabbit-holes with which it was per-
forated; or, at any rate, that, if I did, I was to
keep a very sharp look-out for the holes and steer
clear of them. So deeply had this most proper
and reasonable order sunk into my youthful
brain that, during the race in question, I was
far more occupied in dodging the rabbit-holes
than in getting back first to the house. Bee
Pembroke — or Bee Lambton, as she then was —
on the other hand, made a straight point for her
objective from the very start, and galloped full
tilt over all the intervening rabbit-holes, with
a happy indifference to possibilities which was
little short of heroic. Needless to say, I finished
a bad second, and was greeted on my return with
derisive and insulting comments. " Fancy being
beaten by a girl ! " my groom muttered con-
temptuously as I dismounted. I am afraid it is
not to be denied that I deserved all I got. It
happened to come to my ears that the two grooms
had a return match while out at exercise one
morning, and my pony won. There is no doubt
that he had a great turn of speed, for in the
Phoenix Park (where there are no rabbit-holes) I
used regularly to race him, over short courses,
with all the grooms at exercise in the Fifteen
Acres, and, as far as I remember, I always won.
The effect of the triple alliance above outlined
between the three families of Hamilton, Anson
and Lambton— each of which curiously enough,

THE SEVEN SISTERS

numbered exactly thirteen— was that we grew up
more or less as one gigantic family of thirty-nine
with a plurality of residences. " Uncle and
nephews " relations, of course, at no time came
into play. How could they indeed in my own
case, with four of my Lambton nephews and two
of my Anson nephews older than myself? We
were simply a mass of brothers and sisters of
varying ages.

I think my father must have had an unusually
strong liking for George Durham, for he twice
combined with him in renting Arisaig from Mr.
Astley. Those were tremendous days indeed, for
the two families — parents included— numbered
together no less than twenty-nine, and, though
naturally the whole number were never all at
Arisaig at once, we were a pretty big pack of
youngsters, and must have taken a lot of handling
and a tremendous lot of feeding. To the best of
my recollection, however, there was never the
slightest trace of friction arising out of the dual
tenancy. Durham had his sailing yacht and my
father had his steam yacht, to which each might
have retired in the event of relations becoming
too strained, but nothing of the sort ever took
place. When the two tenants took to their
yachts, they did so in close company and in
furtherance of some joint expedition.

There was an interval of two years between
the first and the second tenancy of Arisaig. On
the first occasion we were perhaps too young to
appreciate to the full the extraordinary beauty

FORTY YEARS ON

of the place and its surroundings, but we fully
appreciated the excitement of getting there and
the novelty of the Highland scenery through
which we passed. My brother Freddie and I
journeyed up from Euston to Kingussie under the
escort of our brother Claud, and from there
drove the ninety-six miles to Arisaig — fifty-six
miles in the mail-coach from Kingussie to Banavie,
and the remaining forty miles to Arisaig in a
hired wagonette. I was only twelve at the time
and my brother fourteen. Seats had been
reserved for us on the top of the coach just behind
the driver, and, in spite of the ceaseless rain, we
lived every moment of the long drive to Banavie.
To us it was a lifting of the veil that shut off
fairy-land. The bare rock cropping up through
the heather and bracken; the wild little black-
faced sheep scampering about like dogs in such
very different fashion to the stolid old South-
downs to which we were used; the leaping,
twisting, musical burns, brown in colour, but so
wonderfully clear and uncontaminated compared
to the sluggish, turgid streams of Kent; the
indefinable but intoxicating smell of the moor-
land, and, beyond all else, I think, the absence of
the proprietary enclosures which, in the south,
form such a bar to youtliful enteri^rise, filled us
with a spirit of enchantment that was almost too
rapturous for verbal expression. We simply sat
and drank it all in thirstily. At Loch Laggan Inn
we disembarked for luncheon and were fed on
pink-fleshed trout fried in breadcrumbs, scones,

From the Paintini by Sir Thomas Lawrence.

Lady Catherine Hamilton.

THE SEVEN SISTERS

honey and fresh salt butter. I remember that
brother Freddie and I drank large tumblers of
milk. We did not like milk, but we thought it
rather a sporting thing to do, and the kind lassie
who waited pressed it on us. We all sat at a
round table, a very small party of not more than
seven or eight, among whom were two Glasgow
tourists who did not drink milk, but a good deal
of yellow liquid which they produced out of their
pockets. We thought it was cowslip wine.

The novelty and joy of that meal must have
stamped itself for ever on my brain, for the whole
scene rises before my eyes as clear-cut as though
it were yesterday instead of more than half a
century ago.

When we resumed our seats we found the two
Glasgow tourists behind us, and in talkative
mood. We much enjoyed some of their naive
comments on the strange fauna of the Highlands.

" See, Andra, yon's a har'," said one of them,
pointing to a large lop-eared rabbit placidly
munching a lettuce outside a cottage door.

" Oh, aye," said Andra in rapt admiration.
We laughed over this remark for the best part
of an hour, but even funnier to our minds was
Andra's exclamation of " Yon's a hee hull "
(high hill), when the towering, snow-clad crest of
Ben Nevis first came into view over Fort William.

The little Loch Laggan Inn where we fortified
ourselves with the Arcadian meal above de-
scribed stood, and I imagine still stands, on the
shore of the loch which faces Ardverikie, where
a 81

FORTY YEARS ON

my father and mother had spent such happy
and eventful days five-and-thirty years before
our joyous drive from Kingussie, and nearly
ninety years before the date at which I write.
My father had been one of the first to invade the
Highlands from the south in pursuit of the red
deer. He and my mother used, at first, to drive
the whole way from London in the family coach.
Later on, as railways developed, they used to go
as far as Edinburgh by train, and from there
complete the journey in the family coach. This
historic conveyance, long since matchwood and
fungus, held six inside, four outside behind the
horses and two in the " dickie " behind. The
luggage was carried in a tarpaulined tank-like
arrangement on the top of the coach, which was
drawn by four horses and postilions. Up certain
very steep gradients, two additional horses,
which had been requisitioned in advance, and
which were waiting in readiness by the roadside,
were attached in front.

My father's guests at Ardverikie and at the
Black Mount, which he afterwards rented from
Lord Dudley, would appear to have been the
victims of an insane and altogether childish
jealousy in the matter of their deer-stalking
achievements. At that time a wholly artificial
glamour surrounded the sport of deer-stalking —
chiefly, of course, because of its far-away charac-
ter and its novelty as a sport for Southrons. A
subsidiary glamour, which was a reflection of the
other, surrounded the eating of decomposed limbs

THE SEVEN SISTERS

of venison. These were sent by the proud slayer
to friends in England, and, as the journey then
occupied some fourteen days, and the season was
summer, they naturally arrived in a condition
which would have condemned any other form of
meat to the pig-tub. As, however, the meat in
question was the flesh of the romantic Highland
red deer, people ate it with the help of much red-
currant jelly and smacked their lips ecstatically
over its acrid smell and taste. Even after im-
proved train services permitted of venison reaching
its destination within twenty-four hours, many
people still thought that it was the right thing to
keep it till it had gone bad before eating it.

Let us, however, come back to my father's
Highland guests and their idiosyncrasies. The
petty jealousies of these, according to my mother's
oft-repeated accounts, would seem almost to
have passed the bounds of belief. If Lord A.
shot a stag with two points more than Lord
B.'s stag, the latter would go to bed and not
reappear for twenty-four hours. If Lord B.'s
stag weighed more than Lord C.'s, any allusion
to the fact was taken as a personal insult and
treated as such. As may be imagined, where
such conditions prevailed, hardly any of the
guests were on speaking terms with one another
after the first two days of the visit. On one
occasion Lord D. actually took his departure in
wrath and went all the way back to London
because Lord C. had been allotted a better beat
for the following day than himself. Landseer,

FORTY YEARS ON

the artist, who was always one of the party, and
who learned all his deer-lore while staying with
my father, was just as jealous as any of them
and, though a notoriously bad shot, expected to
be sent out on all the best beats as regularly as
the others. The burden on the shoulders of a
Highland host in those days must have been
heavy indeed !

Personally, I am not ashamed to confess that I
have never been able to get up the very smallest
enthusiasm over deer-stalking as a sport. My
experience, I must admit, has been limited, but
it has been sufficient. Three stags only, in fact,
have fallen to my aim. The death of my first
victim will be described anon. The death of my
second victim came about as follows : —

I was staying at Invergarry with that most
charming and interesting of hostesses, the late
Mrs. Edward Ellice, and, as a matter of course, I
was sent out deer-stalking. I walked, crawled,
wriggled and slid for a great many hours over
very wet and stony ground, in the expectation,
presumably, of arriving by these means within
shot of a deer. The expectation was not realised.
What the plan of campaign in the stalker's mind
may have been was not divulged to me, nor did
I make inquiries. I was frankly bored by the
whole thing. I followed patiently in the wake
of the stalker, mechanically adopting the same
painful and ignominious attitudes as my leader,
but without the faintest idea of what we were
trying to do. There was much levelling of tele-

THE SEVEN SISTERS

scopes and much holding up of wet fingers to
gauge the direction of the wind. In fact, there
was an impressive display of science combined
with a high trial of muscular activity and physical
endurance, which lasted from morn till dewy eve,
but which did not succeed in bringing me — a
mere mechanical death-dealer — within shot of a
stag. Eventually we gave up the chase and
turned for home. Side by side the stalker and I
strode along over the bent and heather, while I
listened with reverence to a recital of the extra-
ordinary difficulties of wind and atmosphere that
we had had to contend with during our stalk. I
gathered from what he told me that there was
a kind of fiendish atmospheric combination at
work that day which made it practically impos-
sible to get within shooting distance of the wily
stag. He lamented the fact that my first essay
under his auspices should have been on such an
evilly disposed day. A little elementary instruc-
tion on the art of deer-stalking followed. In the
midst of an animated explanation of the necessity
for absolute noiselessness in approaching the
antlered quarry, we suddenly walked straight
upon a large stag browsing peacefully like a cow
within thirty yards of us, but with his back
turned. Instinctively we both dropped to the
ground and the stalker slipped the rifle into my
hand. I waited till the beast turned his side to
me and then shot him. It was impossible to
miss him.

We walked home with our spirits uplifted, but

FORTY YEARS ON

I could not help wondering for the rest of the
evening why I had been forced to sweep such
long, wet stretches of moorland with my waist-
coat, when it was very evidently possible for
two men in full and animated conversation to
walk up to within thirty yards of a stag and
shoot it.

I shot another stag at Invergarry two days
later. This time I came upon the beast in more
conventional style, that is to say, in the posture
to which the serpent was condemned in the
Garden of Eden, and if I ate no dust it was
simply because there was no dust to eat. The
persistent Scotch mist took care of that. As the
stalker handed me the rifle, I excited his rage
and contempt by drawing his attention to a
magnificent golden eagle which was poised majes-
tically over our heads. I was much more
interested in the eagle than in the stag, but
eventually I brought my mind back with an
effort to the business in hand and did the needful.

I must now tell the story of my first stag,
which is really rather interesting. I was staying
with old Lochiel at Achnacarry, but my visit had
necessarily to be a short one, as I was due on a
certain day to pass on to Glamis Castle. The
first three days I devoted to boating and fishing,
but on the fourth day it was decreed that I should
go in pursuit of the deer. On the fourth day,
however, the weather was so abominable that
my stalk was put off till the fifth day. The fifth
day turned out to be worse than the fourth, and

THE SEVEN SISTERS

as everyone agreed that such weather could not
continue, it was again decided to postpone my
stalk. The sixth day was a Saturday and, as I
was leaving on the Monday, it was the last day
on which I had a chance of killing an Achnacarry
stag. Unfortunately, the weather on the sixth
day was even worse than on either of the pre-
ceding days. It rained in torrents; it blew a
gale and it was bitterly cold. Everyone (myself
included) agreed that it would be madness to go
out on such a day. It was suggested that it
might clear after luncheon, and with that hope I
had to appear content. After luncheon, however,
the weather was worse than ever. Maclaren, the
stalker, was in the house, and greatly distressed
that my visit was to come to an end without my
having got a stag. So distressed, in fact, was he
that he suggested that we should go out in spite
of the weather and have a try. The other
stalker, who was also at the house, ridiculed the
idea of anyone getting a stag on such a day, but
this only seemed to make Maclaren the keener.
I could see that he was desperately anxious for me
to go, and more, I think, with the idea of showing
him that bad weather had no terrors for me than
from any real keenness on my own part, I agreed
to do so. I also undoubtedly had a certain amount
of curiosity to see how the thing was done, as I
had never been out deer-stalking in my life, though,
needless to say, I did not give that fact away.

Out we went then, like good King Wenceslas
and his page, " through the cruel weather." We

FORTY YEARS ON

walked a good long way and then started crawling.
We crawled like worms on our stomachs for about
three hundred yards, till we got to the edge of a
corrie, and there, below us, about eighty yards
away, were two splendid stags and about sixty
hinds. They were all very much bunched up,
and the stags were, of course, more often than
not, screened by passing hinds. " The second
stag," Maclaren hissed into my ear, as he passed
me the rifle. " Now, tak' your time, man." I
was soaked to the very skin ; my fingers were like
ice, and right into my eyes drove a blinding rain,
so heavy that it actually blurred the outlines of
the deer. However, I determined to do my best.
I levelled the rifle in the direction of the second
stag and then proceeded to wriggle my body into
the approved position as laid down by the
Musketry Instructions at Hythe, where I had
recently passed my course. While I was going
through this preliminary exercise, to my un-
speakable horror, my rifle went off with a terrific
explosion which echoed and re-echoed off the
surrounding hills. I closed my eyes and groaned
aloud. I felt that I must inevitably have killed
—or worse still wounded— at least a dozen hinds,
the one heinous sin for which there is no forgive-
ness from owners of deer-forests and their
myrmidons. I was roused from my tragic
thoughts by a loud exultant yell from Maclaren,
whom I saw leaping down the side of the corrie
in the direction of the second stag, which lay on
its side stone dead !

THE SEVEN SISTERS

How it was done I cannot attempt to explain.
It was certainly the most amazing fluke that ever
fell to the lot of man. But the explanation of
why it happened is simple enough. I had bor-
rowed Lochiel's rifle, which had a hair-trigger, as
to which he had not warned me. The only rifle
I had ever handled was a Martini-Henry carbine
with a four-pound pull-off, at which one had to
tug till one's finger and thumb ached. It is not
surprising then that, under my frozen fingers, a
hair-trigger did not wait for that " steady pres-
sure of the finger and thumb, without the slightest
motion of the hand, eye or arm, till the spring is
released," which the Musketry Manual laid down
and which I was preparing to give it.

Needless to say, I kept my own counsel and
gave nothing away, either at the moment or later
on. Maclaren must have thought me a wonderful
shot, for the rifle went off almost before I had got
it to my shoulder. Nor did I give away the fact
that this was my first stag, for such a confession
is usually followed by a bloody and unpleasant
ritual which I was anxious to avoid.

I told Lochiel, when I got home, that his rifle
suited me very well.

" Oh, I am glad you liked it," he said. " By
the way, I ought to have warned you that it's
got a hair-trigger. But I suppose Maclaren told
you."

" No," I replied, " he did not; but, as a matter
of fact, I think I rather like hair- triggers. They
seem to suit my style of shooting."

FORTY YEARS ON

"Evidently," he remarked; " Maclaren says
you shoot stags as if they were snipe."

I was sorely tempted to reveal the truth, and
if it had only been Lochiel that I had to deal
with, I am sure that I should have done so; but
I was afraid of lowering myself in the eyes of
Maclaren, and so I held my peace. Lochiel
would have enjoyed the story, for he had a quaint
and caustic sense of humour that saw the comical
side of life in weal or woe, and an original way
of putting things that was at times highly enter-
taining. I met him on a certain summer day in
London.

" Hulloa, Lochiel ! " I said. " What brings
you up? "

" You may well ask," he replied irritably.
" Well, the fact is they wired to say my mother
was dying, and I came all the way up from
Achnacarry; and now I find she isn't dying at
all. It really is a most infernal nuisance." I
knew exactly what he meant, but it was a quaint
way of putting it.

No man ever fitted his surroundings more
picturesquely than Lochiel fitted into the beauti-
ful Cameron country over which he held sway.
He was in every sense the typical Highland
chieftain, tall, stalwart, white-bearded and beauti-
fully in keeping with the place. In his kilt he
looked like a figure out of a Raeburn canvas.

To come back to the question of deer-stalking,
I have always held, and still do hold, the belief
that there is no particular art in it, and that all

THE SEVEN SISTERS

the difficulties and discomforts of approach to
which one is subjected are part of the official
hocus-pocus of the brawny cateran into whose
hands one is committed. Lord Southesk — one
of the best shots with gun or rifle in the kingdom
— once told me that while deer-stalking on a very-
famous forest in the Highlands, he chanced to
look round just after the rifle had been handed to
him, and discovered the stalker in the act of
waving a handkerchief behind his back. Without
a word, he laid the rifle down and walked straight
home.

Some years ago I was at Arisaig in the spring-
time with two of my brothers, and we occasionally
amused ourselves by stalking deer — needless to
say unarmed. Never once did we fail to get
within shooting distance of any stag we had
marked, unless, of course, the lie of the ground
made any attempt at concealment impossible.
It may be urged by stalking enthusiasts that the
spring-time stag is a more confiding beast than
the autumn stag, and this may well be so, but I
still hold to my belief that nothing more than
ordinary precautions and ordinary common-
sense are required.

I have, in my none-too-enthusiastic pursuit of
the stag, strayed somewhat from the homely
topic of my brothers-in-law ; so let me return, for
a short run, to the main track. When I was
eleven years old, the noble company of my
brothers-in-law was reinforced by the addition
of Lord Blandford and Lord Lansdowne, who

FORTY YEARS ON

married my two youngest sisters in Westminster
Abbey on the same day, and so added Blenheim
and Bowood to the list of affiliated houses.
The marriage took place from Chesterfield House
and was, as may be supposed, quite a big function.
The item of chief importance in connection with
it was, in my mind, the presentation to me by
one of the bridegrooms (I think it was Lans-
downc) of a set of pink coral studs in a leather
case. Those studs were to me for many years
afterwards the most precious thing that the world
held, and I wore them with pride at the wedding
ceremony in combination with a red Stuart
tartan kilt and a blue waistcoat with silver
buttons, so that my appearance must have been
distinctly on the gaudy side.

After the Westminster Abbey ceremony, my
fifth sister was the only one left at home, and at
home she remained for many years in defiance
of a succession of offers, many of which were
desirable in the extreme from the point of view of
parents. At the time of her refusal of these
suitors, my mother was very far from strong, and
I know that my sister considered it her duty to
stay by her. My mother, however, grew stronger
and stronger with advancing years, and finally
became so active and independent that my sister
felt that her presence was no longer essential,
and she married Lord Winterton. It is pleasant
to be able to record that she lost nothing by her
self-denial in earlier years, for a handsomer or
more devoted and sympathetic husband than

THE SEVEN SISTERS

finally armed her down the aisle cannot well be
conceived. Winterton, in appearance, manners
and tastes, was the beau-ideal of the English
country gentleman, and his popularity in West
Sussex, and indeed in every district and in
every family where he was known, was simply
prodigious.

CHAPTER VI

HARROW

Following in the footsteps of my father and
all my brothers, I was sent to Harrow at the age
of thirteen, and there went through the usual
experiences of all small boys on their first arrival
at a big school. For the public such experiences
have no interest and I have no intention of record-
ing them. One incident, however, of my first
year seems to stand out as worthy of mention.
At the end of my second term I left Bowen's
house, which was a small one, and went into
Rendall's. By brother Freddie had already been
an inmate of this house for over two years. To
those who have only known this brother of mine
in after years it may come as a surprise to learn
that, at that period of his life, he was of a dis-
tinctly silent and seclusive disposition. He had
an extraordinarily original and inventive mind,
and I think used, while other boys were more
frivolously engaged, to ruminate deeply over
his creative schemes, either musical, literary
or hydraulic. His enterprise in the last-named
department was remarkable, and proved destruc-
tive of much bedroom furniture in the various
houses we occupied. On one occasion the mis-
carriage of an ambitious scheme cut off the water

HARROW

supply from the Viceregal Lodge for some days
and flooded the dairy to a depth of three feet.
This, however, is by the way. The particular
enterprise of which I wish to speak was not
hydraulic, but religious and musical.

There was at that time a boy in Kendall's house
named Shifner, who was a great friend of my
brother's and almost his equal in inventive
originality. Shifner and my brother conceived a
craze for carving little idols out of wax candles,
and gradually other boys in the house took up
the idea, and a regular competition started as to
who could produce the best-carved and most
artistic image. These images, when completed,
were about three inches high, and we called
them pocket Baals, heaven only knows why.
Pocket Buddhas would have been a far more
appropriate name, but we knew little of Buddha
in those days, whereas Baal figured prominently
in most of the first lessons on Sundays. We used
to carry these little images about in our pockets
and exhibit them with pride in school, and even
put in a few finishing touches in cases where the
form-master was not too quick-sighted.

To Shifner must be allowed the credit of having
first conceived the idea of enshrining one of these
Baals in a temple of its own. A small empty
packing-case was procured from the butler.
This was placed on its side, the walls were lined
with crimson paper and the ceiling with sky-blue.
A little toy lamp hung down on thin chains from
a tin-tack driven into the ceiling. Baal— by the

FORTY YEARS ON

somewhat ignominious process of placing a lighted
match under his base — was stuck to the floor of
the temple, and in front of him stood a beautiful
altar made out of twigs from our firewood covered
with tin-foil. On the top of the altar was a ham
on a dish out of some doll's dinner service.

Shifner had conceived the temple ; it remained
for my brother to conceive the ritual. My
brother was something of a musical genius. He
was a brilliant performer on the piano, had a most
remarkable knowledge of harmony, and could at
any time have made a handsome living as a
musical entertainer of the Corney Grain type.
In fact, in my humble opinion, he was distinctly
superior in that line to either Corney Grain or
George Grossmith senior. He now set to work to
compose a Baalistic chant worthy of the occasion.
We were all at the time a little cracked on the
subject of part-singing— a form of exercise greatly
encouraged by John Farmer — and, in compliment
to this craze, my brother composed a four-part
chant which we sang with no little effect while
marching round the deal table on which reposed
the temple of Baal. The words of the chant
were not very illuminating, for they simply
consisted of a repetition of the one word " Blog."
In fact the word " Blog " was simply a peg on
which to hang the tune.

One evening, while we were marching round
the table, Shifner as high priest, with the table-
cloth over his head and the poker in his hand,
and my brother behind decorated with the hearth-

HARROW

rug, the door suddenly opened and the head of
the house, followed by the five house monitors,
stalked into the room, laid violent hands on our
temple and bore it away in pompous triumph.

Next evening the whole house was summoned
into Pupil Room, where the head of the house
made a speech, or at any rate made the beginning
of a speech, for he never got beyond the opening
sentence.

" I am sorry to find," he began, " that a perni-
cious practice has taken root in this house — the
practice of Baal worship "

He got no farther. A yell of laughter went up
from one end of Pupil Room to the other and
continued in varying degrees of intensity till
the close of the meeting.

The close of the proceedings, though enter-
taining in the extreme for the laity, held some
painful moments for the Baalistic clergy, for we
were each in turn called out and given " six "
with a cane by the head of the house, a dis-
tressingly muscular youth. Shifner, as " high
priest," received ten.

It is extraordinary what foolish acts well-
meaning boys vested with a little authority are
capable of. Prior to the unfortunate speech
above described, our musical rite had been a most
tin-pot affair in which even the boys in the adjoin-
ing room took little interest. The Pupil Room
tribunal, however, raised us with a jerk into
celebrity. Next day we were all objects of
popular interest, if not of envy. " How's Baal ? "

H 97

FORTY YEARS ON

one grinning boy after another would inquire.
" Oh, going strong, thanks," was our invariable
and proud reply.

I believe it was John Farmer who was really
responsible for our being led away after strange
gods, as it was he who had inspired us with the
love of part-singing, which was really at the
bottom of the whole thing. The Harrow song-
books of those days were full of old German and
old English folk-songs arranged by John Farmer
for four voiees, and very effectively, I think, we
used to perform these four-part songs — all, alas !
now crowded out of the school repertoire. In
addition to these simple songs arranged for four
voices after the German fashion, the " School
Twenty," as it was called in those days, was
occasionally called upon to attack more ambitious
harmonised works composed by Farmer himself,
as, for instance, his oratorio " Christ and His
soldiers," which he produced while I was in the
school, and other compositions of that type.
These, after due practice, we used to perform at
end-of-term concerts, and I think perform them
well. At any rate we took an immense pride in
our work and acquired thereby a taste for part-
singing which has certainly lasted me through
life. From present-day concerts at Harrow all
part-singing has been eliminated, which I think is
a pity, as a dozen songs bawled in unison one
after another are apt to be monotonous.

My first term at Harrow was in a small house,
and all we small-house boys used to assemble for

HARROW

the fortnightly house-singing in the music school.
My first house-singing was a great excitement to
me, for I knew I should be tried for my voice,
and hoped I might be selected for honours. The
first thing I saw when I entered the hall was a
cheerful-looking little man in spectacles, with a
round, red, perspiring face, who was sitting at the
piano playing muffled chords with an abstracted
air. This was John Farmer. The moment the
door was closed, his abstracted manner left him
and he began bouncing up and down on his seat
with all the signs of that tremendous energy which
was characteristic of him.

" Now then," he cried, " we'll get rid of the
new squeakers first." He struck a few tremendous
chords on the instrument, wandered away into
all sorts of experimental harmonies and modula-
tions, and finally came to a stop with an emphatic
bang. " The Three Students," he bellowed, and
struck the opening chords of that good old
German air. The whole assemblage sang through
the five verses, and then Farmer, after consulting
a list at his right hand, called out " Atkinson
junior." A small apoplectic-looking boy rose
reluctantly to his feet.

" Now then, Atkinson junior," Farmer called
out encouragingly, " pipe away your best. You
must know the tune by this time."

Very slowly and helpfully Farmer played
through the tune, while Atkinson junior delivered
himself of a series of strangled and inarticulate
gurgles.

FORTY YEARS ON

" Very good," Farmer cried cheerfully. " Now
then, Armstrong minor, let's hear what your idea
of the tune is." This was one of Farmer's standing
jokes.

As we were taken alphabetically, my name
came about half-way down the list, and by the
time I was called upon I had the tune at my
fingers' ends, and, what is more, I liked it.

" Now then, Hamilton junior." I got up,
feeling nervous but pleased, and I certainly sang
with great enjoyment of what I was doing :

" There came three students from over the Rhine,
To a certain good hostel they turned them for wine ;
To a certain good hostel they turned them for wine."

On the second " hostel " there was a good high
note at which I let drive and made a bull's-eye,
so to speak. All Farmer said was " Next verse,"
and when I had finished that, he nodded to me to
continue. So I sang the whole song through,
feeling particularly pleased with myself, especially
during the last verse, which gave scope for the
pathetic stop to be pulled out :

"Dead art thou, Lizbcth, cold lip and brow?
Ah, God ! I learn how I loved thee now ;
Ah, God ! I learn how I loved thee now."

From that night on, till my voice broke, " The
Three Students " was my allotted song. It was
one of Farmer's customs to allot a particular
song to each boy, and, when such a song had once
been allotted, no other boy in the same house was,
on any account, allowed to sing it as a solo.

100

HARROW

The chief incident of interest, however, at my
first house-singing was not my own squeaky
performance, but something of far more lasting
and even historical importance. It was, naturally,
the first house-singing of the term and, during
the holidays, John Farmer had been at work on
a new school song with which he was much in
love. The moment the last new boy had been
dismissed, he turned to the piano with an air of
suppressed but ill-concealed excitement and said :
" Now I've got something new for you which I
want you to learn. You can learn the tune first
and then we'll get the words printed for you.
I'll sing it through to you." He struck a single
chord, which at that time meant nothing to us, but
which to-day brings every Harrovian to his feet
as surely as the opening notes of the National
Anthem. And then, in his rich baritone voice,
he sang :

" Forty years on, when afar and asunder

Parted are those who are singing to-day.
When we look back and forgetfully wonder

What we were like in our work and our play,
Then it may be there will often come o'er you

Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song,
Visions of boyhood will float then before you,

Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along."

I am thankful to say that the first verdict of
the school was unanimous. The song was good.
We only carried away with us fragments of tune
and scraps of the words, but we were distinctly
pleased with John Farmer's lastest effort. It was
characteristic of boys that we gave no credit to

101

FORTY YEARS ON

Edward Bovven for the composition of the words ;
the tune was all we bothered about. Even I,
though the author was my house-master, saw
nothing remarkable in the words. Forty years
had to pass before full appreciation came; and
then appreciation had in it a touch of melancholy.

" Forty years on, growing older and older,

Shorter in wind as in memory long,
Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder,

How will it help you that once you were strong?
God give us ' bases ' ^ to guard or beleaguer.

Games to play out whether earnest or fun,
Fights for the fearless and goals for the eager,

Twenty and thirty and forty years on."

The combination of Edward Bowen and John
Farmer has become little less famous, in its
smaller world, than that of Gilbert and Sullivan.
Between them, the two Harrow masters — each a
genius in his own way — laid the foundation (and
the ground and first floors) of that wonderful
collection of school songs in the possession of which
Harrow is so conspicuously ahead of all rivals.
There have been other combinations — notably
that of Howson and Eaton Faning — which have
produced songs of equal merit. " Here, Sir,"
and " Five hundred faces " will go down through
the ages as two of the greatest school songs ever
conceived ; but the Bowen and Farmer combina-
tion, both for prolificness and for the sustained high
level of its work, must always stand pre-eminent.

We used to think Bowen's words a little mad,
but they were not mad, only poetically subtle and

^ The Harrow term for goals.
102

HARROW

wide of the obvious — too wide, in some cases,
for the consumption of boys. " She was a
Shepherdess " and " Fairies " belong to this type
of song — each a gem of beauty in its own way
both as to words and music, but too cryptic for
general popularity. " Good-night," in my humble
opinion the pick of the whole collection, has a
veiled sentimentality which probably appeals
more to Old Harrovians than to members of the
school. It is also too delicate in structure to be
sung in chorus, and so is only available when
some eminent soloist is on the spot. Behind
these few exotics comes the mass of the more
popular school songs with swinging musical tunes
and clever but intelligible words — " Raleigh,"
" October," " Ducker," " Byron," " Queen
Elizabeth," " Giants," " Come, charge your
glasses," and so on. " Forty Years On," how-
ever, is, and always will be, the School National
Anthem. It was not until some ten years after
its creation that it finally assumed that position,
and then, not by any general vote or edict, but
by a gradual consensus of opinion that, as a
school song, it stands alone.

In my earlier days at Harrow the two most
conspicuous figures (from the boy's point of view)
were Willie Grenfell, afterwards Lord Desborough,
and Fred Ley land.

Grenfell was the strong boy of the school.
Those who had the misfortune to come in contact
with his stalwart form in the " footer " field
went down before him like so many cornstalks

103

FORTY YEARS ON

before the sickle. At all feats of strength he was
unrivalled and, as he was also a very fine long-
distance runner, and in both elevens, and also
near the top of the school, he occupied a place
apart in popular estimation.

Fred Leyland was of a different type. Tall and
slight with very broad shoulders and a curious
rolling walk, he arrested the eye at once, both on
account of his good looks and because of the
unusual breadth of his shoulders in comparison
with the rest of his build. At all games and sports
he was facile princeps, and was, moreover, a boxer
of considerable merit. His most famous exploit
in this direction was in connection with the over-
throw of the great local pugilist, " Bottles."
Harrow in those days was infested with local
bullies of the prize-fighting type, whose principal
trade lay in extracting money from small boys
either by threats or persuasion, and in carrying
on an illicit traffic in cast-off clothes. They were
a villainous crew, and, of the whole villainous
crew the worst and biggest was a man named
Ambridge, popularly known as " Bottles," on
account of his remarkable drinking capacity.

Bottles was a huge brute weighing sixteen stone
and with a tremendous local reputation as one of
the past lights of the prize-ring. He was a foul-
mouthed bully and the terror not only of the
school, but of the whole country-side. The
school authorities, after enduring his unpleasant
ways in silence for some time, finally resolved
upon his excommunication. The School was

104

HARROW

summoned to the Speech Room, and there Dr.
Butler in his clear silvery tones announced to us
with much solemnity that " The man Ambridge
is out of bounds." The School did not receive
the announcement with the same solemnity. We
quite understood that public-houses and certain
private paths and by-ways were quite fittingly
placed " out of bounds," but the idea of a man
being out of bounds struck us as being extra-
ordinarily funny and we laughed accordingly.
The Head Master was not pleased.

This, however, is all by the way. My real
story is about Fred Leyland and Bottles. Leyland
and another were walking on the Ducker Road
one day when Bottles in his most truculent mood
came lurching up from the direction of the nearest
public-house, and proceeded to plaster Leyland
with all the foulest epithets that his foul mind had
at command. Leyland's reply was to hit the huge
bully straight between the eyes. A desperate
combat ensued, at the end of which the late
ornament of the prize-ring was left practically
senseless in the ditch by the side of the road.
From that day on his dominion fell from him.
He was a pricked bubble. Little boys shouted
out " Where's Leyland ? " and then ran away.
The pride of Bottles was broken and Harrow knew
him no more. The authorities took no action in
the matter. It was no doubt difficult for them to
decide whether knocking a man out was, strictly
speaking, an infringement of the " out of bounds "
edict.

105

CHAPTER VII

MY FATHER

Most of my holidays, since I had first gone to a
private school, had been passed at Eastwell, but
one memorable summer holiday was spent at
Arisaig, a particularly heavenly spot on the west
coast of Inverness-shire which my father, in con-
junction with my brother-in-law, Lord Durham,
rented from Mr. Astley. During the summer
term of 1873 my brother and I, to our ecstatic
delight, learned that Arisaig had once more been
rented and that our summer holidays were to be
spent in a spot which was brimful of the delightful
memories of our first occupation two years earlier.

In order to avoid the ninety-six miles drive
from Kingussie, which in those days was the only
way of arriving at Arisaig by land, and also no
doubt from a genuine love of the sea, my father
bought a fifty-ton steam yacht named the Nereid,
in which it was arranged that he and my brother
Freddie and I should coast up to Arisaig from
Greenock. That trip still holds a hallowed niche
in my memory.

I was fourteen and my brother sixteen, ages
to which sleeplessness, indigestion or fatigue are
unknown. The glorious west Highland coast

106

MY FATHER

with its intricacy of islands and inlets was virgin
ground to us, and its romantic beauties made an
impression upon us which no time has been able
to efface. A copy of William Black's Land of
Lome was on board the yacht, and the pages of
this charming work tended to strengthen the
impression which daily grew on us that we were
cruising about in a fairy-land. From that time
on, through the ever-mounting decades, the Land
of Lome has remained for me a cross between
fairy-land and heaven. It comes to me in my
dreams as the one haven to which all storm-
tossed cruisers press and ultimately reach. Once
there, a peace which passes all understanding
takes possession of my sleeping soul. I am happy
with an inexpressible happiness which has no
justification except that I am where I am. The
centresome of this region of happiness is Arisaig.
Arisaig, as may be gathered from the above, is
no ordinary spot. Imagine a long but narrow
arm of the sea with romantic mountain outlines
on both sides, cut out of the sheer jagged rock;
oak and birch scrub tumbling down from the
edge of the bare rock to the very water's edge;
brilliant clumps of bell-heather growing every-
where among the rocks; innumerable islands of
all shapes and sizes; caves without end; trans-
lucent rock-pools teeming with strange forms
of life; wonderful sea-birds unknown to more
southern shores; a tranquil sea patronised by
seals, porpoises and even occasional whales, and
a boathouse containing no fewer than six Thames

107

FORTY YEARS ON

rowing-boats in which to investigate all these
wonders. What more could any boy's heart
desire ?

The house itself was large, and we filled it to
the brim. Five Lambton boys and the two eldest
girls (now Lady Pembroke and the Duchess of
Leeds), four Hamilton brothers, my father and
mother and George Durham, with their invited
guests, left little room to spare.

We were rich in the matter of yachts that
summer, for, in addition to the Nereid, George
Durham had his own yacht, the Beatrix, a
schooner of 160 tons, and another brother-in-law,
Lichfield, who was my father's guest, arrived in
his square-rigged yacht, the Cyclone, of about
the same size.

The Nereid, in which we had made our never-
to-be-forgotten trip up the coast, was a comfort-
able and confidential little boat, but as crazy as
Bedlam among anything but Lilliputian waves.
My father knew her for a bad sea-boat when he
bought her, but, none the less, he determined,
during our stay at Arisaig, to attempt in her the
passage to the Hebrides across the Minch. This
trip was destined to bring some of us very near
the gates of heaven. We started in fair weather,
but when about half-way across the Minch were
met by a furious gale from the north-west. The
waves ran mountains high, and it was clear that
our only chance of ever seeing the Hebrides, or
indeed any other land this side of Jordan, lay in
keeping the Nereid's nose straight to the waves.

108

MY FATHER

For some little while after the bursting of the
storm all went well, or, at any rate, nothing went
very badly. Then, suddenly, to our horror, we
saw the skipper, who had so far been at the wheel,
fling himself down on his knees on the deck and
commence an impassioned appeal to the Virgin,
leaving the wheel to take care of itself and the
nose of the vessel to do as it would. The Nereid
was a small boat and it took my father but three
strides to reach the derelict wheel and seize the
spokes. For half a minute or so I believe it was
touch and go with us, for the boat's bow had
fallen perceptibly away from the waves and the
lee gunwale was very near under water; but
after a few desperate and nerve-racking plunges,
she came back to her true course and the immi-
nence of the danger was past. The situation,
however, was still sufficiently terrifying, for the
Nereid had to stand almost on end to climb the
giant waves that raced down on her, and when
her nose plunged down on the far side, it seemed
as though the next wave must inevitably over-
whelm her. By this time the two members of
the crew had joined the skipper in his impromptu
service, and all three rolled about on their knees
alternately howling and offering all sorts of strange
bribes to the Virgin if she would come to their
aid.

Owing either to in-breeding, or the emigration
of the fittest, or to the enervating climate in which
they live, the natives of west Inverness-shire are a
very inferior race to the Aberdonians or even to

109

FORTY YEARS ON

their brethren in eastern Inverness-shire. Round
Arisaig they are almost exclusively Roman
Catholics.

To me, a small, drenched and inexperienced boy
of fourteen, it seemed that afternoon that the
end was only a matter of moments, for nothing is
so infectious as panic, and there was ranting and
perspiring panic on the deck at my very feet.
But terrified as I undoubtedly was (and I am
not ashamed to own that I was terrified), I was
not so terrified as not to be filled with pride at
the sight of my magnificent father as he stood
with quivering nostril and flashing eye, gripping
in his muscular grasp the controlling spokes, the
correct handling of which meant life or death
to us. I remember thinking how like one of the
Vikings of old he looked, with his erect head and
his thick pointed beard flattened upon his chest
by the gale.

My father was physically one of the bravest
men I have known. In face of most of the dangers
that freeze other men's marrow he was utterly
fearless. In two spots only was his nerve vulner-
able, and they were two very ridiculous spots.
He was terrified of a horse and terrified of a dog.
But nothing else frightened him. On the occa-
sion of our passage of the Minch, there can be
no doubt that his nerve and promptitude saved
the lives of all on board. Luckily the engineer,
a Lowland Scot named Alison, also kept his head
and his nerve, and these two between them pulled
us through.

110

MY FATHER

Of the human element my father had no fear,
and, as he was extremely pugnacious by nature,
the wonder is that he did not get into serious
trouble ; for in latter days, forgetful of his advanc-
ing years, he was always eager (a little too eager)
to administer personal chastisement to any who,
in his opinion, outraged the laws of chivalry,
even though they were of half his age. In the
days of his youth he was a very useful boxer, and
a particularly hard hitter owing to an abnormal
development of the dorsal muscle behind the
shoulder-blade. During his school days at Harrow
he fought a memorable and victorious fight against
a much bigger boy than himself which lasted for
an hour and a quarter in the cloisters under the
old Speech Room. As a young man he was very
lucky to come successfully out of a rash encounter
(of the knight-errant type) with a certain damsel-
baiting ogre who turned out to be a professional
boxer. It happened in this way. My father saw
a blackguard insulting a girl on the beach at
Brighton and, true to his instincts, he leaped in
hot-headed to the rescue, and almost before he
knew it, found himself engaged in furious battle
with an assailant who was knocking him all over
the place. Finding that he was out-pointed, my
father realised that his only chance was to make
use of his superior agility. He retreated under
a shower of blows and a torrent of invective to
where the shingle sloped up steeply. Once he
was established on this slope with his face to the
sea, the battle was his. His opponent's blows

111

FORTY YEARS ON

had no force, for the shingle sHpped away from
under his feet every time he tried to hit, whereas
my father got an admirable purchase for the
delivery of his downward punches. The pro-
fessional stuck gamely to it, but by no means
could he succeed in manoeuvring himself above
my father, who was by far the younger and more
active man. Finally, his exertions reduced him
to breathless impotence and my father was able
to hammer him about as he pleased.

When the passage of time had robbed his natural
weapons of their old vigour, my father took to
the sword as an arm of offence. He always slept
with a rapier at his bedside, and, at the slightest
hint of burglars downstairs, he would seize this
weapon and face the unknown below with a
courage which never failed to excite my admira-
tion. His hunts were never successful, which
was perhaps just as well, as a rapier is but a poor
affair against a revolver.

When I was about fifteen, an incident occurred,
at the recollection of which I sometimes laugh
still. I was on the point of leaving Hampden
House one morning, when on the doorstep I
encountered a stranger who was evidently just
about to ring the bell. I asked him in a
friendly way what I could do for him, and
was informed that he wished to see my sister,

Lady . In response to further inquiries he

informed me that his name was Costello. I sent
a servant to let my sister know of Mr. Costello's
wish to see her, and, while awaiting her reply, I

112

Pholo ChanccUor. Dublin.

James, 1st Duke of Abercorn.

MY FATHER

exchanged civil banalities with the visitor, who
was unctuously polite, but who gave signs, I
fancied, of a certain nervousness. In the midst
of an appreciative remark on the subject of the
recent fine weather, I chanced to look round and,
to my amazement, saw my father advancing with
giant strides down the hall with his bared rapier
grasped menacingly in his right hand. The
entrance hall at Hampden House is a long narrow
room which runs parallel to the street, so that
Mr. Costello, who was nearer the street than I
was, had no intimation of the approaching storm
till the threatening figure of my father suddenly
filled the doorway and rudely cut short his pre-
diction that rain might be expected before night.
In the twinkling of an eye my friendly conversa-
tionalist was running down the street as though
all the furies of hell were at his heels. My father
stood majestically in the doorway for a minute or
so, like a dog whose antagonist has turned tail, and
then stalked slowly back the way he had come.

It appeared that Costello, who was a Dublin
man, imagined himself in love with my sister,
whom he had never spoken to, but had seen at
some State function. From that day on he had
pestered her with letters of which, of course, she
took not the slightest notice ; but he had never
before attempted to address her personally. My
father happened to be in the room when the
servant brought the message announcing the
arrival in the flesh of this persistent but invisible
suitor, and he at once realised that here was the

I 113

FORTY YEARS ON

long-sought-for opportunity for the use of his
sword. I may add that ]Mr. Costello — who, it
turned out, was quite mad — did not call again.

When my father went to Dublin for the seeond
time in 1874, he found an outlet for the physical
energy which was still so conspicuous in him
in the game of cricket — a curious development in
a man w^ell over sixty who had so far only a
nodding acquaintance with the game. So great
was his sudden enthusiasm for cricket that affairs
of State had, to a certain extent, to shape them-
selves so as to meet the requirements of the game.
All the A.D.C.'s were selected for their cricket
attainments rather than for softer social qualities.
Ireland was scoured for cricketing parsons to
swell the list of official chaplains. This search
was not on the whole a success, but one parson
of the name of Byrne was unearthed who was
really a very effective bowler.

Another quasi-clerical bowler on the list of
honorary chaplains was the late Prof. Mahaffy of
universal renown and equal popularity. Mahaffy
was the only bowler I ever knew who preferred
a wet ball. Rumour had it that, in very dry
weather, he had a bucket of water placed where
the ordinary bowler has his sawdust. Whether
this was really so is to be doubted, but I can
testify to the fact that, after rain, he would deliber-
ately roll the ball in the wet grass before each
delivery.

Having satisfied himself that his personal staff
was well selected, my father, who did nothing by

114

MY FATHER

halves, signalised his last year of office by engaging
Wheeler, the crack Leicestershire bat, and Shaw
and Morley, the two famous Nottingham bowlers,
to be at the service of the Viceregal Lodge during
the month of August. Thus equipped, he pro-
ceeded to issue challenges on behalf of the Vice-
regal Lodge team to the Na Shuler, Phoenix and
Leinster clubs — all matches to be played on the
Lodge ground.

During the reigns of less enthusiastic Viceroys,
the custom had been for the Zingari team, which
was housed at the Lodge during its August tour,
to play these Irish clubs. It was a new and
audacious departure for the Lodge itself to chal-
lenge such formidable teams, and at first the
challenge was looked upon as a joke. When,
however, it became known that the Viceregal
team included Shaw and Morley, the two best
bowlers in England, it was realised that the joke
would probably be on the other side; and so
indeed it turned out, for the two Nottingham
bowlers proved absolutely irresistible, even to
such redoubtable players as Trotter and Kempster
of Trinity College, and young Willie Hone.

In anticipation of these matches, in which he
always took part, it was my father's habit to
practise regularly at the nets for two hours every
day to the bowling of Wheeler and various
members of the Staff. Curiously enough for a
man who had only taken up cricket when he
was sixty-three, he could play fast bowling very
fairly well. Slows, however, or anything with

115

FORTY YEARS ON

a pronounced break, no matter how obvious,
utterly defeated him.

The last match of the 1876 season was advertised
as Viceregal Lodge and Staff v. the Rest. In this
match Shaw and Morley had perforce to be in-
cluded among the Rest, as by no stretch of
imagination could they be interpreted as members
of the Staff. The result, as may be supposed,
was the utter devastation of the Viceregal wickets.
When the sixth wicket had fallen for a very
inglorious total, a murmur of excitement ran
round the ground as my father was seen stalking,
bat in hand, out of the dressing tent towards the
centre of the ground. The local umpire placed
his hand to his mouth and, in an audible whisper,
called out : " Whist, boys ; it's his Excellency.
Bowl saft now." The first over came from Shaw.
Alfred Shaw, who bore a marked resemblance to
the late King Edward, was, by general consent,
the foremost bowler of his day. It was said that,
for a bet, he had once pitched six consecutive
balls on a half-crown placed ten feet from the far
wicket. He could break both ways and vary his
pace without any perceptible alteration of his
action.

On the momentous occasion in question, Shaw
played his part nobly. Four consecutive balls,
well pitched up, and just wide of the off stump,
were all returned by my father in correct style to
mid-off. The last ball of the over was a slow
long-hop to leg, off which my father scored a single
amidst much loyal applause. He was then called

116

MY FATHER

upon to face Morley. Now Morley had about as
much idea of " bowling saft " as he had of playing
the harp. He was a tall, lithe, athletic young
fellow with an utterly expressionless countenance.
His style of bowling was to take a short run and
then, with his left arm, deliver a bumpy ball, at
an appalling pace, straight at the batsman's body.
The ball generally broke back six inches and
scattered the bails; if it did not, it generally
disabled the batsman. Morley seldom bowled
through an innings without stretching out some-
one on the sward.

On the historical occasion in question, Morley,
it must be owned, did his best, which meant that
he bowled well up and just wide of the off stump.
Try as he would, however, he could not rid his
deliveries of that disastrous break back. The
Lord-Lieutenant lunged forward in approved
style, but he made no allowance for the break,
and the first ball went straight into Willie Hone's
hands at point. Now Willie Hone was the best
field in Ireland. No ball, however hard struck,
ever succeeded in evading those two prehensile
hands. It was therefore with a gasp of astonish-
ment, mingled with relief, that the assembled
crowd saw Hone first fumble the ball, then recover
it again with a desperate effort, and finally stamp
in bitter disappointment as the ball eluded his
grasp and fell to earth. Tremendous cheering
followed on a realisation of this miraculous escape,
and the Lord-Lieutenant once more faced the
bowler. Morley, being an absolute machine,

117

FORTY YEARS ON

delivered once more exactly the same ball as
before, with exactly the same result, and once
more Willie Hone, after a display of juggling
worthy of Cinquevalli, let the ball slip through
his fingers to the ground. This time the Lord-
Lieutenant's escape was received in thoughtful
silence. All might now have been well had
Morley been capable of delivering some other form
of innocuous ball, but he was not, and once more
my father, with exactly the same stroke, played
the ball straight into Hone's hands, who, this
time, retained it, with a joyful expression of
countenance which seemed to say : " Well, thank
heaven, I've managed to hold it at last."

My father had not the slightest suspicion of the
efforts made by both bowlers and fields to pro-
long his stay at the wicket, and attributed his
failure entirely to Hone's exceptional skill at
point.

That year I had been tried several times for
the Harrow Eleven, but without success, and
another twelve months had to pass before I got
my School flannels. But for a happy accident,
I might even then have been found wanting.
The accident was this. Harrow cricketers of
the day were greatly addicted to a straddling
" stance," with the legs wide apart and the bat
held short, in marked contrast to the Eton style,
which was upright with the feet close together.
Two notable exponents of the Harrow style were
Walter Hadow and A. J. Webbe, both brilliant
cricketers, the latter unquestionably the best boy

118

MY FATHER

bat of his decade; and, with two such successful
examples before my eyes, I felt that I could not
do better than follow suit. Boys are essentially
imitative. We had no real cricket-coach at
Harrow in those days. Old Fred Ponsonby and
Bob Grimston took a lot of trouble over our
instruction, but no one paid much attention to
their advice, for they were both septuagenarians
(or, at any rate, we thought they were) and
neither had any cricket reputation behind him.
Old Bob always wore a tall hat with a flat brim
and a strap under the chin, while Fred Ponsonby
affected a billy-cock three sizes too big for him.
Both were apostles of the stone-wall-defence style
of batting and almost shed tears when a boundary
was hit. Hartley and Pollard, the two profes-
sionals attached to the school, coached us a bit,
but they were both old and indolent, and let us
go pretty much our own way. What then could
a small boy do but imitate his seniors and betters ?
I accordingly adopted the straddling stance, but
with a marked absence of success, for " stone-
walling," as it afterwards turned out, was not my
metier at all.

Among the Viceregal house-party during the
cricket season of 1876 was Walter Forbes, the
Eton fast bowler, who had captained his school
eleven that year and had scored 113 against
Harrow at Lord's. This last achievement,
coupled with his high reputation as a fast
bowler, was quite sufficient for my father, who,
staunch Harrovian though he was, could not

119

FORTY YEARS ON

resist the temptation of enlisting young Forbes'
services for the Viceregal team. In this way he
and I became fast and abiding friends. To me
came Walter Forbes one day while I was batting
at the nets and said : " Why don't you stand
straight up, hold your bat at the end and make
the most of your height? " I had no answer to
offer except that it had never occurred to me to
do so. "Well, do it now," he said; and I did,
with results which astonished no one more than
myself.

Some five years later, while playing one day at
Escrick, I chanced to make a good score against
a team which included my late cricket tutor. It
was a very hot day, and Walter Forbes bowled
through most of the innings with his usual untir-
ing energy. When I had passed my century, he
plaintively mopped his perspiring brow and said :
" If I could have foreseen this, Ernest, I should
certainly never have shown you the proper way
to hold your bat."

It is impossible to leave the subject of Walter
Forbes without some reference to his extra-
ordinary throwing powers. Although nearly fifty
years have passed since he threw the cricket ball
132 yards 2 feet in the Eton Sports, that record
has never been broken, nor does it seem likely
that it ever will be. He threw with a very low
arm and, when not out for a big throw, with an
amazingly low trajectory. As a field in the long
country he was unrivalled. From the remotest
corner of the ground, the ball was sent back to

120

MY FATHER

within an inch of the bails with what appeared to
be a mere flick of the wrist. The only cricketer I
have ever seen who could approach Walter Forbes
in rapidity of return is A. P. Chapman, the Cam-
bridge cricketer. Both have very much the same
way of picking up the ball and returning it all
in one motion. It used to be my great delight
to get Walter Forbes to throw stones for my edifi-
cation. At this exercise he outstripped all com-
petitors even more conspicuously than with the
cricket ball. His unusually low delivery had the
effect of keeping a thin flat stone absolutely hori-
zontal and with a very low but gradually soaring
flight, till it dropped to earth (or water) some
200 yards away — a really beautiful sight to
witness.

Although I was the only member of the family
to get into the Harrow eleven, my brother George
was twelfth man in his year, and in this capacity
was indirectly responsible for the loudest burst
of hilarity that, in all probability, has ever shaken
the confines of Lord's Cricket Ground. People
used at that time to drive into the ground and
remain seated in their carriages, from which the
horses were, of course, withdrawn, and under which
hampers of provisions were stored. About one
o'clock one day, when the contents of these
hampers had been brought to light, my mother
turned to the footman in attendance and said :
" William, will you find Lord George and tell him
luncheon is ready." The footman disappeared
and, about a minute later, a roar of delirious

121

FORTY YEARS ON

laughter went up to heaven from five thousand
throats, as a stiff figure in silk stockings, powder
and phish was seen slowly making its way across
the ground in the direction of " Short slip," to
whom he bowed and then returned the way he
had come, quite unmoved by the boisterous
greetings of the crowd. One of the eleven had
been suddenly taken ill and the twelfth man had
been unexpectedly called upon to take his place.
It was many a day before my unfortunate brother
was allowed to forget the incident.

It may come as a surprise to the rising genera-
tion to learn that in those days, Harrow was almost
always victorious at Lord's. The selection of the
team was entirely in the hands of the captain
of the eleven, with whose freedom of action no
master would have ventured, or even wished, to
interfere. The only point aimed at was to get
the eleven best players in the school to fight
Eton. Now, alas ! it is very much otherwise,
and Harrow almost always loses.

122

CHAPTER VIII

VICEREGAL DAYS

By the date of my father's second term of
office as Lord-Lieutenant I was old enough to
take a certain dehght in the pomp and panoply
of Viceregal life, and was yet too young to be
fully conscious of the strong flavour of Gilbert
and Sullivan which lay at the back of it all. I
only realised the ludicrous side of the whole thing
in later years when I saw others enacting the part
of Viceroy. My father had a magnificent presence
and a wonderful dignity which was free from the
smallest trace of pomposity. He was also the
handsomest old man I have ever seen and, with
these advantages, was able to carry off a situation
which, in less gifted hands, was apt to raise a
smile.

Viceregal Lodge life was really very jolly
country-house life, with the imitation purple
occasionally assumed for State functions. One
part of the menage, however, which really was
worthy of admiration and which, in fact, could
compare favourably with any royal equipage,
was the stables, presided over by that most
delightful of Dublin's permanent officials. Colonel
Frank Foster. My father had always affected
big black-brown horses, but, naturally, the

123

FORTY YEARS ON

exigencies of Viceregal life called for many more
of these than were required at home. No fewer
than twenty-two of these 16.2 black-browns,
hardly distinguishable one from the other and all
supplied by East of Curzon Street, stood in the
Viceregal stables, and it was truly a brave sight
to see them parade for some State function.
The first two carriages had four horses each,
ridden by postilions, while those that followed
were drawn by pairs driven by coachmen. Two
outriders preceded the leading carriage. The
claret-coloured carriages drawn by the big black
horses; the heavy silver harness with its Knight
of the Garter embossments, and the dark blue
and white rosettes at the horses' ears, really
formed a most effective spectacle and one of which
I never tired. My father's carriage turnout was
reputed the best that Dublin had ever seen.

Another department of Viceregal life in which
my father was said to excel all rival Lord-
Lieutenants was in that of public speaking. His
speeches were always short, and were invariably
committed to memory, for he had not, I think, any
natural fluency of speech. They were perhaps a
little grandiloquent, but not more so than was
suited to his style and appearance. He spoke very
slowly, in sonorous and vibrating tones, standing
very upright and pivoting first to right and then
to left upon his heels. It was a tow de force —
wholly artificial, if you please, but none the less
tremendously effective in his hands. Imitators
beware !

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VICEREGAL DAYS

My first lessons in riding over fences were given
me in those days with the Ward Union and
Kildare hounds. The meets of the Meath were
a httle out of reach of the Viceregal Lodge except
by train. My instructor and guardian, during
these hunting expeditions, was one Cassidy, a
Dublin horse-breaker, and my instructions were
never to jump any fence except in the wake of
Cassidy. At these restrictions my youthful spirit
chafed, for Cassidy, doubtless weighed down by a
sense of his responsibility, was prudence itself,
and refused to negotiate any fence which offered
exciting possibilities. As though to make up
for this enforced restraint, he used to regale me,
on the way home, with tales of his desperate
exploits in the saddle when not handicapped by
the charge of a Viceregal youth. Among other
startling feats which he claimed to have per-
formed was the following : — In those days (and
possibly still) along the edge of the straight road
which runs through the Phoenix Park from the
Dublin Gate to the Castleknock Gate was a series
of terrific obstacles consisting of horizontal trees
fixed on uprights about 4 feet 6 inches from the
ground. These obstacles had been built for the
purpose of preventing horsemen from galloping
along the grass at the edge of the road, and
thoroughly well did they fulfil this purpose.
Never have I seen one of them jumped, or even
attempted, by the most daring riders. Cassidy,
however, assured me that, for a bet, he had once
jumped the whole series (there must have been

125

FORTY YEARS ON

thirty or forty of them) from gate to gate. I
firmly beHcvcd the tale and was for ever urging
him to repeat the performance (or even a part of
it) for my special edification. Unfortunately,
however, the wonderful horse on which he had
done the deed was always ailing on the particular
day fixed for the exhibition, so that my curiosity
remained unsatisfied.

The mention of daring riders in connection with
the Viceregal Lodge and the Phoenix Park naturally
conjures up memories of Bay Middleton. Bay was
not on my father's staff, having been adjudged
rather too lively for the post, but he was a
perpetual visitor at the Lodge during the cricket
season, and always played for the staff by virtue
of the fact that he had been A.D.C. to Lord
Spencer during the preceding regime. He was a
very useful bowler, but his chief value to the team
lay in his amazing vitality and his unfailing fund
of humour. Under the influence of strong excite-
ment, however, he occasionally became a little
unmanageable, which was the reason for his
exclusion from my father's staff. He had been
trepanned as the result of a bad fall out hunting
and, ever after, was subject to moments of
pronounced excitability. As he was extremely
strong and muscular, and inclined to be a little
dangerous when excited, the prudent avoided
exciting him. The young and foolish, however,
were often tempted to do the opposite, and not
infrequently had cause to regret that they had not
let sleeping dogs lie.

126

VICEREGAL DAYS

One youth, however, registered so distmct a
score over Bay that the story must be told, even
though not for the first time.

It was in Lord Spencer's day. Bay was in
waiting, and noted with pain that a certain youth
was in the habit of appearing in the A.D.C.'s room,
after the ladies had retired to bed, in his evening
tail-coat, instead of in the orthodox smoking-
jacket. In those days men always smoked in
special costume, the idea being that the smell of
tobacco was so offensive to the fair sex that even
the coat of a man who had smoked on the preced-
ing day was contaminated. The older generation
even went to the length of crowning themselves
with curious be-tasselled velvet caps in order to
prevent the nuptial pillow from being desecrated
by any of the noxious fumes. Smoking, in
fact, in those days, was little removed from a
secret vice. Bay Middleton, in deference to
these established ideas, pointed out the magnitude
of his offence to the erring youth, but without
any marked success, for, on the following night,
he again appeared in his evening clothes.

"Look here, young fellow," said Bay; "I
have warned you once already about coming to
the smoking-room in those clothes. If it occurs
again, you will be sorry." The youth accepted
his rebuke mildly and the party broke up and
went to bed. Next night, to everyone's nervous
surprise, the offence was once more repeated.
*' Very well, my young friend," said the now
thoroughly aroused Bay; "you have had fair

127

FORTY YEARS ON

warning. Now you must pay the penalty."
With these words, he seized the hmp and unresist-
ing youth by the collar and deliberately cut the
offending coat to ribbons with a penknife. The
culprit slunk abashed towards the door.

"Good-night, all," he said. "By the way,
Bay, I may as well tell you that it was your own
coat that you've been cutting up. I changed
into it just before I came down."

Bay, who was one of the best fellows in the
world, took the joke in excellent part, and was one
of the first to join in the laugh against himself.

He had the most marvellous control over his
facial muscles. I have seen him stand in a crowd
at race-meetings and other gatherings and, in a
vibrant voice, deliver himself of the most offensive
personal remarks at the expense of his near
neighbours. When these turned round glaring
blood and war, they could find no one on whom
to fix their wrath but a bland-looking gentleman
gazing with vacuous eyes into the distance. It
was clearly impossible to associate the remark
they had overheard with so benign and pre-
occupied a countenance, and so, after a long and
wrathful scrutiny, the insulted one would once
more face to his front, convinced that his ears
must have deceived him.

It is difficult for the present generation to
realise how deadly to feminine organisms the fumes
of tobacco were supposed to be in the Sixties.
Queen Victoria herself headed the crusade against
tobacco, and visitors to Windsor had to smoke

128

VICEREGAL DAYS

with their heads up the chimney. No one ever
smoked after dinner, or indeed in any room except
that specially set apart for the purpose, which was
usually in the most remote and inaccessible
position procurable. At Drumlanrig, in the old
days, smokers, having crept down from their
rooms, clad in the peculiar livery exacted by the
custom of the day, passed through a swing-
door leading out of the entrance hall. Here a
scarlet band on a white wall guided them down
a circular stone staircase. At the foot of this
staircase the scarlet band pursued its way through
an interminable intricacy of passages, tunnels
and swing-doors till, finally, a room at the extreme
end of a long projecting wing was reached. Here,
and here only, the votaries of tobacco were allowed
to emit their deadly fumes. Nowadays, when we
see the nostrils of fair ladies shooting forth clouds
of smoke in the holy of holies of their grand-
mothers, and not only surviving, but looking
remarkably fresh and pretty, one cannot help
wondering whether the horror of tobacco affected
by the ladies of the Sixties was wholly genuine.

129

CHAPTER IX

DRUMLANRIG

Drumlanrig Castle in the days of Walter
Francis, fifth Duke of Buccleuch and seventh
Duke of Queensberry, was the most princely
establishment in the kingdom. For three months
of the year the Duke and Duchess, with traditional
Scottish hospitality, kept open house. This has
become an expression which is often loosely used
to describe a totally inadequate set of circum-
stances ; but in the case of the Buccleuchs it was
literally true. Anyone and everyone, who was
so inclined, used to invite themselves to Drum-
lanrig, with all their retinue, and very often with
all their children, and there remain so long as
it suited their convenience. No one was ever
refused or turned away, so long as there was an
empty bedroom in the house. This princely
custom was, as may well be imagined, not only
appreciated but taken full advantage of, and, in
many cases, it was taken advantage of by those
who, had they waited for an invitation, would
have seen but little of the inside of Drumlanrig
Castle. It need scarcely be said that a custom
such as this, splendid though it may be in the
abstract, is sure to be presumed upon by the

130

DRUMLANRIG

mighty army of opportunists, and cannot fail to
saddle those responsible for it with many guests
who are not of their own choosing and who never
would be of their own choosing. The excuse of
*' no room " was hardly admissible in view of the
size of the house, and, besides, any such line of
action would have been contrary to the established
family principle, which laid down that Drumlanrig
had to receive all comers with open arms, whether
welcome or otherwise.

If the domestic arrangements of Walter Francis
were regal, as one cannot but admit they were,
his personal status throughout the Border country
was little less so. Partly from tradition connected
with the exploits of the " bauld Buccleuch,"
partly on account of his own impressive person-
ality, but mainly, no doubt, because of his
immense possessions, he ranked in his own country
as the equal of anyone in the kingdom, whether
crowned or uncrowned. " No, not if you were
the Duke of Buccleuch himself," became a
common expression in cases where an impossibility
was asked.

The residential possessions of Walter Francis
were not only greater by far than those of any
other subject, but were probably greater than
those of any crowned head in Europe. In 1878,
on the occasion of his jubilee as a landlord, he
was presented with an illuminated address signed
by no fewer than seven hund red of his tenants in
Scotland. To those who are acquainted with the
mighty acreage of the Border farms this figure

131

FORTY YEARS ON

will convey some idea of the vast extent of his
landed estates. His prineipal residences in Scot-
land were Drumlanrig Castle, Dalkeith Palace,
Bowhill Park, Eildon Hall, Langholm Lodge and
Branxholm Hall, the latter being the original
dwelling-place of the Scotts of Buccleuch. Sir
Walter Scott tells us that on the maintenance
and improvement of these places, Charles, fourth
Duke and father of Walter Francis, at one time
employed no fewer than 947 labourers. In
England the Duke's principal country houses
were Boughton House, Beaulieu Abbey, Dun-
church House, Cawston Hall, Ditton House and
a large and beautiful villa on the Thames at
Richmond. This embarrassing accumulation of
country residences had drifted into the possession
of one man through the gradual fusion by mar-
riage of the three ducal houses of Montagu,
Queensberry and Buccleuch. Dunchurch and
Cawston were let and Branxholm was in the
occupation of one of the land agents, but all the
others, as well as Montagu House, Whitehall,
were so kept up as to be ready for occupation by
their owner at any moment. Each of the Scotch
houses was favoured with a certain period of
residence during the year. At the end of the
London season, Langholm was occupied for two
months or so for the grouse shooting. The next
three months were spent at Drumlanrig, and, at
Christmas, the family gathered together at Dal-
keith, where they remained till March, when
Bowhill became the family residence till the

132

DRUMLANRIG

London season began again. Eildon was occupied
sporadically during the hunting season, being
situated near the kennels of the Duke's hounds.
These various places were linked together by-
estates so vast that it was possible for the Duke
to drive from one to the other without being for
any great length of time off his own property.

Of the English places, Boughton House, Ketter-
ing, was, and is still, the most striking. This
house is a miniature Versailles, built for the Duke
of Montagu by the same architect, and sur-
rounded— as in Versailles — by star-shaped avenues.
It is full of beautiful things. The real emporium
of beautiful things, however, is Dalkeith, which
contains almost a second Wallace Collection of
art treasures. Drumlanrig contains little that
is of high artistic value, and yet in the grandeur
of its position and surroundings it dwarfs, in
my opinion, any other private residence in the
kingdom. The late Lord Bath held the same
view, and, on the occasion of his first visit to
Drumlanrig, told me that, in his opinion, it
beat anything in the kingdom for grandeur,
not excepting his own beautiful place at Longleat.

Drumlanrig Castle has been described, and
aptly described, as standing on a tea-cup inverted
in a washing-basin. The Castle itself crowns
an abrupt eminence which is, in turn, hedged
round by a ring of magnificently shaped moun-
tains some five or six miles distant. The old
Duke always spoke of this ring of mountains
as the *' park wall " and, in honest truth, the

133

FORTY YEARS ON

description is not altogether inapt. The woods,
radiating out in all directions from the Castle,
make it difficult to determine when the park
proper may be said to end and the open country
begin. In the day of Walter Francis there
were said to be a hundred miles of grass rides
through these woods, all of which were kept
mown like lawns.

At the time of my first visit to Drumlanrig,
all this splendour left me cold. The young
take such things for granted. It is only as
years advance that the problem of ways and
means presents any live interest and, possibly,
excites a wondering admiration. To the youth —
and especially the gilded youth — who has so
far had to pay for nothing and organise nothing,
the crowd of obsequious figures that minister
to his daily wants and pleasures are but an
essential part of the scheme of nature and excite
no more speculation in his mind than the rising
of the sun or the budding of the trees in spring.
The only item on the daily programme at Drum-
lanrig that moved me to any wonder was the
fruit supply — possibly because, at that early age, I
was extremely partial to fruit. Fruit was to
me neither forbidden nor unfamiliar. I had,
in fact, been used, all my life, to big country
houses with their kitchen-gardens attached. At
the Viceregal Lodge I had been used to some-
thing more, for the garden there is the second
largest in the kingdom, but the piles and pyramids
of fruit which crowded the dining-room table at

134.

DRUMLANRIG

Drumlanrig at every meal were something alto-
gether outside my experience. At the age of
twenty I was particularly fond of fruit and, though
decency demanded a certain restraint in attacking
the aforesaid pyramids, I found consolation at first
for having to tear myself away from some par-
ticularly attractive dish of peaches or nectarines,
or some very special brand of grape, in the
thought that I could resume the attack at the
next meal. To my surprise, however, I soon
learned that this was not practicable, for there
was no reappearance of the special brand of
grapes, peaches or nectarines aforesaid. In their
place on the table were new and strange piles of
fruit with which I had no previous acquaintance.
I made timid inquiry and was told that the
custom of the house (no doubt emanating from
the basement) was that no fruit which had once
graced the dining-room table should on any
account make a second appearance there. Under
this strange rule, huge bunches of grapes, with
their symmetry hardly affected by the feeble
assaults of those sitting near them, dived down
into the lower regions after their debut, to be
seen no more. It is clear that a system of
prodigal consumption such as this could not do
otherwise than make stupendous demands on the
Buccleuch fruit supplies. These, however, never
failed to prove fully equal to the demand.
Langholm, Eildon and Bowhill could each boast
large and prolific kitchen-gardens, but the main
sources of supply were, of course, Drumlanrig and

135

FORTY YEARS ON

Dalkeith. The latter alone required a permanent
staff of forty- two gardeners. The garden at
Drumlanrig was even larger, though not favoured
by so sunny a climate. It is doubtful whether
Walter Francis knew of the unwritten law of the
steward's room which made such extravagant
demands upon his fruit supplies. It is doubtful
whether the knowledge would have interested
him in any way. His disposition was towards a
happy tolerance of weaknesses and a broad dis-
tribution of God's gifts. All home produce was
either consumed in the course of ordinary hos-
pitality or given away to charitable institutions.
In the case of game this custom entailed ceaseless
and munificent gifts controlled by a distributing
agency that had no spare time on its hands, as
may be judged from the following figures. In
1888 the Buccleuch estates in Scotland produced
7726 grouse, 1121 black game, 2842 partridges,
2961 pheasants and 3639 hares, all of which were
either consumed on the premises, or else were
given away to farmers, neighbours and hospitals,
or sent away to distant friends. Walter Francis
was by that time dead, but the custom of the
family was still rigidly maintained by William
Henry, the sixth Duke, and my sister. Later
on, when, under careful management, the grouse
and pheasant shooting had been very greatly
improved, the numbers killed in a day became
so large that there was no alternative but to
sell the game or let it go bad. But, even then,
the family rule was broken with great reluct-

136

P/io/o. W. & D. Doivney.

Walter Francis, 5th Duke ok Buccleuch.

DRUMLANRIG

ance, and not without, I think, a certain sense
of dehnquency.

At present, however, we are deaUng with the
days of Walter Francis. He himself was a curious
mixture of the grand seigneur and of the simple
country squire. He was equally at home with
the peasant as with the prince and had only one
form of address for both. On grand occasions,
when dressed up for the part, he was the beau-
ideal of the polished aristocrat. He had a spare
but very upright figure, a small square face with
little bushy side-whiskers and an invariably
humorous and kindly expression. In ordinary
domestic life, however, his habits and dress were of
the simplest. He always wore a Glengarry bonnet
when in Scotland, and, in winter, affected a
shepherd's plaid flung across his shoulders in
place of an overcoat. On several occasions he
was, to his own unbounded delight, mistaken by
his own household servants for a shepherd, and
accosted as such. On one occasion his own valet
made this mistake when passing him in the dusk,
and, wishing to be affable, remarked : " Fine
evening, Jock." " Oh, aye, it's a' that," replied
the Duke.

He took a real delight in the society of his own
tenant-farmers, and would sit for any length of
time chatting with them on current topics : nor
indeed was this taste of his greatly to be wondered
at, for the tenant-farmer of the Border counties
is a companion in whose society any man may
take delight. His fund of general knowledge, his

137

FORTY YEARS ON

keen appreciative humour and his stock of local
anecdotes are such that it is impossible to be in
his company and not be entertained, in every
sense of the word. Never shall I forget the
wonderful teas which those Dumfriesshire and
Roxburghshire farmers used to provide for us
after shooting. They even now dwell pleasantly
in my memory.

I was very young when I first went to Drum-
lanrig, having, in fact, only just left Harrow. I
was staying at Langholm with the Dalkeiths and,
having heard much of the wonders of Drumlanrig,
experienced a great wish to see it. I consulted
my host and hostess as to how it could be done.
" Why, write to the Duchess, of course, and say
you are coming," was the reply; "that is what
everyone does."

I followed this advice and at once received a
most cordial reply, begging that I would come
and stay as long as I felt inclined. I arrived and
found the house (as it always was during the last
three months of the year) packed with visitors,
of whom all the males were intent on shooting,
as indeed was I, armed with a new pair of guns.
One of the most outstanding drawbacks of
universal hospitality, in a country house where
there is shooting, is that the host cannot select
his own guns, or, if he does select them, finds
them crowded out by so many self-invited guests
that everyone's pleasure is spoilt. At Drumlanrig
it was by no means uncommon for fifteen or
sixteen guns to assemble after breakfast at the

138

DRUMLANRIG

top of the red sandstone steps that lead down
from the front door. One and all expected to
be conveyed to the scene of action, with their
loaders and dogs, and, when there, to be provided
with plenty to shoot at. All were gratified of
their wish, for how could any be refused without
a violation of the fundamental principle of the
family— the principle of universal hospitality?
The extent of the shooting-ground was practically
unlimited, but, of necessity, some of it lay at
very great distances and the question of transport
was no light one. It was achieved in those days
by means of big omnibuses with four horses and
postilions. At least four days a week throughout
October, November and December one or two of
such omnibuses would set out from the main
entrance for some distant part of the estate,
packed to their utmost limits with shooting
enthusiasts of all ages from eighteen to eighty.
I have myself, on more occasions than one, been
one of a party of fifteen ; but the game-book has
it on record that, on one occasion, no fewer than
twenty-three guns took part in a grouse drive at
Wanlock Head, eleven miles from Drumlanrig !
These over-weighted shooting-parties were, of
course, a nuisance to everyone concerned, but
the only people who never complained were those
who had to provide the entertainment. Others
did grumble freely, forgetting that the fault lay
entirely with themselves, for having pushed them-
selves in where they were not invited. It is only
fair to add that the grumblers were almost always

139

FORTY YEARS ON

old fogies who from long indulgence thought that
no one had any right to be there but themselves,
and who overlooked the fact that they themselves
were open to all the charges which they levelled
so freely against the other old fogies.

Over-weighted as these shooting-parties un-
doubtedly were, and great as were the grumblings,
jealousies and mutual hatred of the many old
fogies engaged in them, the general atmosphere
was one of thorough enjoyment, and luncheon
generally succeeded in restoring good humour all
round. Not that these shooting-luncheons were
by any means in the nature of gastronomic orgies.
On the contrary, they were almost Spartan in
their simplicity. Abundance of all kind there
certainly was, but all of a simple character. It
was, is still, and probably always will be a rule
in the Scott family that shooting-luncheons should
be cold and taken in the open air. No matter
how cold or wet it might be, the shelter of a wall
and the protection of a game-bag were all that
was offered and all that was asked for. The
elaborate feasts in tents which King Edward
introduced in the south, and which cut so big a
slice out of the time available for shooting, found
no favour on the Bucclcuch estates. The teas,
however, in the farm-houses at the end of the
day were full compensation for any discomforts
of wind or rain. No sooner had we discarded
our waterproofs and wrung the rain from our
caps than our eyes were gladdened by the sight of
piles of scones, baps and girdle-cakes, flanked by

140

DRUMLANRIG

fresh-made butter, heather-honey and a deUcious
confection known as nub-berry jelly, made from
pale red mulberry-shaped berries sometimes called
" cloud-berries," owing to their eccentric reluct-
ance to grow at less than a thousand feet above
the sea. No matter to what distant corner of
the estate the day's sport might have led us,
there was always the same sumptuous tea waiting
to refresh us after our labours; and while the
guid-wife and her daughter plied us with tea and
cakes, the farmer would surreptitiously urge the
claims of the big decanter standing on the side-
board; nor would he by any means always urge
in vain. Why is it that the whisky of the Scottish
farmer is so infinitely better than the whisky of
the Duke? Or is it only that it tastes better
because one is wet and cold and tired? The
answer must be left for others. All that I can
vouch for is that no whisky has ever tasted to
me as the whisky of those hospitable Border
farmers tasted.

The rule with the Scotts as to alfresco luncheons
out shooting was so inviolable that even when
the present King and Queen visited Drumlanrig
in October 1899 there was no departure from the
recognised custom. Day after day, wet or fine,
the King (then Duke of York) would drive ten or
twelve miles for the sake of a rough day's black-
cock driving (which was the only form of sport
that the time of year permitted), and, wet or
fine, there was no one of the party who shot so
well or who enjoyed himself more, despite small

141

FORTY YEARS ON

bags, wet weather and eold luncheon under the
shelter of a wall.

The Duke and Duchess of York were not, as
may be imagined, among the self-invited guests,
nor was Arthur James Balfour, who visited Drum-
lanrig some few years later. Arthur Balfour, who
was Prime Minister at the time, was asked to
Drumlanrig for the purpose of a big meeting
which he was advertised to address at Dumfries.
During the previous week Mr. Asquith had
delivered an important speech at Dumfries, in
the course of which he had, as usual, failed to
find merit in any single act or action of the
Government during its entire tenure of office.
While driving to the Unionist meeting which was
designed to act as a counterblast to the other,
one of the party said to the Prime Minister :

" Well, Arthur, I suppose you are going to
knock holes in all the terrible indictments that
Asquith launched against you in his speech last
week?"

" Well," said the Prime Minister calmly, " I
hope I may, but the fact is I didn't read his
speech. Did he say very dreadful things about
me?"

In reply the other enumerated a number of the
scathing charges which Mr. Asquith had levelled
against the Government and its leader.

" Ah, thank you," said Arthur Balfour, " I
think I shall be able to dispose of those points
all right." And there is not the slightest doubt
that he did, to the unqualified delight of the

142

Photo. Laja\e'.ie.

Hermione, Duchess of Leinster.

DRUMLANRIG

audience of 5000 who heard him. But I could
not help wondering what would have been the
subject of his speech had our friend not made his
chance remark in the motor-car. One thing only
is quite certain, and that is that the speech would
have been an admirable and telling one whatever
the circumstances were, and however suddenly
the points to be dealt with had been thrust
upon the speaker.

Next day John Bell, the then head-keeper at
Drumlanrig, was asked if he had heard Mr.
Balfour's speech.

" No," was his unexpected reply; " the fact is
I have made it a practice for some years past
never to go out after sundown," — a refreshingly
candid admission from a gamekeeper !

John Bell was a fine example of the old Scottish
gamekeeper — highly educated, keenly intelligent
and meticulously honest. In one particular he
stands out vividly in my recollection, viz. as the
only man I have ever come across who resolutely
refused a proffered tip. I had been shooting at
Drumlanrig and, on my departure, presented Bell
with the usual tip. Unexpected circumstances
brought me back to Drumlanrig a fortnight later,
and I had two more days' shooting. Before
leaving I extended a sovereign, at sight of which
Bell turned his back and thrust both his hands
deep into his pockets.

" No," he said, calmly but resolutely, " you
gave me plenty before, and I'll take no more."

I persisted, but he was obdurate and finally

143

FORTY YEARS ON

strode hastily away in the direction of his house,
leaving me standing there with my hand foolishly
extended. I had, in the end, to send the money
by post, and, in reply, received a very appreciative
but reproachful letter of thanks.

The extraordinary idea, originated and main-
tained by Cockney comic papers and Cockney
music-halls, that the Scot is a mean fellow to
whom the spending of a sixpence is pain, is about
as wide of the truth as it is possible for a popular
fallacy to reach. In my experience, which is
considerable, the Scot, in the matter of generosity,
is distinctly ahead of either the English, the Welsh
or the Irish ; but he is a hater of waste and loves
driving a hard bargain. In no section of the
British Isles, outside of Scotland, have I come
across men of the humbler classes who will do
one laborious service without any expectation of
reward. I have met that spirit in Western
America and Western Canada, but nowhere in
the British Isles except in Scotland. The out-
standing generosity of the Scot is always in full
evidence on the occasion of any national sub-
scription for charitable or patriotic purposes.
On such occasions Glasgow's contribution is
invariably ahead of that of any other town in
the kingdom.

I was at one time, for a year or two, a regular
attendant at the Scotch Presbyterian Church in
Pont Street. When it so happened that Dr.
McLeod was called upon to make a charitable
appeal from the pulpit, the response was such as

144

DRUMLANRIG

absolutely to stagger one who was only accus-
tomed to the miserly silver and copper offerings
with which the pious besprinkle the plates in
English churches. It was rare at St. Columba's
to see anything less than gold, while five-pound
notes and cheques rose in such disorderly pro-
fusion from the plate that, in the end, the sub-
stratum of gold was completely hidden. Think
of that, you comic paper artists, who think twice
before putting sixpence in the plate !

I think there can be little doubt that it is the
innate honesty of the Scot which has earned for
him the character of meanness with a certain
class of critic. Conscientious honesty is the most
unpopular attribute that any man can have,
except in the estimation of the immediate circle
that employs him. An unhappily large pro-
portion of mankind, outside the upper ten
thousand, is intrinsically dishonest, and, when
these come in contact with a meticulous honesty
which is outside their understanding, they show
their resentment by plastering it with nasty
names.

A striking example of this very common failing
came under my observation on one occasion when
I was travelling from Jamaica to Colon. At the
same table as myself sat two mining engineers
who were destined for South America on two
totally distinct errands. One was a Scot, whom
I will call Macpherson, and the other was an
Irishman, whom I will call O' Grady. Christmas
Day fell on us during this sea voyage in the

L 145

FORTY YEARS ON

tropics, and at dinner O'Grady called loudly for
a bottle of champagne with which to celebrate
the occasion.

" Now then, Mac, you have one too," he urged.

" Oh, no," said Macpherson, " I think I'll stick
to my usual whisky-and-soda."

Afterwards, on deck, O'Grady commented sar-
castically on the modesty of Macpherson's pota-
tions. " Fancy that fellow Mac not drinking
champagne! " he said to me; "a regular mean
Scotchman, eh ? "

" Well," I replied doubtfully, " who would have
paid for the champagne? "

" Why, the Company that's sending him out,
of course," he said.

" And who will pay for yours? " I asked.

" Why, my Company, of course," he replied,
laughing hilariously ; " and what's more, it's not
the first nor the last bottle they'll pay for by a
long way."

148

CHAPTER X

LANGHOLM

When Walter Francis, the fifth Duke died,
there was no appreciable change in the Buccleuch
routine. The Richmond villa was sold, Beaulieu
passed to Lord Henry Scott, the second son,
afterwards Lord Montagu, and Ditton House
went to the Dowager Duchess for her life, and
afterwards that too went to Lord Montagu,
together with the valuable Clitheroe property
in Lancashire. The alienation of these places
made no change in the habits of the family.
William Henry, the sixth Duke, and my sister
continued to tread religiously in the footsteps
of their predecessors. Of all the articles of faith
which govern the lives of the Scotts of Buccleuch,
the first and foremost is a belief in strict adherence
to family traditions. Nothing must be done
which could in any way offend the shades of past
generations. So nothing was changed. Drum-
lanrig continued to entertain its hosts of self-
invited guests with an unabated magnificence.
Montagu House, in Whitehall, maintained the
same spirit of open hospitality. Every day,
throughout the London season, luncheon was
provided for all comers. As at Drumlanrig,
everyone who chose to walk in was welcome, and

147

FORTY YEARS ON

very freely did the friends of the family avail
themselves of this most sumptuous and convenient
custom. The only real change which followed
on the death of Walter Francis was an astonishing
development in the sporting productiveness of the
Buccleuch properties. Walter Dalkeith, the new
Duke's eldest son, was full of a boundless energy
and a keen enthusiasm for all outdoor games
and sports. The shooting at Langholm had for
many years lain dormant under the tutelage of
an amiable but lethargic Highlander, who pre-
ferred ease and anecdote to strenuous work and
big bags. Opportunities for ease and anecdote
were secured for the old retainer elsewhere and,
in collaboration with a new, young and athletic
head-keeper, Walter Dalkeith (or Eskdale, as he
was then) determined to probe the possibilities
of the Langholm moors to their utmost.

In the summer of 1881, before the old Duke's
death, my sister wrote to me— at that time a
subaltern quartered at Hounslow — asking me to
come up to Langholm for a month and shoot
grouse. The invitation was unexpected, but, of
course, quite irresistible. I knew nothing about
shooting grouse ; I had never even seen a grouse ;
to me it was a semi-mythical bird, written about
in books and pictured in Punch cartoons, but not
really existent. However, now it appeared that it
was actually to be presented to me in the flesh,
and so in due course, in a spirit of delirious
exaltation, I took my seat in the Midland express
which was to bear me to a land of unknown

148

LANGHOLM

wonders and delights. Once Carlisle was passed,
and I had changed into the slow local train which
was to carry me the rest of the way, my eyes
feasted on every yard of this new country with a
consuming interest. When the train left the huge
flat fields of Netherby and burrowed in among
the heather-clad hills, in the midst of which
Langholm lies tucked away, I felt — and with
perfect justice — that a new and hitherto undreamt-
of chapter in my life was being opened. But
not even then did I for one moment anticipate
that, for thirty-five years to come, I would, every
August, with unfailing regularity, make that same
slow crawling journey from Carlisle into those
friendly, familiar and beloved hills that held for
me joys almost too great to be decorously borne,
and certainly far too great to be described. Yet
so it was. Season after season, in response to
an invitation which for thirty-five years never
failed to gladden my expectant eyes, I made my
rejoicing way to Langholm, there to be ever met
with the same warm, boisterous welcome and the
same self-effacing kindness and affection, till
in the end the benty Border hills, with their
towering round crests streaked and flecked with
heather, and fantastically split by precipitous
cleuchs, became for me the most familiar land-
marks in the British Isles; Langholm became a
second home to me, and my nephews became more
to me than brothers.

In the first of these thirty-five years, when I
had been deposited, palpitating with excitement,

149

FORTY YEARS ON

at the front door of Langholm Lodge, I found
myself facing a lionse of considerable size, but
of unpretentious architecture. A hundred yards
away the Esk careered musically towards the sea,
while on either side a steep-faced mountain rose
abruptly to the sky. Woods were on every side,
out of which little brown owls were plaintively
hooting to the accompaniment of the river.
All through that first sleepless night— and for
many years to come every first night at Langholm
was a sleepless one— these little owls would make
pleasant music to me as I lay awake waiting
eagerly for the dawn. All too slowly for my
eagerness that dawn at length broke; at 7.30
we had breakfast and at nine we were on the
moors, walking up the hitherto mythical grouse
in military line, and occasionally even laying one
low upon the heather. That was the moment of
realisation, and it fell but a very little way short
of expectation. In fact, I think it is not too much
to say that it actually exceeded expectation.
There was but one blot on our perfect happiness.
We did not succeed in winning the approval of the
head-keeper. He was young and energetic, but we
were younger and more energetic, and we walked
him off his legs, and at the same time missed a
good many grouse which we ought not to have
missed. His comments were not flattering. When,
by happy chance, a bird did fall to our guns, it
was retrieved by beautiful but odd-looking dogs
which bore no sort of resemblance to any retriever
I had ever seen. They were small, with coats like

150

LANGHOLM

otters, pointed muscular tails and alert intelligent
heads, and they galloped where retrievers would
have walked. Full of interest and curiosity,
I asked what these strange beasts were, and was
told that they were Labrador retrievers and the
only ones in the kingdom. Labrador retrievers
are now familiar objects everywhere, but in those
days they were unknown except at Langholm, and
it is worthy of note that it was from the two
original Langholm Labradors, " Hector " and
" Dinah," that the entire modern breed has
sprung. For many years Langholm and Drum-
lanrig enjoyed a monopoly of these beautiful and
fascinating dogs; but they then became so
numerous that many were given away to friends,
and so the breed became distributed about the
kingdom. The Buccleuch strain, however, still
remains superior to any other, as the best dogs
and bitches have never been given away.

As may be gathered from the foregoing con-
fessions, our bags were not of a sensational order.
It was only by prodigious efforts of pedestrianism
that we were able to amass between thirty and
forty brace per day; for it is not to be denied
that, though we were good walkers and free
shooters, we were very bad hitters. These
figures are quite interesting in view of future
developments, and as an illustration of how
comparatively sterile moors can be made prolific
by intelligent treatment.

For six years these annual August gatherings
continued to fill us — or, at any rate, one among

151

FORTY YEARS ON

us — with indescribable happiness. Our shooting
gradually improved, but our bags did not advance
proportionately, for driving only supplanted the
old military line very gradually, and over the
dead bodies, so to speak, of the keepers, who
opposed the change with every antiquated argu-
ment known to ignorance. Walter Dalkeith,
however, gradually asserted his will, and experi-
mental lines of butts began to stud the hill-sides
and rigs. He himself, with the aid of a pair of
new guns which suited him, had developed into
a real " class " shot.

Then, in 1886, came the blow which, for the
time being, shattered all the happiness of the
house of Buccleuch. Walter Dalkeith was killed
while deer-stalking at Achnacarry. The accident
was a curious one. Dalkeith had just fired at a
stag which, as it turned out, he had shot through
the heart, but the deer had passed out of his
sight, and, in his eagerness to see the result of
his shot, he ran down a slope of loose shale, with
the rifle still in his hand. His feet slipped and
he fell on his back and, in that position, slithered
down the incline. The butt of the rifle caught a
projecting rock, the rifle was twisted round so
that it pointed at his armpit, and the jerk of his
flnger on the trigger exploded the second barrel.
He died within three minutes.

Walter Dalkeith had a most rare and lovable
personality. It is quite impossible by the mere
use of hackneyed words and phrases to convey
any idea of how lovable that personality was, or

152

Photo. W. & D. Downey.

William Henry, 6Tn Duke of Buccleuch, and the
Duchess (Lady Louisa Hamilton).

LANGHOLM

of what it was exactly that endeared him so to
all who knew him. Unselfishness, good-humour,
simplicity of mind, and that complete absence of
anything approaching " side," which is character-
istic of all the Scotts of Buccleuch, were perhaps
the most conspicuous features in his character.
Like all the Scotts of the four generations I have
known, he had the faculty of making himself
beloved by all classes of society, from the highest
to the lowest, and that without any effort or
straining after popularity. It is no exaggeration
or sentimental figure of speech to say that, when
he died, there was general and genuine mourning
from the Solway to Edinburgh.

At the time of the deer-stalking tragedy the
present Duke was in the navy. He felt his
brother's death most acutely, and, for a long while,
shrank perceptibly from publicly assuming a
position which had been thrust upon him by a
tragedy. It accordingly devolved upon George
Scott, the next brother, to take temporary charge
of the shooting arrangements, and he attacked his
subject with an enthusiasm — behind which was
real genius — which was destined to effect astonish-
ing changes in the entries in the Langholm game-
book. His methods were drastic and revolu-
tionary, and were based on a long and careful
study, on each individual moor, of the birds'
natural flight. All the old lines of butts, sacred
by usage but most unprofitable for purposes of
intercepting game, were ruthlessly swept away.
New lines were erected in strange and unlikely-

153

FORTY YEARS ON

looking positions. The family looked on in
amused scepticism. The keepers, after publicly
prophesying utter disaster, obeyed their orders
in a spirit of depressed resignation. All alike
looked upon George Scott's innovations as a
colossal joke. Those who dared, laughed openly ;
those who did not, nudged one another and
grinned knowingly. After the first experimental
drives, however, they laughed and grinned no
more. The birds came. Even in the most
precipitous and abysmal regions they came,
sailing unexpectedly out of the blue straight over
the new lines of butts at which so many fingers
of scorn had been pointed. Game-book entries
soared up by leaps and bounds. The reconstruc-
tion of the lines of butts was supplemented by
other aids to grouse culture. Heather was
systematically burned, boggy bits were surface-
drained; a war of extermination was waged
against vermin. The grouse responded to these
stimulants in a becoming spirit, till entries began
to figure in the game-book which were far and
away beyond the most imaginative flights of
those who had shot under the old dispensation.
The climax was reached in 1911. In that year,
eight guns, of whom one was a schoolboy with a
single 16-bore gun, shot 2523 grouse in seven
drives on the Roan Fell, a beat which, in old
days, had always been condemned as " com-
pletely useless." This wonderful bag might very
easily have been increased by 300 brace, had any
special efforts been made to establish a record.

154

LANGHOLM

No such efforts were made or even suggested.
We climbed up to our first line of butts, 1500 feet
above the sea, with the idea that, with luck, we
might get 500 brace, and our cartridge supply was
on those lines. By midday the whole party had run
out of cartridges, and a long wait followed while
the car was sent back eleven miles to Langholm
for a fresh supply. When this arrived, we
recommenced operations and shot till about five,
when Henry Scott, who was in charge of the party,
said that he thought we had shot enough and gave
the word for home. Anything in the nature of
publicity, self-advertisement or of what is
vulgarly known as " swank " is, and always has
been, utterly abhorrent to the Scotts of Buccleuch,
and the very thought that, if we continued
shooting, we should probably create a world's
record was enough to determine Henry Scott to
sound the " cease fire." But it is beyond question
that, even allowing for the long interval of inaction
in the middle of the day, we could easily have
created a world's record and with a lot to spare.
Some idea of the masses of birds on the wing
during this astonishing shoot may be gathered from
the fact that, after the fourth drive, Francis Scott
and I commiserated one another on having been
clean out of the shooting. I was on the left
flank and he was next me. As a matter of fact,
we each had over eighty birds down that drive,
and yet, by contrast with the terrific fusillade
from the middle of the line, it really did seem that
we were getting no shooting. Jack Dawnay,

155

FORTY YEARS ON

in the centre and best butt, had 181 birds down —
a feat which he achieved by a wonderful display
of quick and accurate shooting. The fourth
drive, just referred to — being an up-wind drive —
was the most prolific of the day, but the most
sporting and interesting was unquestionably the
third. This third drive on the Roan Fell is
probably the best individual drive in the kingdom.
The birds are driven two miles before they come
to the guns (always down wind, for otherwise the
beat would not be shot), and generally down a
semi-gale, for the drive is along the top of a
mountain ridge. The butts are on the slope of the
hill and, as the birds are always heavily flanked
from the top of the hill, they come swooping down
on to the guns at a tremendous rate and at
every conceivable angle. There were several
" centuries " got that day in the third drive.
During that year 29,092 grouse were shot at
Langholm and its outlying shooting-box at
Newlands; and in the following year 28,542
grouse were shot over the same ground. In the
latter year, 1912, the Buccleuch moors in Scotland
yielded over 40,000 grouse, and if the reader will
recall the fact that our earlier efforts seldom
realised more than forty brace a day, he will get
some idea of the astonishing progress which had
been registered, during the intervening years,
under the direction of George Scott.

In November 1914 William Henry, sixth Duke
of Buccleuch, died in his eighty-second year,
two years after the death of his beloved wife and

156

LANGHOLM

inseparable companion through life. When my
sister was on her deathbed, I hurried up to
Dalkeith, but was just too late to see her alive.
The old Duke took me to her room and told me in
his own simple, unaffected way that life was now
over for him and that his one wish was to follow
quickly and rejoin the faithful partner of all his
joys and sorrows. In these days, when married
life is so often a short farce and a quick tragedy,
it is good to reflect on the unwavering affection,
through fifty odd years of married life, of these
two. No couple were ever more beloved by their
children, their employes and the immense circle
of friends to whom they stood for all that was
purest and kindest in life. My brother-in-law
had a remarkable and singularly lovable disposi-
tion. If asked for a special definition, I should
unhesitatingly describe him as the greatest
gentleman, in the highest sense of the term, that
I have known. He was perhaps less of the grand
seigneur than his father, and it is possible that
in that very difference lay his chief claim to
special distinction. Although his menage was
conducted on the same magnificent scale as that
of his predecessor, the absence of grandiosity
was so marked as almost to suggest an effort
at concealment. There was, however, no effort.
All arrangements, no matter how sumptuous,
were carried out in a quiet matter-of-course
spirit which took everything, quite simply, for
granted. It would be misleading to say that
ostentation was deliberately suppressed by the

157

FORTY YEARS ON

Duke; it simply never came within the range of
his imagination. He was as simple-minded and
unaffected as a child, as incapable of guile as
he was incapable of discourtesy. He had an
admirable brain and, when forced to the effort,
could make as effective a speech— of a kind — as
any man in the kingdom.

Of my sister, I can truly say that she was a
consort worthy, in every way, of the man she
married. She was the most unselfish woman I
have ever met, incapable of thinking or speaking
ill of any, ceaselessly thinking out kind actions,
and with a conscientious sense of duty which, in
the end, forced her to carry greater burdens than
her strength was equal to. Had she, at the last,
relaxed some of her self-imposed duties, she would
without doubt have prolonged her life. They were
a wonderful couple.

158

CHAPTER XI

SOLDIERING

Early in 1878 I joined the 11th Hussars,
at that time an exceedingly Hvely regiment
quartered at Colchester. I think this regiment
was selected for me partly because it had the
reputation of being a particularly smart and
efficient regiment, and partly because it was only
just home from India and might therefore reason-
ably be expected to remain some ten years or
so in the United Kingdom. In any event the
selection was a particularly happy one for me,
for a better lot of fellows than the brother-
officers among whom I found myself cannot well
be imagined. Over almost all these bright souls
the " Last Post " has now been sounded, but the
recollection of their cheeriness, their daring, and
above all of their staunchness in sunshine or
storm, will live as long as memory lives. Treu
und Jest is the motto of the regiment, and true
and fast these gallant spirits were to the end,
till one by one we

" Wrapped them up in their old stable- jackets,
And said a poor buffer lay low, lay low."

Peace to their ashes !

159

FORTY YEARS ON

Colonel Garnet, who commanded us, was, in a
sense, an anomaly in a regiment such as the 11th
Hussars, for he desj^ised externals, despised all
parade movements, and was himself conspicuously
careless in his dress. Perhaps he had a right to
despise all these things, for, as a leader of cavalry
in the field, he had certainly no equal in the British
army at that time. In the sham fights at Alder-
shot, later on, it was always a foregone conclusion
that any side of which Garnet commanded the
cavalry effectually rolled up the other side. I
used, in those Aldershot days, to gallop regularly
for the cavalry leaders, and even to my inex-
perienced mind, Garnet's immeasurable superi-
ority over all the others was at once apparent.
Unlike his opponents, he was always absolutely
cool and collected, detected in an instant any flaw
in their dispositions and did exactly the right
thing to bring them to utter discomfiture. I
never knew him hesitate, countermand an order
or do the wrong thing. It was no uncommon
thing for many of the other cavalry commanders
to send three gallopers, one after the other, each
countermanding the orders of the preceding one,
with the result, of course, that the regimental
officers were at their wits' end to know what to
do; and while they were trying to unravel the
various conflicting orders, Garnet would execute
one of his lightning movements and put the whole
lot— and very often many of the infantry as well
— out of action.

It was a national misfortune when Garnet's

160

SOLDIERING

early death robbed the country of a soldier who
might have risen to any heights.

At the time I joined the 11th Hussars, the
material god of the regiment was, needless to say,
the horse, and of that noble animal I at once
became a fanatical devotee. In one particular
instance, however, my devotion was strained
almost to the breaking-point, for my association
with a certain troop-horse of ungentle paces,
known as F. 33, was so long and so irksome that
love very nearly turned to hate.

It was within the walls of the riding school
that F. 33 and I first formed an acquaintance
which was destined to prove more protracted than
was agreeable to one of the parties concerned.

I had already done a certain amount of riding,
having, in fact, had a hunter of my own at Sand-
hurst on which I hunted regularly with the Staff
College drag. In spite, however, of this previous
experience, I found an unaccountable difficulty
in passing out of the riding school. Another
subaltern, who had joined at the same time as
myself and who was a notoriously poor horseman,
passed out within a month, while I was left
bumping round, day after day, on F. 33, under a
ceaseless flow of scathing vituperation from the
riding-master. Puzzled and pained by my lack
of success, I, one day, poured out my woes to
the subaltern who had joined with me.

" You have a lot to learn yet, my dear fellow,"
he remarked complacently.

" But, hang it all," I said, " you were always

M 161

FORTY YEARS ON

shooting off on to your back, while I have not
bitten the tan once."

" I remarked that you had a lot to learn," he
repeated, " but I did not say in riding."

" In what then? " I asked.

Prescott lighted a cigarette and gazed dreamily
up at the ceiling.

" Old X.'s forage-cap is getting shabby," he
observed presently.

" What on earth has that got to do with it? "
I asked.

" Everything," was his calm reply.

The hint, without further enlargement, was
taken and acted upon. The result surpassed
expectation. In place of the old abuse, the most
lavish praise now pursued me as I bumped dusty
and perspiring round the school, and within a
week I was pronounced sufficiently expert to
be discharged.

Life at Colchester was, on the whole, unexciting,
but, in the winter of 1878, the monotony was
pleasantly relieved by the appearance on the
scene of an illusive midnight reveller known as
" Spring-heeled Jack." This mysterious being
was responsible for a series of visitations which
shook the nerves of the entire military camp to
their foundations. Night after night sentries
would be bonneted, cuffed and thrown down by
an invisible assailant. Cavalry, infantry and
artillery were all alike impartially victimised.
In our own Cavalry barracks, the story told
next day by the nerve-shattered wrecks who had

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been on sentry-duty the night before was that
Spring-heeled Jack came flying — without any
prehminary warning — over the top of the stable
buildings, dropped on their shoulders, knocked
them down and was gone before they could
recover their feet. Other reports were to the
effect that a snow-white figure suddenly appeared
from nowhere, hurled the sentries about with
superhuman strength and vanished into thin
air. All accounts agreed that Spring-heeled
Jack's movements were absolutely noiseless.
The whole population of Colchester, both military
and civil, was deeply stirred. Sentries were
everywhere doubled and, even then, went on their
rounds with shaking knees and perspiring brows.
They themselves were firmly convinced that
Spring-heeled Jack was the devil. We, in the
officers' mess, were just as firmly convinced that
it was Lieut. Alfrey of the 60th Rifles. Probably
both were wrong. Alfrey was a very big and power-
ful man, but extraordinarily active. He used to
come out with the Essex and Suffolk hounds
on a grey polo-pony of about fourteen hands,
and it was the prettiest sight in the world to
see the two in combination. On approaching
a five-barred gate, Alfrey would vault off his
pony's back whilst in full career. He and the
pony would then jump the gate side by side, after
which he would vault back into the saddle and
continue the chase until the next gate was reached,
when the performance would be repeated.

Our suspicions that Alfrey was the culprit were

163

FORTY YEARS ON

strengthened when we moved to Aldershot in
the winter of 1879. The 60th moved to Aldershot
about the same time, and, at once, Spring-heeled
Jack made his appearance in the new camp
and commenced his old pranks on the night
sentries. At Aldershot, the general panic
became so great that eventually Spring-heeled
Jack was officially proclaimed in General Orders ;
ball cartridge was handed out to the sentries
and these were ordered to shoot the night terror
on sight. These measures proved effective and
Spring-heeled Jack was seen no more. Whether
it really was Alfrey or not I have never learnt,
and it would be interesting to have some pro-
nouncement on the subject from his own lips
or from his own pen. His equipment was sup-
posed to consist of rubber-soled shoes and a sheet
which was white on one side and black on the
other.

In the later Seventies, life at Aldershot was
inclined to be riotous, and more champagne
flowed than was good either for the pockets or
the stomachs of those who were quartered there.
As an inevitable consequence of this alcoholic
tendency, the after-dinner mood was a reckless
one, and many insane wagers used to be made
between brother-officers or their guests and to
be settled on the spur of the moment. One of
the most insane of these wagers, and one that
occurs to me at the moment, was a bet made by
Dalbiac of the Horse Gunners, commonly known
as " The Treasure," that he would drive a dog-

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SOLDIERING

cart round Cocked-hat Wood against Dick Fort
of my regiment on foot. It was agreed that the
bet should be settled on the spot and, as the
H.A. barracks were almost opposite to the East
Cavalry barracks which sheltered my regiment,
it was not many minutes before " The Treasure "
was back in his dog-cart. Fort in the meanwhile
had donned running costume, and off the two
started, Dalbiac at a mad gallop and Fort at
a slow, plodding jog-trot. The rest of us having
seen them start returned to the Mess to await
developments. At the end of about ninety
minutes, Fort, who was a good runner, reappeared,
but not so Dalbiac. A search party was organised
and we all started out for the Long Valley with
lanterns, and, after a long search and much
shouting, to which there was no response, came
upon four hoofs and two wheels sticking up in
the air from the depths of one of the deep sandy
nullahs just short of Cocked-hat Wood. A
faint voice from below the wheels informed us
that Dalbiac was still alive, and we then set
to work to get the horse and dog-cart clear of
him. It was a ticklish business, for the horse
might very well have kicked his brains out, but
we eventually managed it, and then proceeded
to extract Dalbiac from the very bottom of the
nullah, the narrowness of which had saved him
from the full weight of the horse and cart. He
was quite black in the face and unable to stand,
but we lifted him on to a led pony and managed
to get him home, though half-way there he was

165

FORTY YEARS ON

seized with a convulsive fit. Next morning
there was a field-day, and, to our utter amaze-
ment, there was " The Treasure " as fresh as
paint at the head of his famous chestnut troop.

Dalbiac was, at that time, easily the best
steeplechase rider in the army. He was also a
very remarkable sprinter, and used to make a
lot of money by backing himself to run eighty
yards against any horse over sixteen hands.
He almost always won, but against a pony he
had, of course, no chance. He was killed, poor
chap, in the Boer War, leading a very gallant
but quite insane cavalry charge up a hill against
entrenched Boers.

On another occasion not very long after the
dog-cart incident, I myself made a wager which
was little less idiotic than Dalbiac's. I had at
that time a very beautiful thoroughbred four-
year-old named Monmouth, by Prince Charlie
out of Gay lass. Monmouth was one of the
quietest horses I ever rode, with a mouth like
silk, and, in a rash and I am afraid slightly
alcoholic moment, I backed myself to ride Mon-
mouth bare-backed round Cocked-hat Wood
against Dick Fort on a slow but saddled hunter.
It was a pitch-dark night, and we had no sooner
started than I realised to my horror that the lamb-
like Monmouth, excited either by the strangeness
of the hour chosen for exercise or by the presence
of my dinner overalls on his bare back, was
pulling like a steam-tug and was going exactly
where and how he liked. Like a tornado we

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SOLDIERING

dashed through the West Gate and along the
track that led to the Long Valley. Monmouth
had a satiny coat as slippery as ice, and very
sharp withers, and on to these sharp withers
I was now pulled with such steady pressure
that I was almost cut in two. I was in very
severe pain and absolutely powerless either to
check or guide the tearing whirlwind between
my legs. All that I could do was to keep my
balance, and that was far from easy on account
of the horse's slippery satiny coat, and, as I
have already said, desperately painful. The
darkness was so intense that I could not see
twenty yards ahead of me, but presumably the
horse could, for no disaster overtook us till quite
close to Cocked-hat Wood. What exactly hap-
pened then I shall never know. There was a
terrific crash : I saw any number of stars and
then relapsed into unconsciousness. Like Dal-
biac, I was eventually discovered by a search
party and escorted home, strange to say, none
the worse except for torn overalls and a split
stable-jacket.

Another horsy experience of mine at Aldershot
had a happier ending. One summer morning
Sir Frederick Fitzwygram had my regiment and
the 15th Hussars out in the Long Valley for an
educational field-day. In the course of our
evolutions, General Fitzwygram got both regi-
ments into line and, according to time-honoured
custom, sounded first " trot," then " gallop,"
and, finally, " charge." It was, and no doubt

167

FORTY YEARS ON

still is, a recognised rule that a charge should
automatically cease when a hundred yards have
been covered. On this occasion, however, for
some mad reason, the two regiments started to
race one another and charged for nearly a mile,
till the canal finally brought them up short. I
made a meritorious effort to stop my troop but,
seeing fifty sword-points directed at my back
and impelled by the instinct of self-preservation,
I finally set spurs to my horse and kept as far
out of their reach as possible. The result was
that I was the first to reach the canal. Of General
Fitzwygram's wrath I need say nothing, nor
of the penalties that were put upon the two
erring regiments. The offence was indeed some-
what serious, for many horses fell and three were
so badly injured that they had to be destroyed.
In addition, several men had to be taken to hos-
pital. The one point about the whole affair
which interested me was that I had reached
the canal first. This set me thinking, and I
could arrive at no other conclusion except that
my first charger must be possessed of a turn
of speed of which I had so far no suspicion, for
I had never before extended the horse. In order
to put the matter to the proof I determined to
enter him in the Hunters' Flat Race at the forth-
coming Aldershot summer meeting. In those
days it was the easiest matter in the world to
qualify any horse for Hunters' races, and I
found no difficulty in getting the necessary
certificate from the neighbouring M.F.H.

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SOLDIERING

The horse in question, whom I had named
Cobweb, was a tall, bony thoroughbred chestnut.
Heaven only knows how old he was, but I should
imagine very far advanced in his " teens," for
his teeth were of monumental length and he had
hollows over his eyes like teacups. He had the
most extravagant knee-action of any horse I
have ever seen and, when trotting, nearly knocked
his teeth out with every stride. He literally
danced.

So, on the day of the race, I had the old horse
led down to the paddock, where he attracted no
attention whatever as he walked demurely round.
The moment, however, that I climbed into the
saddle, a wave of ribald hilarity swept over the
whole assembly. The old horse no doubt mistook
the grand-stand for the saluting-point at a Royal
inspection, for he peacocked past with such
tremendous gesticulation of the knees that I was
almost shaken out of the saddle. Never shall
I forget the yells of derision that saluted me as
we passed the ring.

"Hi! governor, which way to the circus?"
" 'Ere. Twenty to one the blinking giraffe,"
and so on. No doubt we presented a comical
sight enough, for it is to be doubted whether any
horse with such extravagant knee-action had ever
been seen on a racecourse before. I felt bitterly
ashamed of myself and cursed my folly in having
been such a simpleton as to pit a peacocky old
charger against the silky-actioned race-horses
that were " loUopping " past me with long, easy

169

FORTY YEARS ON

strides on their way to the starting-post. Verit-
able race-horses they actually were, for very few
horses that ran in Hunters' Flat Races in those
days had even been over a fence. However,
the long and short of it all is that old Cobweb
won anyhow over the two-mile course, having
led the field from start to finish. No one was
more surprised that I was, and unfortunately
I had not a penny on the race.

Flushed by my success, I next made a match
over a mile course against a very fast horse
owned by Micky Burke of the 7th D.G.'s, and
once again Cobweb won easily. His galloping
action, needless to say, was very different from
his trot. He galloped, leaning heavily on my
hand, with his head low, his back slightly arched
and with an immense stride which seemed to
annihilate space. In his youth he must have
been an extraordinarily fast horse, for, on both
occasions, he was practically untrained, and
there is no doubt that he was of patriarchal
age.

Some years later, when my regiment went
from Leeds to Ireland, I gave old Cobweb away
to an officer who had risen from the ranks belons-
ing to the regiment that was taking our place.
He admired the horse immensely, and I said I
would give it to him if he gave me his solemn
word that he would shoot the horse when he had
done with him and never give him away or sell
him. He gave the required undertaking, but
I regret to say did not keep it, for he sold the

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SOLDIERING

horse into a Leeds cab. I have never forgiven
that man, and I never will. Poor old Cobweb's
place as my first charger was taken by the famous
kicking Gainsborough, of whose exploits I have
already written.

171

CHAPTER XII

HOUNSLOW

From Aldershot my regiment went to Houns-
low, which was at that time, by universal consent,
the most popular cavalry station in the south of
England. We were within ten miles of London,
within driving distance of many race-meetings,
close to Kempton Park, where by the courtesy
of the management we were allowed to train our
horses, and we had a cricket ground in the barrack
square. We had everything, in fact, that the
heart of a soldier can desire, except hunting.
For that we were — locally — driven to the Queen's.

Our cricket matches in the barracks were
great fun. The teams that opposed us almost
invariably came down from London on a coach
driven by one of the team, dined with us after
the match, and started on their return journey
in the small hours of the morning — usually in a
musical and contented frame of mind.

For a cavalry regiment we really had a very fair
side. Our captain, Kildare Burroughs, was very
nearly a first-class cricketer and on several occasions
was called on to keep wicket for Middlesex. He
and I had many a merry innings together.
On one occasion, while we were quartered at
Colchester, we established something which I

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HOUNSLOW

think must have been a record, for, in a certain
match at Witham, we hit eleven consecutive
" boundaries." We were playing for Essex v.
South of England. W. G. Grace was bowling
at one end and Southerton at the other — both
tempting " donkey-droppers." The boundary
was a very easy one — so easy, in fact, that by
preconcerted arrangement, Burroughs and I
agreed to run out and hit at everything which
was at all pitched up. At one period of our
partnership eleven consecutive balls were suffici-
ently pitched up for our purpose, and every one
went either over or under the ropes. They only
allowed us three for a " boundary," unless it
went over the ropes, so that in many cases we
had to cross over, which made it all the more
exciting. The " old man," as they used to call
W. G., was absolutely delighted at our dis-
respectful treatment of his bowling. He roared
with laughter. Southerton was not so pleased.
My end came in trying to hit the twelfth
" boundary." The ball was a little too short
and I missed it, and was stumped by Pooley.
My total was only thirty-three, but Burroughs
stayed till he had made eighty.

We generally won our matches at Hounslow,
partly, I think, because of the good luncheons
we provided, and partly because we knew the
ground, which was a very bad one. There was
only about an inch of turf above the gravel,
and, as a consequence, the eccentricity of the
projectile was, at times, very marked and very

173

FORTY YEARS ON

disconcerting to the batsman. The fast under-
hand " grubs," which were the only form of
bowHng I could aspire to, and which had little
value on a true wicket, were enormously helped
by the ups and downs of the Hounslow wicket,
and, aided by these, I once bowled nine wickets
of a strong Eton Rambler team, whose subsequent
comments on the nature of the pitch, and on
"grub" bowlers and bowling in general, were more
forcible than friendly. As a rule, however, the
actual cricket was not taken too seriously, and it
was noticeable that the side which batted after
luncheon developed a certain light-hearted reck-
lessness of demeanour which made for the amuse-
ment of the onlookers rather than for high scores.
It need scarcely be added that my nine wickets
afore-mentioned were obtained after luncheon.

The opposing teams, as I have said, always
dined with us and we always did our best to
entertain them hospitably, and generally with
success. We succeeded, I remember, particularly
well with a certain House of Commons team
which included one actual Secretary of State
and several others who were destined to become
future ornaments of the Cabinet. The dinner
was a marked success, and the musical efforts
of the good legislators, as they drove away
through the barrack gate, would certainly have
startled their constituencies.

Once the regiment had, so to speak, a very
bad fall. Among the members of a certain
Zingari team that came down to play us were

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HOUNSLOW

Grannie and Esme Gordon, surely two of the
handsomest and most fascinating personaUties
that the last half-century has produced. Their
good looks and their cheeriness were outstanding
to the eye of the world, and it need scarcely be
said that they contributed in no small measure
to the conviviality of our dinner. It was not till
after dinner that we learned to our sorrow that
the physical endowments of the brothers did
not begin and end with a pleasing exterior.

I may mention that it was not our custom after
these dinners to sit for long in meditative or
digestive repose. Some stimulating exercise,
either vocal or muscular, usually followed closely
on the drinking of the Queen's health — not by
preconcerted arrangement, but simply as the
natural outcome of what had gone before. How
exactly these things are set in motion no man can
say. They just happen. On the occasion in
question, we found ourselves challenging the two
Gordons, or the two Gordons challenging us (it
matters little which) to a variety of acrobatic
exercises for which the large Mess premises at
Hounslow seemed specially fitted, but for which
we had so far neglected to employ them. It is
distressing to have to record that, in the com-
petitions which followed, the regiment came off
distinctly second best. The Gordon brothers
beat us all round.

First of all Grannie challenged our champion
at billiards and beat him very heavily. Then he
vaulted over the corner of the table, with one

175

FORTY YEARS ON

hand holding the pocket, which none of us could
do. Esme then challenged any and all of us to
jump two chairs placed back to back from an
" all fours " position on the floor. He approached
the two chairs on all fours like a dog, bucked
over and landed on his hands without touching
either chair. Several blithe spirits, in the
evanescent confidence which is so often noticeable
between 9.30 p.m. and midnight, attempted the
feat, but only succeeded in losing a quantity of
skin and in gaining a number of bruises in
exchange.

We had not practised drawing-room acrobatics
as a regiment, but there was one trick to which
we had devoted a certain amount of study and
in which we took a certain regimental pride.
This trick consisted in standing with one's back
to the edge of an open door, clasping the top of
the door with both hands and circling up till one
sat astride the top of the door. Our regimental
champion at this exercise was Pat Close, who,
after having demonstrated the feat to our
visitors, challenged them to do the like. To our
no little surprise, Esme Gordon proved equal to
the occasion, and managed — not without some
little difficulty — to establish himself astride the
door. It is not an easy trick to carry through,
as anyone can find out for himself by making the
attempt, and it has one rather painful moment,
when the collar-bone comes in contact with the
door-edge. After this Grannie turned somersaults
in a chair without leaving the chair, which again

176

HOUNSLOW

proved beyond our powers ; and, as there were
wagers on all these events, the end of it all was
that the Lords Granville and Esme Gordon left
Hounslow Barracks considerably enriched in
pocket, while the regiment was correspondingly
poorer.

Those were days when every well-regulated
subaltern, who was quartered within fifty miles
of London, thought it necessary to attend the
Gaiety Theatre at least once a week. Here
Terry, Royce, Kate Vaughan and Nellie Farren,
supported by a much better-looking chorus than
any theatre can boast to-day, dispensed burlesque
in the old-fashioned jingle rhyme to rows of
callow youths in high collars decorating the
first four rows of the stalls. That the old Gaiety
chorus was better-looking than any present-day
chorus is not attributable to any decadence in
feminine grace, but simply to the fact that the
Gaiety was in those days the only theatre which
gave burlesque, and it could therefore pick and
choose from the troops of young ladies whose
ambition lay in wearing pink tights and in
simpering from behind footlights to their admirers
in front. They never could sing a note, or dance,
or indeed do anything but look pretty, and they
invariably wore tights. Nowadays the majority
of revue choruses are composed of girls dressed
as girls — very lightly dressed sometimes, but
still unmistakably dressed as girls. Male im-
personators are the exception. In the Seventies,
if I remember right, there were never any petti-
N 177

FORTY YEARS ON

coated girls in the Gaiety chorus. All were
invariably male impersonators, with their legs
in silk tights and their bodies in stiff tight tunics.
This fashion certainly lasted without change for
ten years. Nellie Farren herself was invariably
dressed in tights and tunic. No one ever saw
her on the stage at the period I am writing
of in petticoats or as anything but a male
impersonator.

Nellie Farren was unquestionably the most
successful burlesque actress of the past fifty
years. It is true that she had practically no
competitors, for the Gaiety alone provided the
form of entertainment in which she shone, but,
none the less, I think one may safely say that no
one in that particular line of business has ever
achieved the same measure of popularity. It is
difficult to say in what exactly lay the secret of
her success. When I first knew her on the stage,
she was no longer young and was not particularly
good-looking. She could neither dance nor sing
c nd was handicapped by a weak, husky voice.
And yet her hold on the public was something
" abune by-ordinar," as the Scots say. If by
chance she were ill or unable to appear, all the
counter-attractions of her understudy and of
Terry, Royce, Kate Vaughan and the beauty
chorus combined failed to dispel the overwhelm-
ing sense of loss that her absence caused. Some
have thought that the secret of her power lay
in her complete unconsciousness of sex, and there
may be some truth in that, but I think it was

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HOUNSLOW

mainly due to her unquenchable vitality and
animal magnetism. The moment she was on
the stage, a piece which before had hung fire
seemed to go with a swing, and yet she never
exerted herself or appeared to have any particular
desire to please. It was simply her being herself
that did it. In person she was of medium size
with very well-shaped legs and a curious kind of
stiff, strutting gait. She had a round face, very
wide-open round eyes, and a little pursed-up
mouth. Her expression was one of perpetually
surprised amusement and hardly ever changed.
She never laughed.

While on the subject of the Gaiety and its
chorus, it may not be out of place to record an
incident which occurred while we were at Houns-
low, and as to which many ill-natured and quite
unfounded insinuations were made at the time.
The facts were these. It was determined in
regimental conclave to give a dance in barracks,
and, as we had no acquaintances among the
Hounslow ladies, and as a dance can only take
place with the assistance of ladies, it was decided
to invite down the Gaiety chorus to fill the
deficiency. The invitation was accompanied by
an offer to put the ladies up for the night, and
was formally accepted by C. G., who acted as
spokesman for the others, on the express under-
standing that all those who responded to the
invitation were to be treated from first to last
with distant respect. The undertaking was gladly
given and subscribed to by all the junior officers

179

FORTY YEARS ON

at Hounslow at the time. Half the regiment was
away on long leave, so that there was plenty of
accommodation in the absent officers' rooms, to
each of which— at their own special request —
two of the ladies were assigned.

The entertainment was an immense success.
All enjoyed themselves amazingly and, in the
early morning, the sleepy ladies went off in cabs
to the station, after refreshing themselves with
cups of tea discreetly handed into their rooms
through chinks in the doors.

This absolutely innocent escapade created a
most desperate stir. The World was the first
paper to take it up, and others followed with all
sorts of ridiculous exaggerations and insulting
comments. Finally the Duke himself bombarded
the regiment with a Note of the most furious and
condemnatory type; explanations were called
for and threats of dire penalties were held over
our heads. All this would have been bearable
enough except for the fatuous attitude taken up
by street acquaintances. These humorous asses
flatly refused to believe that the temporary
association of the Gaiety chorus and the 11th
Hussars had been as scrupulously platonic as was
really the case. We, on our side, were much
incensed at the incredulity of the world, for was
not our solemn word passed, and were we not
before all else officers and gentlemen?

Another incident which called down upon us
the wrath of the good Duke was in connection
with a cricket match in the barracks against the

180

HOUNSLOW

Eton Ramblers in 1881. We, the juniors in the
regiment, were considerably annoyed at that
time at being unable to retain the services of our
own band for cricket matches and other similar
festivities. Our band, which was a good one,
was in great request in the neighbourhood, partly
because of its good music and partly, I think,
because of its crimson overalls; and it was
perpetually being sent about all over the country
to play at suburban functions when we ourselves
badly needed it at home. A distinguished team
of Eton Ramblers was expected down to play
against us during the day and dine with us at
night, and we wanted our band to cheer things
up and do them honour. We were told that it
was already engaged to play at the Twickenham
Temperance Society's third anniversary, or
something of the kind, and we were highly, and
I think justly, incensed. In this mood we wired
for the Blue Hungarian Band to come down from
London and play during the afternoon and
evening. The cost, of course, was considerable,
but the thing was really done as a protest against
the alienation of our own band, and — as a protest
— it succeeded beyond belief. The papers were
full of this new instance of the criminal ex-
travagance of the 11th Hussars. The Duke once
more took the matter up in a very stern and
minatory mood, and the culprits were severely
censured. But thereafter we had our own band !
The wrath of the old Duke, when roused, was
loud and plain-spoken, and we all bowed before

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FORTY YEARS ON

it because we loved him and hated to cause him
annoyance. He was very fond of our regiment,
and the feeUng was fully reciprocated by all of
us. I personally had a special reverence and
veneration for H.R.H., for on one occasion it
was his kindly offices that alone saved me from
feeling the full weight of the War Office arm.
The circumstances were these.

In December 1883, Lord Mayor Dawson of
Dubhn was advertised to speak in Derry, and as
he had lately been giving vent to most seditious
and anti-British utterances in his own town, the
loyalists of Derry determined to protest against
his spreading similar doctrines in the Maiden
City. With this worthy object in view a meeting
of the well-disposed was arranged in the Prentice
Boys' Hall at Derry, and, as I was the only
member of my family at Barons Court at the
time, I was told off to attend the meeting and
lend the support of my presence to the protest.
So off I set, feeling that, if I were not the hub of
the universe, I was, at least, for the occasion, the
hub of Ulster.

At the meeting in the Prentice Boys' Hall
many speeches expressive of loyal indignation
were delivered; the enthusiasm of those who
listened rose with each succeeding speech, till,
in the end, it was decided that the only course
open to the good and true was to occupy the
Town Hall (in which Mr. Dawson was advertised
to speak) and so to prevent his delivering himself
of his noxious doctrines. No sooner was the

182

HOUNSLOW

suggestion made than it was acted upon. In a
body we marched to the Diamond and there
took possession of the Town Hall, barred and
bolted the doors and prepared to resist the siege
which we knew must follow.

In the meanwhile the partisans of the Lord
Mayor had assembled at the railway station in
their hundreds, and, on the arrival of the Dublin
train, the Nationalist crowd marched up with
bands playing and banners flying to the Town
Hall, which, to their marked annoyance, they
found in the occupation of the enemy. In those
days the Town Hall was an isolated building
standing on the ground now occupied by the
public gardens in the Diamond. Round and
round this building drove the Lord Mayor in
speechless indignation and accompanied by an
exasperated mob of admirers, but there was no
possible means of obtaining admission except
by force, and there was a strong argument
against the application of force in the shape of a
most determined garrison inside. After a time
the Lord Mayor resigned himself to the in-
evitable and drove off, and eventually held his
meeting in the slaughter-house, which we con-
sidered an eminently suitable spot; but for the
rest of the day the Nationalist crowd surged
round and round the Town Hall, shaking impotent
fists, and breathing war and threatenings.

About 3 p.m. the demonstration outside grew
more distinctly hostile. I was watching the
scene with much amusement from one of the

183

FORTY YEARS ON

windows when I noticed that the yelHng and
booing were punctuated by a number of little
pops which sounded like corks being drawn. I
heard the sound of broken glass from one of the
Town Hall windows, and I saw a man in the
street throw up his arms and collapse in a heap,
and then, for the first time, I realised that
revolvers were being freely used on both sides.
The crowd outside melted away, carrying the
fallen man with them, and, after some seven
hours' incarceration in the Town Hall, we inside —
having learned that the Lord Mayor had returned
to Dublin — sallied forth and marched in provoca-
tive procession through the Nationalist quarters.
At various points we were assailed by bottles
hurled from windows, but no one was seriously
hurt, and about 7 p.m. a detachment of the
17th Lancers arrived from Enniskillen and peace
was restored. The man, however, whom I had
seen shot was killed, and I was not only summoned
to give evidence at the inquest, but was actually
indicted for having headed a riot, while an officer
in H.M. forces, and having caused loss of life.
But for the Duke I should have run a very grave
risk of being turned out of the army, but he
represented that I was only a youth and a mere
puppet in the movement which had resulted in
the unfortunate man's death. I was absolved,
but the escape was a narrow one.

The Duke was not only one of the kindest of
men, he was also one of the ablest. As his
galloper on many occasions during sham fights

184

HOUNSLOW

on the Fox Hills, I had ample opportunity for
gauging H.R.H.'s ability as a generalissimo.
There is no question that he stood out from all
the Aldershot " cocked-hats " of my time. Of
course he never personally commanded either of
the opposing sides, but his detection of the
slightest tactical error on the part of those who
did command was instantaneous. He had the
eye of a hawk and the unerring instinct of the
born military leader, and he never hesitated to
point out their errors to offending Generals in
language which there was no mistaking. As a
speaker, too, of a certain kind, the Duke was
certainly second to none in the kingdom. H.R.H.
came down to inspect the regiment at Aldershot
before it sailed for India somewhere in the Nine-
ties. I was present on the occasion as a guest
of the regiment. At the end of the inspection,
the Duke formed the regiment up in quarter-
column and made a speech which lasted some
ten minutes. At the end of that time I will not
say that there was not a dry eye in the regiment,
but I will certainly say that a number of the
N.C.O.'s and men were very visibly affected.
It was a very wonderful speech, manly and
vigorous, but at the same time intensely pathetic.
The Duke was at that time an old man, and the
speech was in the nature of a lasting farewell to
a regiment which he loved, but which, in the nature
of things, he would never again inspect.

Another member of the Royal family who was
a constant and welcome visitor at our Hounslow

185

FORTY YEARS ON

Mess was the late Duke of Teck, who was, at that
time, in the occupation of the White Lodge in
Richmond Park. He was very fond of lunching
and dining with us, and, generally, took a keen
interest in the regiment. I remember being
particularly struck by the fact that he had
forgotten most of his German. We had a German
in the regiment, and the Prince expressed a wish
to see him and talk to him. I myself led him to
the man, but, when conversation began, H.S.H.
found himself quite unable to express himself
adequately in German, and had in the end to
revert to Enjrlish.

The Prince was the soul of hospitality and was
always asking me over to the White Lodge. I
enjoyed these visits more than I can say, for
there was no kinder or more entertaining hostess
in England than Princess Mary of beloved
memory. During my wanderings about the
White Lodge grounds, I would occasionally —
but only occasionally — get a glimpse of the
present Queen, at that time a pretty but rather
shy girl of fifteen.

I think those Hounslow days succeeded in
breaking most of the regiment. We were
unfortunately situated in the very centre of
the racing country. Ascot, Epsom, Sandown,
Kempton, Egham and Hampton were all within
driving distance of the regimental coach, and at
each of these places the regiment thought it
necessary to entertain the world. Our regimental
races were held the first year at Sandown, and
the second at Kempton, and at each of these

18G

HOUNSLOW

places, and at Ascot in each year, a huge crimson
and yellow (regimental colours) marquee proffered
unstinted hospitality to all comers. It was very
magnificent but very foolish, and I think we only
got ridicule for our pains and little thanks.

I remember on one occasion, when we had our
regimental races at Kempton, the Duke of
Albany and the Duke of Cambridge had both
accepted our invitation to luncheon, and, as a
consequence, the long table with its load of
elaborate dishes and regimental plate was by
common consent left undisturbed till the arrival
of the Royalties. I had just ridden the winner of
the Regimental Cup, beating the favourite by
a length, and I was standing inside the marquee,
mildly celebrating the event with Bob Hardy,
the owner of the horse, when, to my amazement,
five members of a certain regiment burst into
the tent, sat down uninvited and began shouting
to the waiters to bring them champagne, while
they piled up their plates from all the dishes
within reach, thereby quite ruining the virgin
appearance of the table. In dumb amazement
I stood and watched them till — having had all
they wanted — they swaggered out again without
a word of thanks either to Bob Hardy or myself,
or anyone else for that matter. One of these
barbarians was the eldest son of a peer, another
was his brother and a third was a well-known
baronet. Although that incident occurred over
forty years ago, it still holds the record in my
memory as the most ungentlemanly act I have
ever witnessed.

187

CHAPTER XIII

BALLINCOLLIG

From Hounslow my regiment went to Leeds,
and from Leeds to Ballincollig. At Ballincollig
we took over the old Muskerry hounds and hunted
the country twice a week. On our arrival we
were invaded by a perfect swarm of local horse-
dealers — amateur and professional — who assured
us that to ride our English horses over their
country would be to invite certain death, and
who — out of solicitude for our necks — offered to
provide us with any number of safe and talented
horses from their own stables, the majority of
whom — needless to say — were by Victor (compared
to whom Solomon must have been a confirmed
bachelor) out of a Birdcatcher mare. Firmly but
politely, however, we declined these friendly offers,
preferring, as we told our well-wishers, to face
the certain death which they predicted for us on
our English horses, to the expense of new pur-
chases. Fortunately their predictions were not
verified. We schooled our horses over the banks
at the back of the barracks for a week, at the
end of which time they were as safe conveyances
as any horses in the country.

As a matter of fact, an Irish bank country is
the easiest in the world to ride over. It is very
rare indeed to see a fall over a bank; only when

188

BALLINCOLLIG

the bank is narrow and rotten is there any chance
of a fall, and even then it is seldom a bad one.

As an instance of what an extraordinarily easy
fence a hunting bank is for a horse to negotiate
in safety, I may relate an incident which occurred
to myself during our early days at Ballincollig.
I was hunting with our own hounds on my second
charger, who was only an indifferent performer,
when a local acquaintance came up to me and —
after a few disparaging remarks at the expense
of my mount — volunteered the information that
he had at home a certain four-year-old (by
Victor, of course) which could jump anything
on earth and gallop round the horse I was riding
at the moment. Being more or less new to the
south of Ireland, I accepted all this as fact, or at
least as something approaching to fact, and, on
the following day, I rode over to my friend's
residence, which was some nine miles distant. A
very nice-looking young horse was brought out
for my inspection and, after having gone through
the usual routine of punching and pinching, I
climbed up, and proceeded to gallop him over
the neighbouring fields. The horse was a gallant
little beast and had no idea of refusing, but he
negotiated the banks very clumsily indeed and,
though he did not actually fall, scrambled about
a good deal. I returned to where the owner stood
watching, and explained that, though to my mind
the horse had the makings of a good one, he was
not exactly what I wanted, which was a made
hunter.

189

FORTY YEARS ON

" Then you'll not have him ? " he said, a trifle
truculently, as I thought.

" No, I am afraid not," I replied.

" Well," he said, " I'm greatly obliged to you
for the schooling, anyway. To tell the truth,
this is the first day the little harse has ever seen
a fence." And I had ridden over nine miles for
this!

Hunting had its drawbacks in Co. Cork in the
year of grace 1885. When our meets were publicly
advertised we were apt to find poisoned foxes
hanging from the trees in our best coverts, so
that eventually we had to send round private
notices of our fixtures. Every sort of obstacle
was placed by the light-hearted peasantry in the
way of our sport, the reason assigned being, that
we hunted " in England's bloody red."

On one occasion, as the field was passing
through a very narrow lane, we found the way
blocked by three farm-hands brandishing pointed
pitchforks. The leading file happened to be a
certain Dr. Cross, who lived close by and who
hunted regularly with our hounds and was a very
good man across country. He promptly clubbed
his hunting crop, rode one man down, broke the
head of another and sent the third scuttling over
the fence into an adjoining field. It was a gallant
piece of work, and a notable example of the
superiority of cavalry over infantry under certain
conditions. I regret to say that, in spite of my
testimony in the witness-box as to Dr. Cross'
peaceful attitude until attacked, he was heavily

190

BALLINCOLLIG

fined for assault by a hostile jury. I regret still
more to say that he was hanged the following
year for poisoning his wife with a view to marrying
the governess. The evidence was conflicting and
far from conclusive, but he was locally unpopular,
and a politically hostile jury hanged him. The
prison officials pronounced him to be the bravest
man that had ever faced death in Cork Gaol.

On another occasion while hunting with the
United Hunt, a very large field was " held up "
while trotting along the high-road from covert to
covert. The road passed under a railway arch,
from wall to wall of which the natives had erected
a strong barricade behind which a score of men
stood with big stones in their hands. The railway
embankment above was lined by thirty or forty
more men similarly armed. On this occasion
money was the only thing that the " bhoys "
were out for, and the tender of half-a-crown pro-
cured a free pass through the barrier. To my
amazement, almost everyone in the field, which
must have numbered quite two hundred, paid
up. I was not amongst the number.

In the spring of 1885 we held our regimental
races at Cork Park. It appeared that the local
humorists thought it would be good fun to see
the English officers tumble about and, possibly,
break their necks. In this jocular mood they
built the fences (flying banks) up to an unprece-
dented height, and, in a state of pleasurable
excitement, assembled in large numbers to watch
developments. To their no little annoyance and

191

FORTY YEARS ON

disappointment — as we afterwards learned — most
of our horses got round all right, nor were we
conscious of having done anything out of the
ordinary. The two days following our races,
however, were the days appointed for the Cork
Park Spring Steeplechase meeting, and we then
learned for the first time of the special efforts
that had been made for our benefit, for the Irish
jockeys, after walking round the course, one and
all flatly refused to ride at the meeting unless
every fence on the course was cut down b}^ a
foot. This was done during the night and the
meeting took place as usual. I had a ride in the
Open Hunters' Steeplechase on a horse of Lord
Doneraile's named Obadiah, and I can testify to
the ridiculous smallness of the fences as compared
with those which our regimental horses had safely
negotiated on the preceding day. I still maintain,
however, despite the strike of the local jockeys,
that the fences before being cut down were no
more than fair steeplechase fences; in proof
whereof I may mention that I successfully rode
over them a very hard-pulling mare belonging
to a brother officer, which had only just arrived
from Epsom, and which had never seen a bank in
her life before. In the first race of the day I
broke a stirrup-leather after the first fence and,
feeling unequal to the task of riding such a tearing
puller over the fences with only one stirrup, I
pulled her on to the flat-race course which lay
inside the other. Here we careered wildly round
for two miles or so before I could stop her. At

192

BALLINCOLLIG

one point in the flat-race course was a flight of
hurdles. Now, Irish steeplechase fences are very
much smaller than those in use on English courses,
but on the other hand Irish hurdles are much
higher. They are, however, fashioned of very
thin material (deal laths), and are always fixed
at such a slope as to reduce their height by a
third. On the occasion in question, however, the
hurdles, being merely where they were with a
^aew to preventing traffic, had been fixed perfectly
upright, and looked strangely formidable as I
approached them. I shouted to the man in
charge to pull one out and let me through, but
he either did not or could not hear, and so at
them I had to go. Luckily the mare imitated
the example of Mr. Sponge's " Multum in parvo "
and never rose an inch. We crashed through the
lath hurdles like paper and I pursued my headlong
career. Eventually I was able to stop the mare
and get her back to the paddock. Having fur-
nished myself with a pair of strong new stirrup-
leathers, I rode her again in the last race of the
day and, in spite of the fact that she had never
seen a bank before and was a tearing, rushing,
star-gazing puller, she never touched a sod from
start to finish and won easily. The fences, there-
fore, very obviously cannot have been of the
dangerous height that the Irish jockeys fancied.

At the Cork Park Spring meeting in question I

bought a little entire horse named Canary, which

I sent to Warren Jackson's training stable at

Aghanesk. Warren Jackson invited me to come

o 193

FORTY YEARS ON

over one morning and see the horse gallop. I
accordingly started very early from Ballincollig
and arrived at Aghanesk before breakfast, very
cold and hungry. Warren Jackson himself, his
friend and racing associate Pcard, the vet., and
Leland Hone were walking about outside the
house when my jaunting car set me down at the
door.

" Would you like a gallop ? " was Warren
Jackson's first question, after we had shaken
hands and before I had even stripped myself of
my overcoat. Now in those days a gallop over
fences was the one thing that I loved more than
all else on earth, so that to such a question there
could be but one reply.

" I've a new course here that I want you to
christen for me," he explained.

Full of interest I was taken out to inspect the
new course, and I confess that I was absolutely
staggered at what I saw. Never, surely, had
fences of such colossal dimensions been seen on any
steeplechase course — much less on any schooling
ground. The banks were pretty near as high as
hunting banks and yet of course had to be flown.

" I want you to put Obadiah round the course,"
Warren Jackson explained airily. " The horse is
short of work and a gallop will do him good."

I wondered a little why a horse out of a regular
training establishment should be short of work
and also why — if he were short of work — one of
the stable-lads or professional riders attached to
the stable did not put him round the new course

194

BALLINCOLLIG

instead of a stranger who had no connection with
the horse, and who rode no less than 12 stone
7 lbs. I also knew — having ridden Obadiah at
Cork Park the week before — that he was a perfect
fencer and required no schooling, so that the real
work he should have been put to was a gallop on
the flat by a light lad.

All this flashed through my brain in an instant,
as did also a realisation of the fact that Warren
Jackson's instructions to me were little short of
an act of deliberate murder. Obadiah was the
hardest puller in Ireland, and was in addition a
"mad" horse, notoriously dangerous to ride;
and I believe that Warren Jackson had only put
me up on him at Cork Park because he could get
no one else to ride him. To put such a horse
over those immense fences, which were quite
double the height of the revised fences at Cork
Park, was, as I say, little short of an act of
murder. I was not without a suspicion that the
whole thing had been carefully planned out by
Warren Jackson and Peard as an excellent " joke "
at my expense, and my feelings, as I stood and
watched the prancing and perspiring Obadiah
being led up and down preparatory to his gallop,
were decidedly mixed. However, I was young
and foolish in those days and would far sooner
have been flattened out than have let these
humorists see that I was afraid. I examined
one or two of the fences and noted that no horse
had as yet been round the course. I also noted
that — though the entire Aghanesk " string " was

195

FORTY YEARS ON

exercising — there was no disposition on the part
of any of the stable-lads to accompany me over
the new fences. That honour was to be mine
alone. However, it was too late now to withdraw.
I mounted, and, after giving the horse a quarter
of a mile on the flat, turned him on to the
steeplechase course. Obadiah was a very gallant
horse, though, as I have said, excitable to the
point of madness, and he had no idea of refusing
anything. Twice, by a miracle, I got him
successfully round the course (its circumference
was very small) and, as I passed the group of
disappointed onlookers, I shouted out : " Will
that do?"

" Oh, put him round once more," Warren
Jackson shouted out in reply; and I did, or, at
least, attempted to do so. This, however, was
tempting Providence too high. At one of the
fences, Obadiah, who had an immense stride, took
off about twenty feet short, breasted the fence with
terrific force and turned a complete somersault,
mercifully shooting me clear. I was none the
worse and was on my feet again in a moment,
but not so poor Obadiah. He was badly injured,
and, though they managed to get him to the
stable, he never recovered, and, shortly after-
wards, had to be destroyed.

The whole incident was regrettable, and, though
it recoiled in a sense on to the heads of its
originators, it was many a day before I ceased to
regret the death of the unhappy horse who was
victimised. The truth of the whole matter was,

196

BALLINCOLLIG

I believe, that the new banks had been built up
by unsupervised workmen who modelled them
on hunting banks, thinking that was what was
wanted, and Peard and Warren Jackson thought
it would be a pity to cut them down before they
had got some fun out of them. The readiest
form of fun which suggested itself to them was
to break my neck. After the Obadiah episode,
the banks were cut down to the usual height.

I ran Canary shortly afterwards at Tipperary
Steeplechases. On the first day there were four
starters in my race, and two of the other horses,
ridden respectively by Messrs. Harty and Phelan,
at one time in the race were at least a quarter of
a mile ahead of me. Spurs, knees, voice and
whip had no effect whatever on little Canary,
who lobbed along at his own pace without taking
the slightest notice of my various forms of
encouragement. About half a mile from home,
however, he suddenly lifted his head, had a look
round, and then tucked his legs under him, popped
over the Lilliputian fences as though they were not
there and set off in pursuit of the leaders. He
won b}^ a head.

The next day there were eleven starters in my
race and Canary started a hot favourite. Peard
and Warren Jackson did their utmost to induce
me to stand down in favour of a local rider
named Norcott, even going to the length of
assuring me that they knew for a certain fact
that two of the jockeys in the race were starting
with the sole object of knocking me over. As,

197

FORTY YEARS ON

however, I had only bought the horse for the fun
of riding him, I refused to be influenced by a
sudden soUeitude for my personal safety which I
had not noticed at Aghanesk. I rode most of
the race alongside of little Johnnie Beasley, w^ho
good-naturedly gave me instructions throughout,
and told me exactly when to go through the ruck
and push to the front. This time I won by a
neck.

Canary was a wonderful little horse. He was
the laziest little beggar that ever ran, and stub-
bornly refused to win any race by more than a
neck. But he was as clever as a man, knew
exactly where the winning-post was, and timed
his effort better than ever Fred Archer did.

After Tipperarj^, Peard and Warren Jackson
persuaded me to put Canary into handicaps and
he never won another race. He broke down
within a year of the Tipperary meeting and I
sold him at Tattersall's for sixty guineas. Charlie
Cunningham had a look at him with a view to
purchase, but decided that he was too small to
be of any use to him.

The mention of Charlie Cunningham brings
back pleasant memories of one of the finest riders
that ever crossed a horse, and of one of the best
companions that ever brought gladness to the
heart of man. C. J. Cunningham had many
virtues and many attainments, but he was perhaps
chiefly remarkable for the fact that he was by
far the biggest man that has ever got into the
front rank of steeplechase riders. He was by

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BALLINCOLLIG

nature a 13-stone man, being well over six feet
high and broad in proportion, but, by a most
penitential system of wasting, he so redueed
himself that he was able, on oecasions, to ride as
low as 11 stone 7 lbs. His suecess at Scottish
and North-country meetings was unprecedented,
and on a real bad horse he was, admittedly,
without a rival. It is chiefly, however, on
account of his personal qualities that he will be
remembered and regretted in the North. At every
race-meeting in Scotland, and indeed at many a
social meeting in which racing had no part, there
was a sense of incompleteness if C. J. C.'s cheery
face and magnetic personality were missing. As
a narrator of Scotch anecdotes he was unequalled,
and his fund of these was inexhaustible and suited
to all tastes. He killed himself by the systematic
wasting of a big muscular frame that called for
twice the nourishment it got.

In a more tragic way, but surely from the same
cause, died the great Fred Archer. Archer was
by nature a 10-stone man, and throughout the
racing season he kept himself within the limits of
8 stone 7 lbs., saddle included. No constitution
could stand such a strain indefinitely, and, in the
end, he paid the penalty exacted by outraged
Nature.

To the racing men of his day. Archer must
always stand out as the foremost jockey of the
century, if not of all time. It is always a difficult
and a delicate matter to compare past giants
with the popular favourites of the moment. The

199

FORTY YEARS ON

comparison is, in fact, impossible, as it is only
in direct competition that pre-eminence can be
established. But this much can certainly be
said : that, during his riding career, Archer stood
out more conspicuously from all his contem-
poraries than any former or subsequent jockey
has done, not only by virtue of the fact that he
always headed the list of winners, but also from
his striking appearance and distinctive style of
riding. Archer was a tall man and always rode
very long. Nowadays jockeys present a more
or less grotesque appearance, hunched up like
monkeys on their horses' withers. No doubt the
modern seat is justified by the relief afforded to
the horse, but the result inevitably is that all
jockeys have the same seat and look alike. In
Archer's day the monkey-seat was not yet devised,
and there was considerable latitude as to the
length of stirrup, etc. which a jockey affected.
Archer's seat was unique and unmistakable. Six
inches taller than any other jockey of his day —
with the possible exception of Webb — he rode as
long as it is possible for a man to ride and yet
touch the stirrups. His great length of limb
made him no less conspicuous from all the other
jockeys of his day than did his attractive,
cadaverous face. In a field of twenty starters his
appearance alone would instantly have arrested
the attention of any foreigner visiting England
for the first time. In a close finish his methods
were equally distinctive. While the shorter
jockeys worked their little legs against the saddle-
flaps, Archer would seem literally to wind his

200

BALLINCOLLIG

legs round his horse and lift him to the front by
sheer muscular force and determination. Now-
adays such methods are made impossible by the
modern seat, and it may safely be said that
though that seat may be advantageous to the
horse, it cannot but be most disadvantageous to
the jockey, and makes it a physical impossibility
that we shall ever again see such finishes as Fred
Archer used to furnish us with when, on an
apparently beaten horse, he would, by sheer
muscular effort, force his way to the front through
the crowd of pigmies opposed to him, and win on
the post by a short head. Such exhibitions — and
they were frequent — were dramatic in the extreme,
and made Archer the idol of the public to an
extent never approached by any other jockey.
It used to be said — with some degree of truth —
that no horse, however bad, was ever out of the
reckoning in a five-furlong race if Archer were on
its back. On the other hand, it is not to be
denied that his driving power at the finish of a
race was so tremendous that he broke the spirit
of more than one good horse.

The most remarkable race that I ever saw
ridden was the race for the Gold Cup at Epsom
between Bend Or and Robert the Devil the year
following Bend Or's Derby victory, when the
latter, ridden by Archer, had won by a head.
Many people had criticised Rossiter's riding of
Robert the Devil on that occasion, and in the
Gold Cup next year, which was practically a
match between the two old opponents, Mr. Brewer
gave the mount on his beautiful horse to Tom

201

FORTY YEARS ON

Cannon. Feeling and betting ran very high over
the race, which was felt to be a duel between the
Duke and the bookmaker, and, in a lesser degree,
between the respective classes which the two
principals represented. As the two horses came
down the straight, the race appeared to be all
over. Cannon was sitting perfectly still on Robert
the Devil, who was leading by a length, while
Archer was working at Bend Or with arms and
legs. No one, 200 yards from home, would have
taken 10 to 1 about Bend Or's chance. Then,
to everyone's amazement, in spite of Bend Or's
obvious distress. Archer was seen to be gradually
gaining ground, and, when Cannon began to move
in his saddle, a deafening roar of excitement
went up from twenty thousand throats. Past
the Grand Stand both jockeys were riding for all
they were worth, the horses apparently dead level,
and it was not till the numbers went up that we
knew that Bend Or had again won by a head.
Never have I seen anything approaching the recep-
tion that owner, horse and jockey got as the Duke
led his horse in. Staid and sober men went mad
and flung their hats in the air, not because of
their winnings, but in sheer exuberance of spirits
at seeing a favourite horse and rider achieve
the apparently impossible. Of course Robert the
Devil was a cur and Rossiter's riding in the
previous Derby was vindicated, but, none the less,
it is doubtful whether any other jockey that ever
lived could have squeezed Bend Or's nose in front
that day.

202

CHAPTER XIV

POLITICS

In 1885 my father died and my whole outlook
m life was changed. A general election was
impending. My brothers Claud, George and
Frederic were already pledged to constituencies
in England, and, at the time of my father's
death, my eldest brother was the selected candidate
for North Tyrone, the electoral division in which
Barons Court was situated. His sudden accession
to the title of course disqualified him, and, at
the eleventh hour, I, as the youngest and only
unattached member of the family, was thrust,
an unwilling victim, into his place. I left the
army and devoted all my energies to the more or
less uncongenial work of electioneering.

The Nationalist candidate opposed to me was
John Dillon, at that time one of the most prominent
leaders of the anti-British movement in Ireland.
John Dillon, it must be owned, was not a genial
foe. I did my best to stretch out to him the hand
of good-fellowship, but he did not respond, and,
after a time, I abandoned the effort.

The election was prolific in incidents, generally
of an amusing, but sometimes of a distressing
character. One never-to-be-forgotten experience
came very markedly vmder the latter category.

203

FORTY YEARS ON

It is the privilege of the candidate at Parha-
mentary elections to sit, if he so wishes, in any of
the polling-booths during the voting. In England,
where the ballot is secret, this would be a dreary
and profitless occupation, but in Ulster — with all
the Roman Catholics under orders to vote illiterate
— the situation offers many possibilities. Only
once did I take advantage of my privilege.
Happening to be in Newtown Stewart on the
morning of the poll, and having nothing at the
moment to do, I strolled into the polling booth
and took my seat by the Presiding Officer. On the
other side of the Presiding Officer sat the parish
priest, who was acting as Personating Agent for
John Dillon. Presently in came » one of the
gardeners employed at Barons Court, by name
Carlin and a Roman Catholic.

" Can you read or write? " asked the Presiding
Officer.

" I cannot, sir," stoutly replied Carlin, who was
in reality an excellent scholar.

" Whom do you vote for ? " asked the Presiding
Officer, in continuance of the recognised formula.

Then began a very painful scene. Poor Carlin
looked first at me and then at the priest. On the
one side he saw — as he thought — instant dismissal
from his employment, and, on the other side, all
the purgatorial bans which the Roman Catholic
Church can call down on the heads of those who
go contrary to its orders. He scratched his head
and he shuffled his feet, and he looked as if he
wished the earth would open and swallow him.

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POLITICS

The persijiration began to pour off his face. It
was really a most distressing spectacle.

" Well," said the Presiding Officer impatiently.
" Hm-ry up. I can't wait all day."

" Ah, well," said the poor fellow, with a look
of agony, " I suppose I vote for his lordship over
there," at the same time jerking his thumb in
my direction. That was enough for me. My
presence had obviously gained me a vote, but at
too high a price. I fled the spot, and never again
could any persuasion induce me to enter a polling-
booth while voting was going on.

Outside, in the street, I met a strong supporter
of mine of the name of David Nelson.

" Well, David," I said, " how are things
going? "

" 'Deed, sir, they're going right well," was
his cheering reply ; " I've voted twice myself
already."

This was about ten o'clock in the morning, and
there was a wealth of encouragement, to my mind,
in the word " already " !

A little further down the street I noticed a
small knot of my supporters in animated converse
and joined the group. While we were discussing
our chances, a farmer named Sproule came
striding up to us, evidently pregnant with news.

" Did you hear John Porter died this morning ? "
he inquired of the company generally.

" John Porter dead ! " cried one of the others.
" Well, well, that's the sad affair."

" It's a queer thing the man couldn't have

205

FORTY YEARS ON

waited till to-morrow," another remarked in an
injured tone.

" He voted early," Sproule went on to explain;
" 'twas on his way home from voting that he
dropped dead."

" Ah, well," said the last speaker, in evident
relief of mind, " a man can't live for ever, and
there's others would be worse missed than John
Porter, anyway."

Life and death on that day were considerations
which were entirely secondary in importance to
the recording of a vote against Home Rule.

Every kind of device was resorted to in order to
ensure victory.

At one outlying polling-booth on the very
fringe of the division, the Presiding Officer was a
well-known Nationalist. To him entered two of my
supporters whom I will call Henderson and Baird.

" Well, McCrossan," Baird inquired, " how are
you getting on here ? "

" Oh, things are pretty slow," McCrossan
replied; "there have only been two voters in
during the last hour."

" Come out and have a drink, then," Baird
suggested.

" Well, I don't mind if I do," said McCrossan;
" but how about the blessed polling-booth ? I
can't well leave that."

" Oh, Henderson here will take your place while
you are away," said Baird.

" All right," said McCrossan, " I'm with you,"
and off he accordingly went with Baird, while

206

POLITICS

Henderson temporarily officiated as Presiding
Officer.

After a time, McCrossan retm^ned, much
refreshed, and resumed his duties.

"Well?" said Baird, turning to Henderson
when they were clear of the polling-booth.

"It's all right," Henderson replied. "Five
Nationalists came in while you were away, and I
handed them all unstamped voting papers."

I did not quite believe this story when it was
told me next day, but, at the counting of the
votes, there, sure enough, was one box with five
unstamped papers in it, on each of which there
was a cross opposite Dillon's name. They were,
of course, disallowed.

It might at first sight appear, from a superficial
study of the above fragments, as though my
election had been secured by methods which are
not in general use and not officially recognised;
but, on that score, I have no qualms of conscience,
for it is quite certain that, for every point so
scored by my over-zealous supporters, the other
side scored at least two, and probably far more.
In craft and subtlety they were streets ahead of
us. For one thing, it was almost impossible for
my Committee to find Personating Agents who
could swear to the identity of the voters from the
exclusively Nationalist districts. Men commis-
sioned to make themselves familiar with these
districts and their residents were apt to find
themselves waylaid, and badly stoned or beaten
by bands of politicians who viewed their enter-

207

FORTY YEARS ON

prise unfavourably. The opportunities for per-
sonation, therefore, were almost unlimited. Hugh
O'Kane, entitled to vote by his position on the
register, might have been dead or he might never
have existed in the flesh, but it was an absolute
certainty that, on the election day, someone
would slouch into the polling-booth and vote in
the name of Hugh O'Kane, and then probably go
on to another polling-booth and vote in another
name. There is no doubt that, in my time, there
were quite a number of electors on the register
who had no existence except in patriotic imagina-
tion. In one townland alone, in my constituency,
there were no less than thirty-eight Barney
Devines on the register. It was, as I say,
impossible to establish the identity of all these
Barney Devines, whose right to vote the Revising
Barrister had allowed, and vote they all did, dead
or alive. The little unauthorised efforts to swell
my majority made by well-wishers on my side
were mere pin-pricks by comparison with the
organised enterprise on the other side.

Although the Nationalists were admittedly
ahead of us in various unrecognised branches of
the electioneering art, I think we were but little
behind them in the more legitimate fields of
enterprise, as the following incident, which
occurred during my brother's election, should
show.

About six o'clock on the evening of the poll
I was at Barons Court, resting after a very hard
day, when a telegram arrived from Drumquin

208

POLITICS

urging the immediate despatch of some vehicle
to take several bed-ridden voters to the poll.
That was, of course, long before the days of
motor-cars. All the Barons Court carriages were
out except an antique vehicle known as the
Clarence, and for that there were no horses
available. My sister-in-law, the Duchess, and I
were the only two people on the spot at the
moment. Everyone else was away either voting
or helping others to vote. My sister-in-law, with
her usual promptitude and energy, grasped the
situation in a moment. We hurried up together
to the stables and there, with the help of one of
the garden boys, found an old cart-mare used for
bringing heavy luggage from the station, and
a four-year-old thoroughbred filly which was
out at grass. This most incongruous pair we
harnessed with some difficulty to the Clarence,
I climbed on to the box and away we started on
our six-mile drive. The cart-mare, whom I rib-
roasted most unmercifully, no doubt thought the
world had gone mad, while the filly alternately
galloped and kicked. Our progress was neces-
sarily slow, for the cart-mare's best pace was
under five miles an hour, and it was 7.30 before
Drumquin was reached. Here I was met by a
small but enthusiastic knot of supporters, who
swarmed on to the groaning carriage and directed
me to the first house to be visited. Apparently
there were only three of these bed-ridden voters
to be carried to the poll. The first two were
safely got in and afterwards left to recover at

P 209

FORTY YEARS ON

Dr. Corry's house hard by, while we went off to
fetch in the one and last remaining voter. In
this final journey the front of the Clarence
was thickly covered with the stalwart forms of our
friends, who clung to it like flies and supplemented
my anaemic efforts at encouraging the horses with
tremendous whacks from their sticks. The filly,
being grass-fed and quite raw, was by now as dead-
beat as the cart-mare and, in spite of these very
direct appeals, our progress was slow. On reach-
ing the house indicated, the old man on whom
Unionist interest was, for the moment, centred,
was found to be very frail and feeble, but dressed
for the journey, and resolutely determined to
register his vote against Home Rule, even if he
died the next minute. My companions, however,
assured him that a Unionist victory was the one
tonic needed to set him on his feet again, and, on
the old man concurring in a high falsetto pipe,
they bundled him into the carriage and off we set
once more for the polling-booth. By this time
it was five minutes to eight : Drumquin was by
far the most Nationalist district in the constitu-
ency, and outside the polling-booth a hostile
crowd was assembled which did its best to prevent
our old man from getting in before the clock
struck eight. Our supporters, however, though
few in numbers, were great in energy and zeal,
and literally forced a passage through the crowd,
carrying the old man with them. Amidst
tremendous cheers he made his cross and was
carried out again to the carriage with its two

210

POLITICS

steaming and staggering horses. We got him safely
home again, but I regret to say that victory did not
prove the effective tonic that our supporters had
anticipated, for he remained bed-ridden till his
death.

To come back to my own 1885 election ; when
the votes were finally counted I had a majority
of 453, the total electorate being between seven
and eight thousand. I proffered my hand,
according to custom, to the defeated candidate,
but Mr. John Dillon refused to take it, and
turned bitterly away with the threat that he
would yet wrest the seat from me. On the
occasion of the next election, however — six
months later — he thought better of his resolve,
and the Nationalists put up a Presbyterian of the
name of Wylie to oppose me, the idea being that
he would be able to detach from my support
a certain number of the Radical Presbyterian
farmers. Under the old political divisions of
Liberal and Conservative, these Presbyterians
had been pronounced and, in many cases, even
bitter Radicals, but Mr. Gladstone's Home Rule
Bill had — very much against the grain — thrust
them into alliance with their old enemies the
Conservatives against the common danger of
Home Rule. Mr. Wylie was put up with the
idea of reviving these ancient party animosities,
and, in particular, of stirring up the old landlord
versus tenant feeling. The ruse completely failed.
Greatly as these sturdy Radicals may have
disliked the idea of voting for a Tory, they

211

FORTY YEARS ON

disliked even more the idea of a Home Rule
Parliament, and Mr. Wylie was defeated by some
360 votes. The announcement of the poll was
quiekly followed by the news of my three brothers'
return in different parts of the country, and there
were great rejoicings at Barons Court that night.
During the two Sessions which followed on these
elections, there were no less than four of us
Hamilton brothers in the House of Commons and
a fifth in the House of Lords — a legislative record
which I should imagine few families had ever
equalled.

Before the next election I had married, which
made it necessary for me to retire from Parlia-
ment, and I did not stand again. My brother
Freddie, who had so far represented one of the
Manchester divisions, undertook to fill my place.
His fight was a harder one than either of mine
had been, for, in the meanwhile, the Nationalists
had considerably strengthened their position at
the Revision Sessions. In spite of this, however,
he managed to defeat his antagonist, Mr. Dogherty
by 47 votes. I shall never forget the desperate
strain on our nerves during the counting of the
votes on that occasion. When a box from a
Nationalist district was opened, the ticks opposite
Dogherty's name would surge ahead with a rush
which it seemed as though nothing could check or
overtake. Then a box from a Unionist district
Would come on the table and we breathed again as
Mr. Dogherty's marks were gradually overhauled.

When it was all over and Colonel King-Ed wardes

212

POLITICS

had announced the result from the balcony of the
Town Hall, we all repaired in great glee to Sim's
Hotel, where, on the first floor, a table had
been prepared on which stood twelve bottles of
champagne with the corks invitingly drawn. Mr.
Dogherty had a more or less similar table pre-
pared on the floor above, for — win or lose — the
rule in Ireland is to celebrate the event in the
wine that cheereth, or, at any rate, in the whisky
that cheereth.

As we stood outside the door of our room,
waiting for the expected guests to assemble,
Father McConologue, Mr. Dogherty's election
agent, mounted the stairs on his way to the
refreshment provided on the upper floor. As he
passed us, his eye rested approvingly on the
spectacle of the twelve gold-necked bottles stand-
ing in hospitable array on the table within. Now
Father McConologue was the bitterest Nationalist
in all North Tyrone. He would invariably cross
himself and spit when he passed any member of
my family on the road, and black scowls were the
only greeting any of us had ever been able to
extract from him. My brother, however, in the
bonhomie inspired by a victory which, half an
hour earlier, had seemed out of reach, called out
to him as he passed :

" Won't you join us in a glass, Father
McConologue ? "

To our unbounded amazement, the priest first
paused and then — after a moment's hesitation-
replied :

213

FORTY YEARS ON

" Well, I don't mind if I do."

It is possible that Mr. Dogherty's table above
may have boasted nothing more sparkling than
the wares of Kinahan or John Jamieson, and that
the good priest knew that this was so, but— be
that as it may— he readily joined us, the doors
were closed and the juice of the grape passed with
astonishing rapidity from the gold-necked bottles
into glasses and thence to its time-honoured
destination. At the end of half an hour spent
in this pleasant relaxation, Father McConologue
rose slowly to his feet and, in solemn but emotional
tones, announced his intention of delivering
himself of a speech. Loud applause greeted this
announcement, for the twelve bottles were by
now empty, and ten people only sat round the

board.

The reverend gentleman's address consisted
mainly of a passionate panegyric of the Hamilton
family, and concluded with the following startling
announcement, coming, as it did, from Mr.
Dogherty's election agent :

" And I declare to you, gentlemen, that there's
no man on God's earth that I'd so soon see
representing North Tyrone as Lord Frederic
Hamilton." Great indeed are the powers of
Moet and Chandon I

At that time I was something of an idealist and
was much given to tilting at social and political
windmills, and one of the windmills against
whose sails I was at the moment measuring my
strength was the blood-sucking system of usury

214

POLITICS

known in Ireland as the Gombeen system. This
system did not operate to any appreciable extent
in Tyrone itself, but among the ignorant peasantry
of West Donegal it was reported to be rampant,
and to West Donegal I accordingly turned my
steps with a view to acquiring first-hand informa-
tion on the spot. For the benefit of the uninitiated,
it may be explained that the Gombeen man is
the village moneylender who makes advances
at exorbitant rates to smallholders and shop-
keepers, and finally gets the entire country-side
body and soul into his clutches.

After some thought I determined to make the
village of Dungloe, in West Donegal, my head-
quarters, and I accordingly drove the intervening
sixty miles or so on an outside car and established
myself at the house of one McSweeney, a publican.
My first move, as was not unnatural, was to seek
out Father X., the parish priest of the place, with
a view to gleaning from him some particulars
of the worst known cases of Gombeen usury in
his parish. Father X. was entirely cordial, but
showed little enthusiasm over the special object
of my mission. He told me a number of excellent
stories, but always sidled adroitly off the main
track which led to the Gombeen system and its
local adherents.

Before I left— very little wiser than I had come
— he invited me to dine with him on the following
night, and I gladly accepted his offer, hoping that,
under the expanding influence of dinner, he would
become more communicative. In a sense my

215

FORTY YEARS ON

hopes were realised, for, after the whisky had
been succeeded by port, the good priest— though
still disappointingly shy of the Gombeen question
— made some amends by launching out into a
furious tirade against the Land League and all
its ways and apostles. As Father X. was the
President of the local Land League, this outburst
was not without its interest.

The dinner was a great success, especially at
first, when conversation was brisk and reciprocal.
The port, however, was good, and disappeared
with a rapidity which soon became responsible
for long pauses in the conversation. Lower and
lower on his chest sank the good priest's head,
till finally, with a flop, he himself disappeared
bodily under the table and there remained. In
serious alarm I rang the bell to summon the maid.

" I am afraid Father X. is not very well," I
remarked, on her arrival.

" Och ! never heed him," she replied, with the
utmost unconcern. " He'll be the well man in
time for morning mass. Get you home now."
So, much relieved in mind and on excellent terms
with myself, I dismissed my host's sudden indis-
position from my mind and trudged back through
the night to McSweeney's hotel.

My first duty obviously was to return Father
X.'s hospitality, but the matter presented some
little difficulty, for not a drop of port was to be
had for love or money in the village of Dungloe.
Finally, after all my local inquiries had failed, I
was forced to send off a special car to Gwcedore,

21G

POLITICS

sixteen miles distant, with instructions to bring
back two bottles of best port from the hotel,
where, to my knowledge, the late Lord George
Hill had laid down a cellar of very excellent wines
in the hopes of bringing monied tourists into the
country.

In due course the car returned with its two
bottles, and my invitation went out to Father X.
and was promptly and gratefully accepted. I
carefully drew the cork of one of the bottles and
instructed Biddy, the maid, to fill our glasses
the moment the soup had been served and before
she handed round the whisky. The little maid
carried out my instructions to the letter, but, to
my utter stupefaction, as she approached the
priest, bottle in hand, he waved her away with
the offended dignity of the confirmed abstainer.

" Take it away, Biddy," he exclaimed with a
look of repugnance, " take it away. You should
surely know that I never taste."

Having left my guest three nights before
literally under the table, I could only sit and stare
in blank amazement. Presently Biddy left the
room, whereupon the priest gave a hurried and
whispered explanation.

" You see, I'm President of the local Temperance
Society," he told me, " and it would never do to
let the girl see me drink-taking. But I see you've
two bottles there on the table, and by your good
leave I'll just slip the one with the cork in it
into my pocket and take it home with me."
Which he did.

217

FORTY YEARS ON

It is impossible to leave the subject of Donegal
and its Roman Catholic clerics without some
reference to the famous Father McFadden of
Gweedore. After leaving Dungioe, I spent some
three weeks at Gweedore, and, during my stay
there, I heard innumerable anecdotes concerning
the exploits and peculiarities of the parish priest.
My curiosity was aroused and I determined, at
the risk of an unfriendly welcome — for Father
McFadden was reputed a very bitter Nationalist—
to pay the priest a call. Accordingly I set out
one afternoon to cover the two miles of road which
lay between the hotel and the priest's house.
A neat maid responded to my ring, and, without
inquiring my name, ushered me straight into the
priest's sitting-room — a comfortable and luxurious
room, the walls of which were lined with gaily-
bound books of various descriptions. These
books I examined with interest later on, but, on
my first entry, I had eyes for nothing beyond the
extraordinary figure with which I was confronted.
I had come, as already explained, to call on the
parish priest, but it seemed to me that I must have
made a mistake and called on the M.F.H. instead,
for the figure that rose to greet me was in full
hunting costume, top-boots, leathers, scarlet
coat and all. As there was, to my certain
knowledge, no pack of foxhounds within a hundred
miles of Gweedore, I could hardly believe my
eyes, and felt that I must either be mad or in a
dream. Father McFadden, however — for it was
indeed he — quickly reassured me.

218

POLITICS

" You'll be surprised to see me like this," he
remarked after shaking me warmly by the hand,
" but the fact is I have just been giving a sitting
to an artist who is painting my portrait. Come
now till I show you."

He led me to an adjoining room, and there with
pride showed me a life-sized portrait of himself
in the costume in which he then stood, with the
addition of a tall hat and a hunting crop. I
admired the picture as much as I was able and
then timidly inquired what pack of hounds he
usually patronised.

"Hounds! is it?" he exclaimed. "Faith!
I've never crossed a horse's back in my life, but
I just had the conceit to be painted that way.
It's a pleasant change from the black, anyway."

We returned to the library, where, after a
time, conversation turned to the cause of my long
stay at that inclement season of the year (it
was mid-winter) in such a wild district as West
Donegal. I explained that I was collecting
material for a crusade against the Gombeen men,
and asked if he were in sympathy with my
endeavour. He replied that he was, called the
Gombeen men " dirty blackguards," and wished
me every luck, but— as in the case of Father X. —
I found the conversation adroitly turned aside
the moment I began to press for facts. In spite
of this disappointing reticence on the one subject
as to which I particularly desired information,
I found Father McFadden excellent company, and
spent a very pleasant hour with him before

219

FORTY YEARS ON

returning to my hotel. Needless to say, he knew
all about my stay in the district and, as he told
me, had been expecting, and even hoping for a
visit.

The peasantry of West Donegal are to a certain
extent a race apart. They are reputed to be the
purest Irish in the island, unalloyed by any
admixture of immigrant blood.

There is good reason to suppose that the popular
belief that West Donegal — in common with West
Galway and Sligo— had a strong admixture of
Spanish blood introduced into it by survivors
from the Armada, is a fallacy. It is very doubtful
whether there were any survivors in Ireland from
the wreck of the great fleet. The evidence of the
State Papers of the day goes to show that the
natives killed all the survivors whom they found,
and that the Government executed all those who
escaped the natives. One man, named Loughlin
McCabe, boasted that he himself had killed eighty
Spaniards with a hatchet as they landed on the
Donegal rocks from one of the wrecks. Fitz-
william, who was Deputy at the time of the
Armada, made a diligent search of the Connaught
and Ulster coasts with a large armed force, but
only succeeded in finding two Spanish and five
Dutch boys, all of whom he dutifully hanged.
Two brothers of the name of Hoveden, after a
long search, collected a handful of survivors in
Donegal, and sent them up to Dublin, where they
were hanged. As a matter of fact the Spanish

220

POLITICS

type, which is supposed to be an inheritance from
the Armada, is very rare in Ireland. During
my month's stay in West Donegal I hardly saw
one who could truly be said to suggest a Spanish
origin.

The people of the coast are a quiet, inoffensive
race— poor physically and very poor in this
world's goods. This latter is to a certain extent
their own fault, for, at their very door, lies an
inexhaustible supply of food, had they only the
enterprise to grasp it. There is no better fishing-
ground in the kingdom than off the Donegal
coast, but it is impossible to induce the natives
to tempt the waves in pursuit of it. The late
Mr. E. T. Herdman, of Sion Mills, most generously
furnished two of his proteges at Dungloe with a
complete fishing outfit — boats, sails, nets and all.
The men, who had pleaded their inability to equip
themselves as their excuse for not fishing, were
profuse in thanks, but when Mr. Herdman returned
for his annual trout fishing a year later, he found
that neither of the boats had so much as been in
the water, the excuse this time being that the
men had no one to teach them how to sail a boat.
For all I know to the contrary, those two boats
may still be lying high and dry on the shore.

221

CHAPTER XV

PARLIAMENT

The House of Commons, for the entry into
which I had put myself to much inconvenience
and a not inconsiderable expense, proved a
disappointment to my expectations. It was not
what I had pictured it. Like many another
aspiring politician, I had entered the Parlia-
mentary arena full of lofty schemes for the
regeneration of mankind. I had pictured the
House of Commons as being full of noble, high-
souled patriots whose lives were devoted to the
interests of their country and their fellow-men.
I found it full of scramblers for salaried offices
and mushroom titles. I myself was a mere
brick in a buttress whose sole purpose was to
maintain a number of paid officials in their billets.
Outside of that one sphere of usefulness, I had
no value and— in the party-political sense — no
existence. Nobody wanted me except as a
voter in divisions. If I voted regularly, and as
I was told, for a certain number of years, and
had a corresponding number of good marks
against my name, tlien I myself (quite irrespective
of merit) might hope to find myself on one of the
lower rungs of the ladder of those who are paid.
The demeanour of the two front benches struck

222

PARLIAMENT

me as unworthy. Of generosity, of desire to
facilitate the government of the country or
to further the interests of the empire I could
see little trace. No proposed reform, however
desirable, could rouse a spark of interest, unless
there were votes in it. On the other hand,
childish recrimination and insincere criticism of
every measure emanating from the other side
were in ceaseless evidence. It all seemed petty
and, in a sense, sordid. For, behind all this
wordy warfare, even I— inexperienced as I was —
could detect plainly enough the hungry greed of
the Opposition for the fat portfolios facing them,
and the avaricious tightening of the Government
grasp on those same portfolios the moment their
possession was threatened.

There were other phases, too, of Parliamentary
life that I quickly realised were outside my
mental grasp. When I saw Members of Parlia-
ment, who called themselves Englishmen, system-
atically taking the side of their country's
enemies, and yet being saluted by policemen and
going about the streets with whole skins, I felt
that I was in a world for which I was not fitted.

For a time the novelty of the situation made
some amends for my disillusionment. Mr. Glad-
stone was a source of ceaseless delight. His
splendid presence, his arresting voice with the
curious burr in it, his magnificent Homeric
periods, which sounded so superb and which
meant so little, fascinated me from first to last.
His courtliness to foe no less than friend was

223

FORTY YEARS ON

even more captivating than liis oratory. While
I was stumbhng and halting through my absurd
maiden speech, Mr. Gladstone sat throughout
with his hand to his ear in an attitude of reverent
attention. My own front bench talked loudly
among themselves the whole while — a direct
snub which quickly reduced me to imbecile
incoherence. It was easy to understand, even
from a little incident such as this, the adoration
which the Liberal leader inspired in the minds of
his followers.

The best speaker of my day was unquestionably
Mr. Chamberlain. Gladstone was magnificent
and sonorous, but his utterances were cryptic
and left no sense of completeness. Chamberlain,
on the other hand, was clearness itself. He never
spoke for more than three-quarters of an hour —
admirable rule — there was no superfluous verbiage,
and every sentence he uttered was alive with
meaning. His voice was very clear and pene-
trating, and he was always the personification of
coolness, even in the midst of the violent vitupera-
tion to which his candid handling of cant and
humbug exposed him.

The Irish had a good speaker of the florid,
theatrical type in Mr. Sexton, but he always
seemed to speak with his tongue in his cheek,
and so failed to carry conviction. Engrossing
speeches, however, formed very occasional relief-
spots in a dreary sea of prosy and pompous talk,
and, at the end of six years, I withdrew moodily
and without regret from the field of party politics.

224

CHAPTER XVI

KLONDYKE

Most people will remember the feverish rush
of gold-seekers to Klondyke in 1897 and '98, the
terrible tragedies of the Chilkoot and White
Passes, and the lesser tragedies of the White
Horse Rapids. These tragedies were, alas ! on
an infinitely greater scale than the civilised world
ever knew of. Unknown men swarmed up to
try their fortunes in the new fields, sacrificing
everything to the one mad desire to out-distance
competitors and have the first pick of the golden
claims which were waiting to be staked out.
Hundreds found nameless graves in the snow,
were trampled on by those who followed, and
disappeared from the world unmourned and, in
most cases, unidentified. At first the Chilkoot
and White Passes shared the tragedies impartially.
Later on the Chilkoot Pass was abandoned, and
Skagway and the White Pass were the gates by
which all who entered the Klondyke came and
went.

The earlier pioneers had brought horses with
them in hopes of out-distancing their rivals. It
was quickly realised that the White Pass was
impracticable for horses. They fell through the
snow into bog-holes and could not be extricated.
There were said to be 1500 dead and dying horses

Q 225

FORTY YEARS ON

lining the short trail from Skagway to the summit
of the White Pass at one time during the height
of the rush. Dogs succeeded horses for the few
who could afford them, but the majority tramped
over the snow in single file, with set faces and
with their packs on their backs, in many cases
till they dropped. On the flat stretches, Avhen the
wind was favourable, sails were attached to
the sleighs, to lessen the toil of haulage. When
the Yukon River was reached, rough boats and
rafts were put together and the adventurers
dropped down the river to Dawson. In the
White Horse Rapids, the hastily-constructed
boats in many cases failed to bear the strain of
the tumultuous waters, and many more name-
less and friendless men dropped out of the
competition.

In July 1899 I was asked by a small but
enterprising syndicate, on the search for auri-
ferous properties, to make the journey to Atlin, in
the Y^ukon, to inspect and, if necessary, purchase
a property, as to the possibilities of which the
most exhilarating reports had been brought to
London. The enterprise was one which appealed
to my sense of adventure and I willingly accepted
the offer. Twenty thousand pounds, the purchase
price demanded for the property, was lodged to
my credit in the Bank of Montreal at Vancouver,
and off I set in company with my friend Fred
Haggard, who was also attracted to the far
North- West by the tales of fabulous riches which
were afloat.

226

KLONDYKE

On arrival at Vancouver we took ship for
Skagway in the old Humboldt, in company with
a rough and cosmopolitan crowd all bound on
similar errands to our own. In close quarters
with the very mixed company in which I found
myself, I experienced some little uneasiness from
the fact that I was carrying £2000 in notes on
my person, this being the deposit required to
secure an option on the mine, in the purchase
of which, we were assured, half the plutocrats in
Europe were sending up their representatives to
forestall us.

The only excitement during the voyage was
furnished by the astonishing foolhardiness of
our navigators. The British Columbian coast is
generally fog-bound during the late summer
months. A considerable part of the thousand-
miles sail from Vancouver to Skagway is through
ridiculously narrow channels between rocky
islands and the mainland. In threading these
narrows, which we did at full speed, we had to
rely for our whereabouts solely on the time which
it took for the echo of our siren to come back to
us from the shore. As, in places, the channel was
not more than 200 yards wide, this method of
steering through a fog, coupled with our unabated
speed, seemed to me little short of insane. I
made observations to this effect to the skipper
(an American), but he informed me laconically
that, as a quick arrival at their destination was
the first consideration with all who were bound
for Klondyke, and as they were running in

227

FORTY YEARS ON

competition with another line of steamers, con-
siderations of safety which ruled elsewhere had
to be put aside. He reassured me, to some
extent, by the information that, so far, there
had been no accidents. Further north, in the
more open waters, the same mad policy of full
steam ahead, regardless of risks, was maintained.
The sea off the entrance to the Lynn " Canal,"
as it is called, is thickly dotted with ice-floes
thrown off by the Muir Glacier and other minor
contributaries, and our progress was punctuated
by continual shocks as our bow came in contact
with these floes. An ice-floe, of course, is but a
baby iceberg and some of these shocks were very
severe. On our return journey, on the Princess
of Seattle, we were all brought out of our bunks
one night by a terrific shock which brought the
boat to a standstill, quivering from stem to
stern like a leaf, but no disaster followed and,
after a time, we continued our precarious course.

Next morning I made inquiries from the ship's
officers. " We struck a somewhat larger floe
than usual," they explained, " but luckily it
split." I asked what would have happened if it
had not split, and was answered by an eloquent
shrug of the shoulders.

Immunity from accident makes fools of us all.
At the time I travelled there had been no accidents
on the Skagway route. Within three years
from the date of my journey, three ships went to
the bottom — in two cases with all on board and
in the third case with great loss of life. One,

228

KLONDYKE

while steering by the siren, struck the rocks in a
fog in one of the narrow channels. Another
presumably struck an ice-floe which did not split,
for it disappeared off the mouth of the Lynn
Canal and there were no survivors to tell the
world what had happened. Lastly, the gallant
little Princess of Seattle, with her staff of bright
and breezy American officers, turned turtle in
Queen Charlotte's Sound and sank with all on
board. She was really a river steamer, with far
too much top-dressing for the open sea. The
sea-voyage to Skagway, as already explained, is
for the greater part in dead-calm waters between
the mainland and the myriad islands that dot
the coast, but Queen Charlotte's Sound is open
sea, for which, under bad conditions, the Princess
of Seattle was quite unfitted. However, she was
fast, and, as that outweighed all other considera-
tions with men who were racing one another for
gold. Queen Charlotte's Sound was chanced;
till, one day, a westerly gale caught the ship
broadside on when she was half-way across the
Sound and blew her over like a flower-pot.

No such disaster, however, overtook us during
my trip, and, after a comparatively uneventful
voyage, we entered the safe waters of the Lynn
Canal.

The Lynn Canal has been pronounced by many
critics to furnish the grandest scenery in the world.
At the mouth stands Mount St. Elias, rising over
18,000 feet sheer from the water's edge, and
backed by another giant, whose name escapes me

229

FORTY YEARS ON

at the moment, which is a thousand feet higher.
The entire " Canal," which is about ten miles
wide, is hedged in by giant peaks of eternal ice
and snow, which sparkle in the sunshine with a
hundred different lights and colours.

As we approached Skagway, Fred Haggard
and I were considerably intrigued by the cease-
less attentions of an evil-looking passenger who
hovered with unnecessary insistence in our
neighbourhood. When we landed and found
this same individual dogging our footsteps as
we tramped the streets in search of lodgings, we
had little doubt but that he knew of the £2000
I carried in my breast-pocket and intended
transferring it by some means to his own breast-
pocket. We eventually found a room which
appeared clean, and we had just come to terms
with the owner when we saw our villainous-
looking shadow pass rapidly out of the house.
" Who is that ? " I asked of our landlord.
" I don't know his name," was the reply, " but
he has just hired a room here for the night."

Our suspicions were now doubled. There
remained no doubt in our minds that this was a
" tough " on the track of our £2000. We had
no arms and there was no lock to our door, but
we pulled the chest of drawers across and, behind
this barrier, slept peacefully till morn. Nothing
happened. When we rose in the morning, the
£2000 was still safely reposing beneath my pillow
and the cut-throat tough had already left. We
never saw him again. What his real object was

230

KLONDYKE

in following us (for there is no doubt he did follow
us) must for ever remain a mystery. The
probability is that he had reeognised us for
English greenhorns, and hoped in some way to
make profit out of us by acting as our guide and
counsellor. It is practically impossible that he
can have known of the money I carried.

When we arrived at Skagway, the White Pass
railway had just been opened. Like everything
American (Skagway and the White Pass are in
U.S.A.), it had been engineered, built and opened
with almost incredible rapidity, but with a
corresponding lack of stability. The Alaskan
country grows no big timber and the trestle-
bridges and under-pins that held the track above
the yaw^ning abysses below were fashioned out
of timber that was far too small for safety.
The crankiness of the track was in everybody's
mouth and, when we boarded the train next day,
we were hardly surprised to find that all the
passengers, without exception, stood throughout
the short four-mile journey to the summit on
the footboard next the cliff, ready to jump and
cling when the train plunged down into the
chasm below, as everyone expected it would.
There were only two cars on the train, whose
pace was between three and four miles an hour.
As a matter of fact there was never any serious
accident on the line, and, shortly after our visit,
big timber was got up from San Francisco and
the track put into proper condition.

At Bennet, which is in Canadian territory,

231

FORTY YEARS ON

came the parting of the ways, those bound for
Dawson taking to the Yukon River, while we who
were for AtHn boarded the stern-paddler that
was to carry us for 180 miles along the narrow,
boomerang-shaped Takish Lake.

We were now in the province of Yukon and,
during our eighteen hours on the lake, we had
ample opportunity for studying the character of
the country. The Yukon has a fascination of
its own which lies mainly in its peculiar desolation.
In place of the precipitous, forest-choked valleys
of British Columbia, with their depressingly
limited horizon, we were now among much
flatter hills whose sides were only sparsely clothed
with scrub, or with dwarfed and stunted fir trees
clinging precariously to the patches of soil
between the rocks. The colouring was simply
gorgeous, the atmosphere clear as crystal and
the horizon incalculably distant. Later on, when
we were clear of the noisy steamer, the most
noticeable features of this northern land were,
perhaps, its intense silence and the depressing
absence of bird life. A man lost in these parts,
even though furnished with food supplies, and in
spite of the vivid beauty of the landscape, might
well be driven mad by the uncanny silence, by
the absence of animal life and above all by the
sense of illimitable vastness.

It was the evening of the day following our
departure from Bennet before we reached the
Taku River, where we had to disembark and
cross on foot to Atlin Lake. The Taku River,

232

< ?i^

5%' . uJOKiNC, tr wv'tC oaSS ^OMfnT provI h'NcrH^iiwE seu3«-' i-.« o.-^ :;0 ■'?;>. ^^f-

White Pass.

KLONDYKE

clear as aquamarine, came tumbling down from
Atlin Lake in a series of fascinating pools and
rapids which were more than my angling instincts
were able to resist. I had brought with me a little
hollow steel rod, the two smaller joints of which
were carried in the larger, and — for the moment
quite unmindful of graver issues — I hurriedly
put the rod together, attached my reel and line,
and cast an experimental fly on the waters of
this Arctic stream. My success was instan-
taneous. With my very first cast I hooked a
beautiful silvery spotless trout of about Ij lbs.
From that time on it is no exaggeration to say
that, with every cast, I hooked a fish, sometimes
two, for I was fishing with three flies. Many of
them broke away, for I had no landing net and
had to haul them up kicking on to the shingle.
I stood throughout on the one spot without
budging. The sand-flies filled my eye-sockets
so that I literally could hardly see the water,
but in spite of the inconvenience of these atten-
tions, so great was my excitement that I fished
on and on, heedless of the fact that all my fellow-
travellers had long since disappeared down the
trail through the forest. Finally, with a tre-
mendous effort, I tore myself away from my
engrossing pursuit and made a desperate effort
to overtake the caravan. For some un-
accountable reason I had with me an umbrella —
object of some curiosity and much derision, for
no such thing had ever before been seen in the
Yukon. The umbrella, however, was now to prove

233

FORTY YEARS ON

its value, for I put all the fish I could carry
into it, seized the ends of the steels in a firm
grasp and, with the umbrella in one hand and
my rod in the other, and the flies still choking
up my eyes, set off best pace down the trail in
pursuit of my party. The trail was about a
mile and a half long, and when I arrived panting
and perspiring at the lake edge, there was the
little stern-paddler half a mile out, puffing its
way across to Atlin on the farther shore. While
I was anathematising my folly in having yielded
to the lure of the river, an unkempt figure in
greasy blue overalls and a black flannel shirt,
with three days' growth on his chin, came out of
the solitary tent on the wharf and remarked :
" I am afraid you have missed the boat." The
tone was so strikingly European that I stared in
some surprise.

" Come into my tent," he suggested, " and have
a smoke."

I accepted his invitation, sat down on an
empty packing-case and lit my pipe. The
stranger was greatly interested in my fish and
in my rod, which he gave me to understand was
the first trout-rod ever seen in Atlin. Men did
not visit those parts in quest of trout. After a
time, struck by the incongruity between my
host's speech and his appearance, I asked for
particulars concerning himself. As a result I
was told one of the saddest stories I have heard.

Smith, as I shall name my friend, had, it
appeared, been a medical student in Paris when

234.

KLONDYKE

the Klondyke fever burst upon the world. He
was badly infected and determined to risk his
£600 capital in an attempt to make a. quick
fortune. Four other equally adventurous spirits
joined him in the enterprise. Between them
they raised £3000. Their plan was to reach
Atlin from Ashcroft on the C.P.R., and so avoid
the double duties at Skagway and Bennet by
keeping throughout on Canadian soil. It was a
mad scheme, for much of the country they had
to pass through was unexplored and therefore
almost certain to prove impenetrable. So in
fact it turned out. Their way was continually
blocked by fallen timber, round which they had
to make long and wearisome circuits. The
strength of man and beast gradually became
exhausted. They started on their 1500-mile
journey with twenty horses carrying themselves,
their tents, food and camp equipment. Smith
was the only one that reached Atlin. All the
horses and his four companions died on the way,
and he himself only just managed to stagger into
Atlin with nothing in the world but a double-
barrelled gun and the shirt on his back. When
I met him, he was officially employed to check
the baggage on the wharf at which the daily boat
called. I suggested his writing to his people,
who apparently had certain means, but he
declared that he would die before he laid himself
open to the " I told you so " taunts which his
confession of failure would certainly bring upon
him.

235

FORTY YEARS ON

By the time he had finished his story it was
quite dark, and, to his surprise no less than mine,
we saw the hghts of the Uttle stern-paddler
approaching from the far shore.

" There must be some miners coming out,"
Smith remarked. " You are in luck. It is
more than a month since the boat made two trips
across in one day."

True enough it was, as Smith surmised, miners
who had missed the first boat and who were
ready — as miners always are — to pay anything
to get what they wanted. I left some of my fish
with Smith and a promise to send him up some
cartridges from Vancouver; but I never saw him
again, although I made one memorable and very
nearly fatal attempt to do so. It was in this wise.

After we had been in Atlin for a few days, I
made the acquaintance of a New York lady
named Mrs. Hitchcock, who was, as may readily
be supposed, the only lady in Atlin, but who,
having large mining interests in the country,
had very pluckily resolved to come up to the
Yukon and see about them for herself. I told
her the story of " Smith," and she was so greatly
interested that she organised a party to cross the
lake and interview him with a view to philanthropic
action. At the same time it was decided, while
we were there, to test the fishing possibilities of
the Taku River to the full.

On the morning arranged, the chosen party
assembled at a narrow little creek that abutted
upon the great lake, where lay the boat which was

236

KLONDYKE

to carry us across the four miles of intervening
and very agitated water. The party consisted
of Mrs. Hitchcock, Haggard and myself, Bromley,
our mining engineer, the young English parson
attached to Atlin and two boatmen. With
considerable difficulty the seven of us squeezed
ourselves into the very limited space which the
boat offered. We four passengers, so to speak,
were wedged into the stern, where we sat packed
together like herrings, while the two boatmen
and the parson, who was acting as skipper,
remained forward to see to the hoisting of the
sail. When we were all in, I noticed with some
concern that the stern of the boat was down to
within two inches of the water. The creek
where we had embarked, being sheltered from
the wind, was as calm as a mill-pond, but, out
in the open water, I could see big foam-crested
waves chasing one another in quick succession
down the ninety-six miles of the lake's length. I
felt very uneasy. How in the name of reason
could a boat be expected to carry a sail among
waves such as those, when the water was lapping
her gunwale in a dead calm? However, no one
else seemed to share my misgivings, so I said
nothing and we pushed off. In doing so one of
the boatmen stumbled across a seat, and the
lurch which he gave brought an ominous trickle
of water over the stern. Then up spake Fred
Haggard. " Mrs. Hitchcock," he said, " do
you know that you are going to certain death
out in the lake there?" Mrs. Hitchcock

237

FORTY YEARS ON

expressed surprise and ignorance. She knew
nothing about boats. I did; and now that the
first word had been spoken, I loudly seconded
Fred Haggard's warning, and Bromley, who was
a composed and undemonstrative person, reso-
lutely supported our view. Only the parson was
derisive. He had sailed this particular boat, he
said, across the lake a score of times in worse
weather than there was that day. " Yes," I
suggested, " but with two people in the boat,
and not seven." Still he sniffed and pooh-
poohed, but the weight of opinion was now very
decidedly against him and we put back. When
we were once more on shore, feeling slightly
ashamed of myself and the timid part I had
played, I got hold of Mackie, the owner of the
boat, who had so far uttered no word and shown
no interest in the discussion.

" Should we have got across ? " I asked him.

" Not a chance," he replied calmly.

" Good heavens ! " I exclaimed ; " then why
did you let us start? "

" Well," he said, " you see I'm a Scot, and I
wouldn't have it said that I turned my back on
anything that others would face. But I was
right glad," he added, " when yon gentleman
spoke out."

With a distinct sense of grievance, I turned
away and sought out Johnson, the other boat-
man, who was standing some little way apart.

" Do you think we should have been swamped
out in the lake there? " I asked him.

238

KLONDYKE

" Sure thing," he replied, spitting uncon-
cernedly into the water; "she couldn't have
lived two minutes in that sea, loaded the way she
was."

"But why didn't you say so?" I asked
irritably.

" Well, you see," he explained, " it's Mackie's
boat and I'm only hired for the day, so it wasn't
really my place to speak."

I then questioned Bromley and learned that
he too had known we were doomed the moment
he saw how close to the water was the gunwale
of the boat. So here were four of us, all grown
men and reputedly sane, going knowingly to a
purposeless and absolutely idiotic death because
we were all afraid to say that we were afraid !
There is no doubt that Fred Haggard saved all our
lives that day, for no one could have swum six
strokes in that icy water. His was a brave act,
and that is why I have recorded the incident.
The rest of us were cowards.

In all the financial enterprises upon which I
embarked in those days, my three close associates
were Fred Haggard, Alexander Hill, the most
honest and conscientious mining engineer that
ever assayed a sample, and Herbert-Smith, the
greatest and the straightest of all City lawyers.
We were all about the same age, and we used
to speak of ourselves as the four H's. Alas ! of
that quartet, I alone remain. I could write a
volume about Alexander Hill and Herbert-Smith
— two of the finest characters it has been my lot

239

FORTY YEARS ON

to rub shoulders with along the path of life, but
they are not in this story. Fred Haggard is,
and because he is in the story, and because for
over twenty years he played the Damon to my
Pythias, I hope that those who never met him
will forgive a short and humble epitaph to the
memory of one of the best. I travelled with him,
as I am now recounting, from London to the
Yukon and back; I travelled with him, as I
shall recount in the next chapter, from London
to the interior of Peru and back. I travelled
with him on a wild and very expensive goose-
chase into the heart of the mountain range that
separates Hungary and Roumania; I spent
three days and two nights with him on a filthy
tug which we chartered at Vancouver to take us
up a desolate inlet known as Frederick Arm, for
the inspection of a mine of doubtful value
belonging to our Syndicate. When, after a
horribly uncomfortable journey, we reached
this inaccessible spot, Bromley, who accom-
panied us, condemned the mine and Haggard
and I, as representatives of the owners, ordered
its immediate evacuation. So we took the eight
miners back with us on the tug and, at the water's
edge, we shot the beautiful young chestnut mare
that carried down their gear. It was a tragedy,
but there was no other way, so we left the poor
thing there, with its four hoofs sticking dismally
up in the air, for the coyotes to eat. It rained
during the whole of this trip ; real straight solid
rain. We neither shaved nor washed nor changed

240

KLONDYKE

a stitch of our clothing. We were wet through,
and we ate and slept in the forecastle, or the
cockpit, or whatever it is called, cheek by jowl
with the crew and the miners, and with the
cockroaches swarming round the swinging oil
lamp on the low ceiling four feet above our faces.
It was a trying experience, and one during which
Damon might excusably have poleaxed Pythias;
but, neither on that occasion nor on any other
during our long, and occasionally uneasy, travels,
did Fred Haggard and I ever quarrel. It is
impossible to quarrel with a man who never loses
hij temper. He was often irritable to the extent
of peevishness, but always with circumstances
and never with me; and, so intensely acute was
his appreciation of the humorous side of a
situation, that his fits of peevishness died almost
before they were born. The one that stands out
in my memory as having lasted longest was in
Vienna, when his tobacco-pouch was empty and
he could not find a tobacconist. No one, of
course, can in Vienna. There are none. But
he could always find something to make him
laugh, even in his own discomforts and privations,
and no man that I have known had the same
strange power of dispelling irritability in others. If
I had been Prime Minister, on the point of em-
broilment with other Powers, I should have sent
Fred Haggard as my ambassador to smooth
things over. If I had been a jeweller under
orders to go round the world in a sailing-boat,
I should have left my stock in the hands of Fred

B 241

FORTY YEARS ON

Haggard. If I had been condemned to pass the
rest of my life on a desert island with one man
only for company I should have chosen Fred
Haggard. No man can say more than this.

Atlin City in 1899 was a funny little straggling
street of wooden houses standing on the edge of
a lake four miles wide and ninety-six miles in
length. It had no industry of its own, but was
the focus-point of all the mining camps around.
It subsisted on " mush " (porridge) and trout
caught with a spinning-bait in the icy waters
of the great lake. These trout weighed from
twenty to thirty pounds and were " hawked "
round every morning dangling from a pole
carried by two men, who were the fish purveyors
to the " city." They were as good eating as
any salmon. Beyond these fish, Atlin produced
nothing in the way of food. Everything else
came up from Vancouver or Seattle. Beer was
the price of champagne and everything else in
proportion.

The mining camps were a great interest.
Fiction, with a shadow of fact behind it — fact
dating back in most cases to the Forty-niners —
has painted the Western miner a savage desperado
with knife or pistol always ready to hand. I,
on the other hand, found him the salt of the
earth. This is no exaggeration. With an ex-
perience of many countries and many nationalities
behind me, I can truly say that I found human
nature at its best in the mining camps of the
great North- West. Nowhere else have I met

242

KLONDYKE

with such disinterested kindness or seen such
mutual goodwill and brotherhood among men —
each man helping his neighbour as though it
were himself. It needs the hardship and loneli-
ness of the wilds to bring these qualities out of
men. They lean together because the battle
they are all fighting is a battle against cruel and
adverse elements. So great was my attachment
to, and trust in, these rough miners that I even
made a practice of playing " poker " with them
when they came into Atlin, and I continued to
do so in the steamer the whole way down the
coast to Vancouver. My playmates were perhaps
a little more watchful of one another than the
drawing-room poker-player, but there was no
sign either of cheating or of knives and pistols.

It is not to be denied, of course, that there were
occasional black sheep among these gold-seekers,
as there will always be in every community,
but for such the Atlin mining camps were far
from healthy. Infringements of the local code
were dealt with summarily and without mercy.
As to the advisability of respecting this code I
was very quickly " put wise." Just inside the
entrance to each tent at a mining camp we visited,
about six miles from Atlin, there stood one or
more zinc buckets full to the brim with gold-dust
and nuggets, and apparently offering exceptional
opportunities to anyone with shop-lifting ten-
dencies. I remarked as much to my companion,
an old rugged miner.

" Yes," he replied, with suitable expectoration.

243

FORTY YEARS ON

" We had one in this camp not long back
with sociaHstic views as to the distribution of
accumulated wealth. I reckon he was swinging
from that pine tree yonder almost before his
pockets were clear of the gold he'd pinched."

Such was the unalterable code of the North-
West, and, though it may be stern, it is clear that
it is the only way, where there are no bolts and
bars, and where the whole of a man's earthly
possessions lie exposed to a grasp of the hand.
The penalty for gold-pilfering, at the time of my
visit, was death without appeal, and, as this was
universally known and recognised as being just,
cases of gold-theft were very rare. In cases
where summary executions did take place, the
authorities were generally blind and deaf, recog-
nising, as they did, that all communities must
be governed by some code, and being powerless
to administer effective justice themselves. The
worst " tough " in the Yukon when I was there
was a man named " Soapy " Smith. As far as I
recollect, he was eventually lynched.

Gold mining throughout the Klondyke district
was " placer " mining, i.e. the sifting of frag-
mentary gold out of alluvial deposits. In most
cases the " dirt " is washed through sluice-boxes,
the cross-bars of which catch the gold, while the
lighter mud is carried away. In cases where the
miner has no water-rights, he has to content
himself with panning out the gold in a metal
basin — a slow and tedious process and one calling
for considerable skill.

244

KLONDYKE

Fred Haggard and I left Atlin on October 1st,
having, after much hagghng, reduced the purchase
price of our Anaconda mine from twenty thousand
pounds to two thousand, which, as it after-
wards turned out, was exactly two thousand
pounds too much. Every morning, for some
days before our departure, when we wandered
out into the rough, broad street that led down to
the lake's edge, the snow-line on the hills across
the lake had, during the night, perceptibly crept
down, hard-cut and sharp as though pared by a
knife. On October 1st it was very near the
lake's level, although, so far, no snow to speak
of had fallen in Atlin itself. The surface of the
lake, too, had a film of ice on it as we cut our
way across in the little Atlin Queen. For a week
or so more the stern-paddler would force her way
through the thickening ice, and then boat traffic
would cease till the following May. A certain
amount of coming and going took place through
the winter months with " huskies " and sleighs,
but this was toilsome and expensive, and few
ventured it unless driven. The handful who had
remained on in Atlin through the winter told me
that, although it was often 40° below zero, the
cold was not very noticeable unless a wind blew,
and then no one ventured out except in complete
sheepskin armour, face and all. The worst
feature, they all agreed, was the deathly silence.

By the date of our departure the tales as to
the ricketiness of the White Pass railway had
become so accentuated that Haggard and I

245

FORTY YEARS ON

elected to walk down from the summit to Skagway,
keeping with ease in front, or alongside, of the
train. The only trying part of the walk was
where the trestle-bridges had to be crossed.
These were exceedingly narrow (the gauge, if I
remember right, was only three feet) and ex-
ceedingly high above the chasm below. Although
the sleepers were little more than a foot apart,
the necessity for watching one's feet the whole
while, and the consequent ceaseless view of the
abyss below, after a time produced a sense of
vertigo which was far from comfortable. Haggard,
who had a bad head for heights, boarded the
train for the transit of the trestle- bridges and so
very nearly met his end, for the engine left the
rails in the middle of the highest and longest
trestle-bridge, and, when it pulled up, was not
more than three inches from the edge of the bridge.
With wonderful nerve and skill the engine was
finally replaced on the rails by means of jacks,
and the train proceeded on its funereal career.
We were glad to get to Skagway.

246

CHAPTER XVII

PERU

In the year following our trip to Atlin, the
Syndicate which had sent us there, and which
seemed generously inclined to thank us for having
saved them eighteen thousand pounds rather
than to blame us for having lost them two
thousand, asked Fred Haggard and myself to
make the journey to the interior of Peru for
the purpose of inspecting and, if necessary, pur-
chasing another gold-mine. The reports con-
cerning this mine were more dazzling even than
those which had taken us out to the Yukon. It
was said to have furnished the old Inca kings
with all the material for the golden tulips with
which their gardens at Cuzco were at one time
made so bright, but, since that day, to have lain
dormant for three hundred years, waiting for
some enterprising spirits (such as our Syndicate)
to continue the process of gold-extraction.

We gladly undertook the mission, for the
expedition promised some unusual experiences.

The first and not the least interesting of these
experiences was a surreptitious visit which Hag-
gard, Mrs. Haggard and myself paid to the
forbidden town of Jacmel in Haiti.

Haiti is the mystery island of the world, for

247

FORTY YEARS ON

— apart from its uncanny Voodoo worship and
all the horrible stories connected with that cult
— it is the only island in the world which has
so far successfully resisted exploration by white
men. One may say even more than this. It
has even been successful in resisting exploration
by the two black republics that nominally own
the island, for these, in point of fact, know no
more about the interior than does the Royal
Geographical Society. Both the St. Domingo
and the Haiti blacks live in continual mortal
terror of the aboriginal Indians who occupy the
interior, and with every reason too, for very
rarely has anyone, either black or white, returned
from any inquisitive excursions beyond the very
narrow coastal limits over which the two black
republics really hold sway. The few enter-
prising spirits who have succeeded in penetrating
a short distance inland, and have returned alive,
have learned nothing of the interior. How should
they? Haiti is bigger than England and Wales
combined.

Towards the end of the eighteenth century a
French army of 40,000 men essayed the conquest
and occupation of the island, but met instead the
fate of all those who meddle with the mysteries
of Haiti, for the entire army perished, partly
from malaria, but mainly at the hands of the
aboriginal natives, who — themselves invisible —
harassed the invaders day and night with poisoned
darts and arrows. Thus ended the last military
attempt to subjugate the island.

248

PERU

Haiti would appear to be a land of surpassing
loveliness. Slightly smaller than Cuba, but by-
far larger than any of the other West Indian
islands, it is also by far the most beautiful, as
seen from the sea. Range upon range of towering
mountains rise up almost from the water's edge,
completely clothed almost to their summits with
a forest of emerald green, which, in the more
distant ranges, gradually melts into a turquoise
blue. The possibilities of the interior, both as
regards scenery, climate and productiveness, are
almost unlimited, but it is safe to predict that
the interior will guard its age-old secrets for many
years to come, except, perhaps, to the superficial
eye of the aeroplane observer.

Haggard and I had an overwhelming desire to
set foot on this forbidden island. The rule of
the Royal Mail S.P. Co. is very strict as to no
passengers being allowed to land, under any
pretext whatsoever, owing to the fanatical hatred
of the black republics for all the white races.
Fred Haggard, however, was gifted with a per-
suasiveness of manner which few human beings
could resist for long. In his informal, half-
humorous, half-cynical style, he opened the
attack on the captain on the day preceding
our arrival at Jacmel. He was met with an
immediate and peremptory refusal, at which
Fred Haggard laughed good-humouredly, relit
his eternal pipe and for the moment withdrew.
Shortly afterwards, however, he returned to the
attack and, long before Haiti was in sight, the

249

FORTY YEARS ON

captain had capitulated to Haggard's good-
humoured persuasiveness, as everyone always
did in the long run. It was arranged that, if we
undertook not to whisper a word of our permit
to the other passengers, Haggard, Mrs. Haggard
and I might go ashore at Jacmel for two hours
in the boat which carried the mails. He warned
Mrs. Haggard, however, that there was con-
siderable risk in what she was doing, and urged
us, for our own sakes as well as his, to be extremely
circumspect in our demeanour towards the people.
This undertaking we gladly gave, and next
morning — to the open-mouthed amazement of
the other passengers — we slipped quietly into
the gig which was to carry the mails across the
mile of water which separated Jacmel and the
S.S. Atrato,

When we landed, the second officer, who was
in charge of the mails, and whose duty it was to
see them safely to the Post Office, gave us an
exact time for our return, saluted and went his
way, leaving us three intruders to our own
devices. We turned in the opposite direction to
the Post Office and— feeling half brave and half
foolish — commenced our wanderings.

The demeanour of the population towards us
was interesting and peculiar. We were eyed
with the greatest curiosity and with marked
disapproval ; that is to say, no one smiled at us,
no one seemed pleased to see us ; on the contrary,
they seemed very far from pleased to see us;
their looks were most distinctly unfriendly. On

250

PERU

the other hand, there was no attempt at active
hostility and we were not even mobbed. People
scowled at us, but they made no attempt to
follow us. Once or twice a burly negro showed
a disposition to hustle us off the footway, but
mindful of the captain's injunctions, we gave
way and there was no collision.

Our main object was to find the famous church,
of whose peculiarities we had heard so much,
but, as our undirected wanderings failed to bring
any such building within sight, we were at length
forced to make inquiries. In some trepidation
of mind, I approached the most benevolent-
looking old negro I could pick out, and taking
off my hat with a flourish, said :

" Ayez le bonte. Monsieur, de m'indiquer
I'eglise nationale."

To which, to my unmixed relief and no little
astonishment, he replied :

" Avec le plus grand plaisir possible, Monsieur.
La premiere a gauche, et puis la troisieme a
droite," etc., etc.

There is something to my mind absurdly
incongruous in the French language coming from
negro lips. It seems at first the most grotesque
misfit imaginable, but it is quite certain that
no other language can the Jacmel negro either
understand or speak. We took a polite farewell
of our informant and, following his instructions,
soon came in sight of the church, which is remark-
able for two things only — a fine bas-relief of the
Last Supper in which all the Apostles are black

251

FORTY YEARS ON

except Judas, who is a white man; and a life-
size figure of tiie Virgin Mary, who is a negress
as black as coal. Having regaled our eyes for
some time with these curious illustrations of the
Jacmel interpretation of the Gospel story, we
left the church and wandered a short way into
the country, but the looks of the few people we
met on the road were so very much more hostile
than those of the townspeople, that after a short
time we thought it best to retrace our steps
towards the quay.

On our way back we had a piece of rare luck,
for we passed the Admiral of the Haitian Navy.
The Haitian Navy consisted at that time, and
for all I know to the contrary still consists, of a
single small obsolete war-ship, but what it lacked
in tonnage it made up for in the magnificence of
its Admiral, who was faultlessly arrayed in blue
tunic and epaulettes, cocked hat and sword,
and whose breast was resplendent with two rows
of decorations. Repressing an almost irresistible
impulse to shout out, " Yah ! Massa Sambo,"
we took off our hats to this splendid figure, who
haughtily saluted in return.

Curiously enough, the only attempt at a hostile
demonstration while we were on the island was
made by a white man, or, to be more accurate,
by a man who was almost white. This man, as
we afterwards learned, was a refugee from
Jamaican justice, from which he had fled for
safety to Haiti, where he was able to his heart's
content to vent his spleen against the whole race

252

PERU

of white men. We unfortunately arrived at the
quay some quarter of an hour before the appointed
time, and, while we were waiting there for the
second officer, this madman (for he evidently
was mad) commenced a frenzied harangue of the
mob-orator type directed against us three in-
truders on the privacy of the island. Gradually
he collected a crowd, as such people always do,
and w^e could see only too plainly, by their
flashing eyeballs, that he was working his audience
up into a state of excitement little short of his
own. We were very glad when the second
officer arrived and we were able to push off out
of hearing of the raving imprecations with which
he pursued us.

Barbadoes and Jamaica I found uninteresting,
and Colon inexpressibly dirty. Unluckily for us,
we were detained at the latter place several days
on account of a bloodthirsty rebellion which was
raging in Colombia at the time. Eventually, how-
ever, the railway was pronounced clear and we were
allowed to proceed. We reached Panama with-
out coming in sight of either of the contending
armies, and there took ship for Callao on the
Chilian steam-boat Aconcagua (pronounced Ack-
ongower). The sea voyage to Callao occupied at
that time from ten to fourteen days owing to
the many uncleanly and pestiferous ports at
which the coasting steamers thought it necessary
to call. Of these the most pestiferous and, at
the same time, the most important was Guaya-
quil in Ecuador, the chosen home of cocoa,

253

FORTY YEARS ON

Florida water, mosquitoes, yellow fever and
sudden death. The town of Guayaquil has been
built, owing either to force majeure or to the
insanity of man, in one of the unhealthiest spots
in the world. Not content with being mathe-
matieally on the equator, it is thirty miles up a
sluggish river whieh, when the tide is out, leaves
bare a broad expanse of stinking yellow mud,
beloved of crocodiles but very bad for man.
We left it after a stay of two days without regret,
but with many unsolicited testimonials as to its
unhealthiness in the shape of mosquito bites.

One little incident occurred on the way down
to Callao which, small as it was, made me glad
that I was an Englishman. A fire broke out one
morning in the ship's hold, which shot forth
a thin but ominous column of smoke through
one of the hatches. The crews of the Chilian
line of steamers are mostly dagos, but the officers
are all European and our chief officer was an
Englishman of the name of Lee. The moment
the fire broke out, the crew came tumbling up
from below, brandishing knives and gibbering
like maniacs, and made a rush for the boats.
Their rush, however, was stopped by the small
but determined figure of Lee, who, revolver in
hand, barred the way. A trial of nerve followed,
which ended by Lee gradually driving the crew
before him into the bows, where he held them.
Beckoning to the third officer, he slipped the
revolver into the junior's hand, told him to keep
the crew covered and shoot the first man that

254

PERU

rushed, while he himself dived down into the
hold through the hatch from which the smoke
was issuing. At the end of an hour he reappeared,
black as a sweep from head to foot, but trium-
phant, for the fire was out. He had smothered
it with mats. As we were carrying a desperately
inflammable and, I believe, quite illegal cargo,
there can be little doubt that Lee's prompt and
determined action saved the lives of all on
board.

We spent a week in Lima making preparations
for our expedition into the interior, and during
this week we were fortunate enough to be
favoured with the only shower which Lima had
enjoyed for seventy years. For five minutes it
rained solid tropical rain. The terror-stricken
inhabitants thought the end of the world had
come, and I believe there is no doubt that the
end of the greater part of Lima would most
assuredly have come had the shower lasted
another five minutes, for the town is largely
built of mud. As it was, the rain produced
some interesting effects. Both the dining-room
and main staircase of our hotel were open to
the air, and, by the end of the storm, the water
was foaming down the latter with the force and
effect of a miniature Niagara.

Along the six miles of flat, arid sand which
separates the Andes from the sea throughout the
length of Peru it never rains. Numbers of
torrential streams, however, tumble down sea-
wards from the Andes, and it only requires

255

FORTY YEARS ON

intelligent irrigation to make this barren stretch
of waste land grow anything. The old Incas
clearly irrigated it, for the remains of their
aqueducts are still in evidence, but the modern
Peruvian is too indolent.

We spent two days at Chosica, 5000 feet up,
with a view to training ourselves gradually to
altitudes. On the afternoon of one of these days,
the four members of our party — that is to say,
Fred Haggard, Frank Merrick, the mining engi-
neer, a herculean young doctor named Robert
Wilmot and myself— agreed that it would be
pleasant and exhilarating to walk to the top of
a conical hill which faced the inn. We set out
in cheerful mood. After some two hours' work,
during which our progress was disappointing, a
difference of opinion arose as to the best route to
take in order to reach the top with the least
difficulty. My three companions were firmly
persuaded that we ought to bear to the right,
while I was just as obstinately convinced that
the left-hand course was the best one. So heated
did the argument become that we finally agreed
to separate, I going my way and they theirs.

It need hardly be said that, after we had parted
company, I stretched myself to the utmost in
order to prove that I was right by reaching the
top first. With every ounce of energy that was
in me, I climbed and climbed towards my
objective till my limbs ached and my brow
grew very damp indeed, but without in any way,
as it seemed, lessening the distance which lay

256

Author and Party on Peruvian Paivipa.

PERU

ahead of me. Strain as I would (and there is
no doubt I strained very hard) the summit grew
no nearer. In some bitterness of spirit I pictured
the other three sitting smoking their pipes on
the summit and jeering as they looked down on
my futile efforts to negotiate the hill from the
wrong side; for I made no doubt now that they
had been right and I had been wrong. What
other conclusion could I come to? Finally, in
the shades of evening, fearing to be overtaken
by darkness on rocks which were becoming too
precipitous to be pleasant, I gloomily abandoned
my attempt to get any higher, and, in a dejected
frame of mind, commenced the descent. I
reached the hotel unpleasantly conscious of
failure, nor were my spirits raised by the sight
of the other three sitting happy and contented
under the verandah.

"Well?" Fred Haggard inquired, with a
touch, as I thought, of derision. " Did you get
up?"

" No," I replied shortly. " What was the
view like from the summit? "

"Oh, gorgeous," was the reply; "but the
finest sight was, of course, you, thousands of
feet below, trying to get up the wrong way."

Peals of laughter followed on this speech ; the
laughter, in fact, was so sustained that I became
suspicious that something was in the wind.
Further inquiry elicited the fact that the others
had fared no better than myself and had, indeed,
abandoned the attempt as hopeless some time
s 257

FORTY YEARS ON

before I did, as they had already been home a
good half-hour.

The fact of the matter was that the summit
of the " hill " which we thought to scale in an
afternoon was 10,000 feet above where we stood,
but the astonishing clearness of the atmosphere
brought it down so close that our ambition was
perhaps excusable. We made no further attempts
to climb the Andes.

Next day we took the train to Oroya. The
Oroya railway is, I believe, admittedly the finest
example of railway engineering work in the world.
It rises by a gradual incline of one in thirty-three
to an altitude of 15,666 feet, and, in those days,
ended at Oroya, a thousand feet down on the
far side of the Cordilleras. Since then it has
been extended to Cerro de Pasco.

It was amusing to watch the effect of the climb
on the passengers. At 10,000 feet conversation
was bright and brisk; cigars were being enjoyed
and the magnificent scenery admired. At 12,000
feet conversation, though still sustained, began
to lose much of its brilliancy. At 14,000, cigars
were surreptitiously thrown away and an ominous
silence reigned. On nearing the summit, this
peaceful silence was abruptly broken, for several
of the passengers rushed to the back of the cars
and were violently sick. Personally, I had so
far felt no particular discomfort. That was to
come later.

We slept at Oroya and next morning started
on our hundred-mile ride across the Peruvian

258

PERU

Pampa : Fred Haggard, young Merrick, our
mining engineer, Don Miguel de Bezada, one
of the joint owners of the mine, and myself.
Robert Wilmot had returned to Lima. The
weather w^as sunny and beautiful, but spoilt by
occasional snow-storms, which in turn gave way
once more to baking sunshine. The scenery was
featureless but peaceful. The Peruvian Pampa
is an undulating plateau covered with short,
springy turf. It is absolutely treeless and bush-
less, but intersected by many crystal streams
and dotted with large lakes on which we could
see the wild-fowl in their thousands. To north,
south and west of us rose the glittering giant
peaks of the Andes. Many of them at that time
were unmeasured or, at any rate, only approxi-
mately measured. I remarked on the peace
and beauty of the scene to Don Miguel, but he
shook his head disgustedly.

"It is an accursed region of evil spirits," he
replied, crossing himself.

I disagreed with him and remarked that I
thought it exhilarating.

" Exhilarating ! " he exclaimed ; " why, I will
bet you a sol that you cannot walk as far as that
rock in front of us."

" Done ! " I promptly cried, and leaping off
my pony, led him as far as the rock indicated.
I won my sol, but I regretted my bet for the rest
of that day and for the two days following. The
exertion required to walk the short distance
necessary was almost unbelievable. I remounted

259

FORTY YEARS ON

my pony with a violent headache which remained
with me for the next three days. By the time
we reached Tagasmayo, our first resting-place,
I was a very sick man. I " shooed " a dozen
hens off my bed, where they were peacefully
roosting, and dropped on to it without even
removing my boots. My head was like a furnace
and my eyes were streaming. A cup of tea (with-
out milk) was brought me, and I drained it and
fell at once into a heavy sleep which lasted till
morning. Another cup of tea in the morning,
and I mounted the dejected pony which was to
carry me the thirty-three miles to Junin, our
next halting-place. That ride to Junin was one
of the most trying experiences I have ever
endured. The day was as beautiful as could be
imagined and, across the dead-flat Pampa, Junin
stood out quite clearly from the moment of our
start. It looked no more than five miles distant,
but hour after hour we rode and still this elusive
village grew no nearer. Three miles an hour was
the best the ponies could do. If you press them
beyond that — in spite of the fact that they have
been bred in that rarefied atmosphere — they
bleed at the nose and fall down. We were denied
the solace of smoking, for no pipe will burn at
15,000 feet. On and on we toiled in funereal
silence. If I had been alone, I have no hesita-
tion in saying that I should have lain down under
a rock and, if necessary, died without any regret.
I felt, in fact, that there was nothing I should
enjoy so much as death. All the rest of the

260

PERU

party were bad, but none so bad as I was, for
no one else had been fool enough to walk three
hundred yards for a bet. Don Miguel, when he
left Oroya, had been a cheery little man, with a
smooth, rosy face like an apple. His face was
now like a medlar, lined with a hundred wrinkles.
His eyes streamed constantly, as indeed did all
our eyes. No one spoke. In fact I may say
that, from end to end of our hundred-mile ride
across the Pampa, no one of us spoke except
under necessity. We did not feel like speaking.
However, all things come to an end, and even-
tually we reached Junin after a ride of some eleven
hours. Once again I tumbled on to my bed (I
should have been sorrj'^ to tumble into it) after
a cup of tea, and fell instantly into a heavy
sleep.

Next morning I was so bad that there was
some discussion as to whether I had not best be
left at Junin. I insisted, however, on continuing.
Death, I felt, was infinitely preferable to Junin.
Haggard and Merrick between them lifted me on
to my pony, for I was almost too weak to stand,
and we continued our melancholy ride. Hope,
however, the greatest stimulant on earth, was in
my breast. I knew that, if I could remain in
the saddle, night would see me 5000 feet nearer
the sea-level and, beyond that, I cared for nothing.
After riding for about three hours we began to
descend. With every hundred feet we dropped,
life and the joy of living came back to me.
Indeed, even while on the undulating Pampa

261

FORTY YEARS ON

itself, every hundred feet that we rose or fell
made a perceptible difference to my comfort.

About 5 p.m., to my unspeakable relief, we
reached the hospitable abode of Don Vincente
de Bezada, who was to entertain us during our
inspection of the mine. Don Vincente was a
splendid specimen of the Spanish hidalgo, with a
fine presence and a delightful charm of manner,
and the entertainment which he afforded us was
not only excellent in itself, but to myself extremely
welcome, for no food had passed my lips since
we had left Oroya three days before.

As an illustration of the extraordinary effect of
high altitudes on the constitution, I may mention
that, on that same day, as soon as we had washed
and eaten, I went in the evening for a long
solitary walk. I could hardly realise that, only
that very morning, I had been too weak to mount
my pony without assistance.

The much-dreaded " Soroche," or mountain
fever, is always worst on the occasion of its first
visitation. Every subsequent attack is milder.
Residents in Lima, however, even though they
may have crossed the Pampa before, contemjDlate
a renewal of the experience with the utmost dread.
Don Miguel, who had often crossed before, had
gone through a three weeks' strict dietary training
before he accompanied us.

The country in which our mine lay was the
" 10,000 foot " country, pretty, hilly and tame,
with a strong resemblance to Cumberland. Grass
hills, clothed here and there with scrub, fenced

262

PERU

in clear streams tumbling down to the Amazon,
and looking as if they had been specially created
by Providence for the harbourage of trout. Most
of our common English birds, in rather gaudier
liveries, flitted about among the bushes. The
ubiquitous sparrow was of course there, in cease-
less evidence, as were also the chaffinch, the
blackbird and the robin, all a little disguised,
but still unmistakable for what they were. The
country was peacefully attractive and the climate
like that of our spring at its best. Of ploughed
land there was hardly any trace, for, though the
country was clearly capable of growing cereals to
any extent, the impossibility of transport to any
big market was sufficient to strangle all agricul-
tural enterprise. Now that the railroad has come
to Cerro de Pasco, it is possible there may be a
little more cultivation, but even that is doubtful,
for Cerro de Pasco itself is as inaccessible from
Chuquitambo, where we were staying, as the top
of Ben Nevis is from Banavie.

It is a safe prophecy, however, that some day,
in the far future, the interior of Peru will be one
of the great food producers of the world. Its
vast extent, coupled with its unlimited water
supply and the ease with which climate can be
regulated by altitude, give it advantages which
no other country can rival. From 10,000 to 7000
feet cereals of all kinds can be grown; from
7000 to 4000 tea and coffee, and from 4000 to
2000 cocoa, sugar and cotton. Below the last-
named level lie the poisonous forks of the Amazon,

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FORTY YEARS ON

well adapted for rubber-growing, but not likely
to be habitable for white men for many a century
to come. At present the interior of Peru gives
the world at large but little in the way of food,
being shut off from civilisation by the Andes on
the west and by the Amazon jungle on the east.
The development of the country by railroads,
however, is a perfectly simple matter. The
supreme difficulty was bridged when Meggs built
the Oroya railway. The rest would be child's
play by comparison. The decline of the Andes
is as gentle on the east as it is terrifying and
precipitous on the west. If England or America
took Peru in hand, it would not only become one
of the greatest food and mineral producers in the
world, but also one of the most perfect residential
countries for colonists. At present it labours
under two great disadvantages : its inaccessibility
and the total absence of any authoritative govern-
ment. The Peruvian Government concerns itself
very little with what happens east of the Andes.
How, indeed, can it be expected to repress out-
breaks and quell disorder when it has no means
of transporting its troops or police? Below the
" 4000 foot " level many of the Peruvian natives
are dangerous and unrestrained by any law.
Their priests exercise absolute control, and, in a
desire to keep this control, they incite the natives
to kill all strangers who have the temerity to
come and spy out the land. While I was in
Lima, I met a man named Hayward who had
just returned from an expedition below the " 4000

264

PERU

foot " level. He was the sole survivor of the
expedition, his four companions having been
mobbed and killed by the natives.

At Chuquitambo the natives were not only
civil but obsequious to the point of effacing
themselves in the dust before every European
that they encountered on the road. The Peruvian
cholo of to-day is a placid person of the Esquimaux
type, with a round, plum-coloured, hairless face.
To my eyes they were all as exactly alike as a
flock of sheep, but it is to be supposed that they
are able to detect differences among themselves.

We bought the mine, as indeed we could hardly
avoid doing in face of the genial hospitality of
our host, Don Vincente. It is satisfactory to
be able to record that after several years of
uncertainty, the mine has at length proved a
conspicuous success, and is to-day producing
considerable quantities of gold.

I looked forward with unspeakable dread to
our return journey, but was pleasantly surprised
to find that I was not nearly so badly affected as
before. At Junin we even found energy enough
to stroll about and examine the place. Junin is
a village of mud huts, remarkable only for its
dirt and its church. The latter is a long, low,
white-washed building with a thatched roof. It
looks more like a cow-shed than a church on the
outside, but inside it fairly makes the stranger
gasp with astonishment. It boasts no fewer than
three (I think there were four) carved Florentine
altar-pieces, standing ten feet high and beautifully

265

FORTY YEARS ON

decorated — after their kind — in red and gold, blue
and silver, etc. The old Conquistadores were
certainly very wonderful fellows. Pizarro must
have abandoned his ships at Colon and built an
entirely new fleet at Panama. This in itself must
have been a colossal undertaking. Then, from
Panama to Callao, he had to face the ceaseless
S.E. trade winds for 1000 miles ! How he did it
no man knows. The conquest of the Incas was
in itself no doubt a trifling matter, for they were
not a fighting race. His chief claim to admiration
is over his conquest of physical difliculties. The
transport of those Junin altar-pieces over the
Andes, in that rarefied atmosphere, stands out as
an amazing achievement and one that seems out
of all proportion to the results obtained. Why
decorate a mud village nearly 15,000 feet above
sea-level with these gorgeous examples of six-
teenth-century Florentine work?

The Peruvian Pampa is sparsely inhabited by
cholos, lamas and sheep, none of whom seem to
experience any inconvenience from the altitude.
Their organisms have, no doubt, in the course of
many centuries, adapted themselves to the con-
ditions. If the natives are brought down to
the sea-level they experience exactly the same
symptoms as we do when we rise to their
heights — violent headaches, sickness and running
at the eyes.

Apart from other miseries, the track across
the Pampa is made hideous by the constant sight
of dead and dying lamas and donkeys. The

266

PERU

Peruvians — in common with most of the South
American semi-Spanish natives — are absolutely
callous with regard to the sufferings of animals.
It is not so much that they are wantonly cruel;
they are simply indifferent. Much of their cruelty
comes from stupidity and the rest from traditional
custom. All the copper from the Cerro de Pasco
mines was in those days taken across the Pampa
to Oroya on the backs of lamas and donkeys,
who carried in stores on the return journey. A
lama at those heights can carry 70 lbs. and no
more. During this hundred-mile traverse, certain
lamas would go sick and drop. Their burdens
would then be shifted to other lamas and the
sick beast left to die. Under the extra weight,
other lamas would then, one after the other, drop
and be left to die. One contractor that I spoke
to told me piteously that he never crossed the
Pampa without losing at least six lamas. I sug-
gested the obvious expedient of taking with him
half a dozen led lamas to take the burdens of
those that went sick. He objected that this
would be a great expense as well as quite contrary
to custom. I could not make him see that there
was less expense in taking with him spare lamas
than in losing six on every journey. He was
polite but quite obdurate. British and American
residents in Peru told me that Peruvian customs
with regard to animals were many hundreds of
years old and were as unalterable as the laws of
the Medes and Persians. No argument could induce
the natives to change the customs of centuries.

267

FORTY YEARS ON

On arrival at Oroya, we found Mr. Impett, the
manager of the Oroya railway, awaiting us, and
together we journeyed by the train as far as the
summit, where, according to previous arrange-
ment, he had in readiness for us a running trolley
containing four seats and a very strong lever
brake. Our baggage went on in the train, while
we transferred ourselves to the trolley which was
destined to carry us the rest of the way to Lima.
Apart from all other considerations, the adventure
was interesting from the fact that nowhere else
in the world can a trolley travel 106 miles by
gravitation alone. Such, however, was our pur-
pose. After we had given the train half an hour's
start, and protected our faces with thick veils,
the wedge was kicked away from in front of our
wheels and we instantly started gliding forwards
with an ever-increasing speed. Impett took
control of the brake and therefore of our speed,
so that the rest of us were at liberty to give as
much attention to the grandeur of the stupendous
scenery through which we passed as our thick
veils permitted of.

The relief of descent and the sense of returning
vitality as more oxygen found its way to our
starved lungs added materially to our powers of
enjoyment as we skirted the giant precipices, or
spanned the fathomless abysses of the Cordilleras.
It was difficult to realise that the yellow, snowless
peaks, to which we craned our necks as we glided
along, were many thousands of feet higher than
the ice-encrusted giants of the Rockies that had

268

PERU

so awed our senses the year before; but we were
helped to the behef by the memory of our
depressing chmb at Chosica. The permanent
snow-hne in the Andes is about 18,500 feet, and
peaks of lesser magnitude show up from base to
summit a uniform dull yellow. They are abso-
lutely bare of vegetation and have the appearance
of being built of sand. They are unspeakably
grand, but more terrifying than beautiful on
account of their nakedness. Over every valley,
between the pointed yellow peaks, hovers a
motionless condor vulture, looking like a kestrel
in spite of its twelve feet of wing-s23an. In the
lowest cleft of every valley roars a foaming
torrent, along the edge of which are trees and a
wild growth of heliotrope, which is the common
Peruvian weed.

About an hour after leaving the summit, we
very nearly ran into the train, which had been
derailed by a rock avalanche, but which was
hidden from our view by a sharp corner. It was
that same sharp corner which had prevented the
driver of the train from seeing that the track in
front of him was covered with rocks and stones.
As the track was, as usual, cut out of the side of
a precipice, it was impossible for us to get our
trolley past the train, and we had to wait in
patience till the jacks had done their work and
the train continued its careful career. The worst
of it was that our pace had now to be restricted
to the pace of the train, which was far too sedate
for our tastes. At Matucana, however, which

269

FORTY YEARS ON

was the half-way house, both train and trolley
came to a halt for half an hour, while those on
board refreshed the inner man with such fare as
the station provided; and, while we were so
engaged, Impett had the trolley taken round and
placed in front of the train.

Just as we were about to reseat ourselves,
Impett turned to me and said : " Would you
like to drive the rest of the way? " There was
nothing, of course, that at the moment I desired
so much, though my natural diffidence had so far
prevented my making the suggestion; so, with a
brief nod of acquiescence and with a doubtless
unsuccessful attempt to conceal the elation I felt,
I seated myself next the brake, signed to the
cholo to remove the wedge, and off we started on
the second stage of our journey, the two passen-
gers in rear looking, I fancied, a little pale at the
thought of my amateur guidance.

Now the driving of a trolley on the Oroya
railway consists solely in the alternate application
and release of the brake. The gradient through-
out is a uniform gradient of three per cent., which
is sufficient to give the trolley any speed required
up to a hundred miles an hour. The nature of
the track, however, forbids anything in the nature
of excessive speed, except at short intervals. It
is not merely that it is cut out of the edge of
precipices throughout its entire length, but it
also twists and turns round so many corners that
it is very seldom that a clear view is obtainable
for any great distance ahead. Such a view is,

270

PERU

however, most essential to safety, for rock
avalanches are perpetually falling on the track,
and, though men are posted at regular intervals
all along the line to cope with these avalanches,
and to warn the trains if they approach before
the debris is cleared away, we knew that such
precautions would be quite inadequate to save us
if we rounded a corner at full speed and found
rocks just ahead of us on the track. The derailing
of the train above Matucana was quite sufficient
to prove to us that there was no real safety
except in so sober a pace that a dead halt could
be assured of in fifty yards. This was the regular
train's invariable policy, and though, in the par-
ticular case cited, it had not been able to pull up
in time to avoid being derailed, it had evidently
pulled up quick enough to avoid being hurled
over the precipice, as would inevitably have
happened had its pace been less restrained.
Another danger was to be found in the innumer-
able short tunnels, in which it was the incon-
venient habit of the mountain goats to shelter
from the sun.

My endeavour was to steer the middle course
between blind recklessness and creeping prudence.
Occasionally one could see ahead for half a mile
or so, and then, with a glorious sense of exhilara-
tion, we would shoot through the air for a time
without any brake-restraint, till the next blind
curve would approach, when caution once more
had to be called into play. When we ultimately
stepped off the trolley at Lima, I turned to

271

FORTY YEARS ON

Impett and remarked with some pride : " Well,
I think I did the second half in quicker time than
you did the first."

" Yes," he admitted, with a sudden gleam in
his eye, " you did. Would you like to come
down again with me to-morrow and I'll show
you what / call fast driving? "

I politely declined this kind offer. Trolley-
running on the Oroya railway has been respon-
sible for many fatal accidents, as to which we
had been furnished with full and gruesome details.
We had also had it from many quarters that
Impett was by far the most reckless trolley-runner
in Peru. The sobriety of his pace during the
earlier stages of our descent had no doubt been
solely due to consideration for our untried nerves,
and the gleam in his eye when he offered to show
me what he could do in emergency was quite
sufficient to determine my line of action.

It is a pity that the Peruvians hate us so.
Much of this hatred can be traced back to an
unfortunate occasion on which our representative
in Lima paid an official visit to the President in
knickerbockers and shooting-boots. This was,
not unnaturally, construed into a deliberate insult
to the Republic, and has never been forgotten or
forgiven. It must be admitted, however, that
altogether apart from the knickerbocker incident,
the demeanour of the English residents towards
the Peruvians is not such as to inspire love.
The Spanish Peruvian is a great aristocrat, with
an ancestry which, in many cases, dates back to

272

PERU

Pizarro. He and his kind have never crossed
with the natives of the land they conquered,
whom indeed they regard as Httle better than
dirt, and, consequently, they still retain not only
their pure Spanish blood, but their Spanish pride
of race as well. They are not of the build to sit
down tamely under an assumption of superiority
on the part of the commercial class of a foreign
country.

We had a comical illustration of our unpopu-
larity in Peru on the occasion of a certain visit
to the cinema theatre in Lima. It was during
the Boer war, and we were given a representation
of the battle of Spion Kop. The British army,
consisting of about twenty fat swarthy men, in
white duck uniforms with black belts (obviously
the Lima police), were seen clambering painfully
up a steep slope (obviously in the Andes) dragging
a toy cannon behind them. Suddenly, from
behind a wall, uprose three ragged-looking men
with pitchforks and two women armed with mops,
who fell upon the British army and— amidst
deafening cheers from the Lima audience — hurled
it headlong down the slope of the mountain.

In one particular respect the Spanish Peruvians
are advanced far beyond the parent stock across
the Atlantic, and that is in the matter of bull-
fights. A bull-fight in Spain is one of the most
unsporting, clumsy, debasing and beastly spec-
tacles imaginable. A bull-fight in Lima, on the
other hand, is a really beautiful and artistic per-
formance. The picadors are mounted on exquisite

T 2T3

FORTY YEARS ON

little thoroughbreds, for which large prices are
given, and which twist about and dodge the bull's
rushes with all the agility of a polo pony. Any
picador whose pony is, in the smallest degree,
ripped by the bull's horns is hissed out of the
arena. The bull, of course, is killed by the
matador in the end, as in Spain, but there is
none of the brutal mutilation of horses which so
sickens anyone with the instincts of the sports-
man who has to sit and look on at a bull-fight
in Spain.

274

CHAPTER XVIII

THALASSA, THALASSA

I THINK I must have been born with the cry
of the Ten Thousand in my mouth, for, from the
moment when my infant fingers first fed ungrate-
ful sea-anemones with little bits of seaweed, the
sea in all its moods has beckoned me. To be
on it, near it or in it— more particularly in it — has
always seemed to me more to be desired than
gold, yea, than much fine gold. In all latitudes,
therefore, to which pleasure or duty has drawn
me, the exploration of the local waves has been
my first concern. The trouble generally is that,
where the water is warm, there are sharks, and,
where there are no sharks, the water is uninviting.
The Mediterranean is, of course, an exception
to this rule, but even this is now beginning to be
invaded by sharks which find their way in through
the Canal.

The most perfect bathing-place I have ever
come across is at Port Antonio, Jamaica, where
a large and deep lagoon is enclosed by a coral
reef which is impassable to sharks. Here the
water is so warm that bathers may swim about
the live-long day in lazy comfort and without
fear of losing a leg. A big hat, however, is a
necessity on account of the sun.

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FORTY YEARS ON

The bay of Panama would be an ideal bathing-
place were it not for the sharks and crabs. The
crabs on the mainland are black, to match the
rocks, which are also black, and they run quicker
than any crabs I have ever met (or rather avoided).
Fred Haggard, who shared my antipathy to
crabs, always declared that the Panama crabs
could run straight, which no decent crab should
be able to do. They scared us when bathing
even more than the sharks, for they were much
more aggressive, and were not in the least
frightened of us, which I believe the sharks were.
We only bathed once from the mainland at
Panama, and then without any guardian boat.
Fred Haggard, Robert Wilmot and I swam out
just far enough to feel brave and then, turning
round, made for shore with a little more speed,
I think, than was, strictly speaking, dignified, and
with a good deal of superfluous splashing of the
feet. We were all swimming in line when suddenly
a simultaneous yell went up to heaven from three
throats. We had swum into a bed of thick
tenacious seaweed which had grabbed us all by
the legs, and of course we thought that sharks
had hold of us.

After that we bathed from the Pearl islands,
which were infinitely more attractive than the
mainland and much closer to our ship. Our only
object in going to Panama had been to try to buy
Panama hats, which — curiously enough — we were
not able to do. There were none. It appears
that the real Panama hats never find their way

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THALASSA, THALASSA

to Panama. They are all made at a place called
Paita in Peru, where women sit in the sea and
plait them under water. The hats are then all
shipped direct to Europe.

We were held up for some ten days at Panama,
owing to an unforeseen delay in the connection
from San Francisco. During these ten days we
remained on the good ship Aconcagua in prefer-
ence to going to the only hotel which at that date
offered hospitality to visitors in the town. We
were anchored some six miles from the mainland
and close to the Pearl island group, and every
day we would row in one of the ship's boats to
one or another of these lovely little islands and
bathe, keeping the boat always between us and the
open sea. We could often see the dorsal fin of
a shark slowly cutting the water in the neighbour-
hood of the boat, but although, at first, this gave
us a certain feeling of unrest, we soon got used
to it, but of course always took care to keep in
comparatively shallow water.

Apart from the bathing, the islands were most
interesting to explore. They are inhabited by
pure Indians of a very handsome type whose
main industry is the culture of pineapples.

We did not find the natives very sociable.
On one occasion, when Fred Haggard and I were
accompanied by Mons. J. Henessey and the
Comte de Vielle Castel, we ventured to pass the
time of day to one of the ladies of the island who
was engaged in pine-culture.

" Fine day, Jenny," one of our party remarked.

277

FORTY YEARS ON

The lady responded with what the books term
a dazzUng and tooth-displaying smile. Such of
the island gentlemen, however, as were working
in the neighbourhood did not smile at all, but,
on the contrary, began to gather round us with
very hostile looks and with voluble comments
on our behaviour which it was perhaps fortunate
that we did not understand. Very soon a small
crowd had collected, brandishing fists and agri-
cultural implements in such very threatening
style that we thought it best to beat a dignified
retreat towards our boat. They pursued us to
the very water's edge and, when we were fairly
under weigh, indulged in such significant panto-
mime as to their intentions towards us that we
decided that we would be safer in the future with
sharks, or even with barracudas, than with them,
and we bathed from that island no more. No
doubt they had at some time had trouble with
cads from some ship in the bay and were unable
to appreciate the strict conventionality of our
British comments on the nature of the weather.

Thereafter we bathed from a smaller and more
distant island. I had a most exciting hunt on
this island for a humming-bird's nest which was
very evidently situated in a biggish isolated bush,
but without success. I was divided between a
desire to find the nest and the fear of destroying
it in tearing apart the clumps of foliage, and, in
the end, I had to abandon the hunt. The two
parent birds — very small and of a brilliant metallic
blue — showed no trace of fear of me, but kept

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THALASSA, THALASSA

buzzing round my head in most pugilistic
fashion.

Humming-birds are the most fascinating Uttle
objects to watch. They do not fly Hke birds, but
Hke bees — perfectly straight and with incredible
speed. When attracted by a flower, they will
hover in front of it perfectly motionless except
for the beat of their wings, which is so rapid as
to be invisible, and which produces the faint
humming sound from which they derive their
name. Sometimes, while hovering, they will
make a perpendicular rise of twenty feet or so and
then fall back to their original position, and all
so quickly that the eye can hardly follow. Like
bees, too, they seem to have no perception of
the presence of man. At any rate, they show
no symptom of shyness.

It is not generally known that British Columbia
can boast three varieties of humming-birds — a
black one, a reddish one and another whose
distinctive colouring I have forgotten. They are
all three rather larger than the South American
varieties. I have seen the black ones at Rossland,
B.C., actually hovering over the snow— not of
course in mid-winter, but in April, when the
violets and crocuses force their way happily
through the thin layer of snow that is left and
form a brilliantly-coloured carpet with a white
ground. What happens to these British Colum-
bian humming-birds in mid-winter, when Rossland
is four feet under snow, I have never been able
to learn.

279

FORTY YEARS ON

The best places in South America that we
struck for humming-birds were the Ecuador
forests, which are ultra- tropical in their vegetation
as well as in their steamy and oppressive heat.
Almost more interesting than the humming-
birds were the butterflies — very large and of the
brilliant metallic hues which museums have made
so familiar. These gorgeous insects, instead of
fluttering, like our domestic British butterflies,
within confidential reach of the collector's net,
fly with the rapidity of a snipe and, even on
smooth ground, would certainly leave far behind
the fleetest entomologist that ever wore spectacles.
In the dense tropical jungle, which is their habitat,
it would, of course, be impossible to pursue them
for five yards. How the professors secure them I
cannot say. I can only imagine that they must be
trapped by some species of sticky bait smeared on
the tree-trunks. I believe that the scientific name
for these fast-flying butterflies is Ornithoptera.

The small island to which we were driven by
the menacing attitude of the natives was not so
good for bathing as the large one, which boasted
a horse-shoe bay, across the mouth of which our
boat could patrol up and down to keep the sharks
out. The smaller island had no such bay, and
we consequently felt less secure. The rest of the
group was too far distant to have any value for
regular bathing.

I think there is very little doubt that the
shark danger is greatly exaggerated. I once knew
a certain Captain Montgomery in the Navy who

280

THALASSA, THALASSA

had an amazing life-saving record. He was a
magnificent swimmer and would go overboard to
the rescue in any waters. He assured me that he
had swum at times in seas that were infested with
sharks and that they had taken no manner of
notice of him. One has the evidence of one's
own eyes, too, at places like Kingston, Jamaica,
where small naked boys will dive all day long
after sixpences thrown into the water. On one
occasion when I was at Kingston the best diver
was a boy who was nearly white, and one could
follow the movements of his body, as he went
wriggling down to the bottom with the greatest
distinctness. And yet I have never heard of
these boys being taken by sharks, although sharks
are known to swarm round the ships. At the
same time, there undoubtedly are, for some
unknown reason, certain spots where the sharks
are very wicked. One of these is, of course,
Sydney Harbour, and another is Suez.

When I was at Suez it was very hot and I had
an overpowering desire to bathe. The sea was
as smooth as glass and of a marvellous trans-
parency. Never have I seen any sea that looked
so inviting. I was assured, however, that to
bathe was to court certain death. Only three
days before an Arab's legs had been taken off
below the knee by a shark which attacked him
while he was standing on the steps that led down
into the sea washing his clothes. Residents at
Suez, when they wish to bathe, have to take the
train to the Ismailia salt lakes, on the surface of

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FORTY YEARS ON

which a man may He at full length and read a

book, so great is their density.

One of the best bathing-places in Europe is at

the PircTus, as Byron discovered over a hundred

years ago. Modern bathers are accommodated

by wooden steps which lead down into the water

from a platform on to which open a long row of

bathing-huts. Here in the blue waters of the

Gulf of iEgina, the Greek gods and goddesses of

the twentieth century disport themselves the

live-long day, amidst surroundings which for

scenic beauty it would be hard to rival anywhere.

On all sides are seen, in their misty cobalt blue

loveliness,

" The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sang,"

conjuring up in the mind dim visions of the
old heroes of the golden age. No wonder that
W. E. Gladstone and Byron went mad over
Greece. There is romance in the very atmosphere
and in every line and curve of the wonderful
seascape. There is romance too in the undying
art of the Greeks and in every page of their
absorbing history, which perhaps detracts from
its value as mere history, but which nevertheless
casts its spell over the reader and makes him
loth to turn the eye of a too captious scrutiny on
the facts. After all, history, even if not true, is
none the less history in the absence of opposition,
and he is but a poor historian who does not raise
his own countrymen above the common level.
So let us accept in simple faith the exploits of

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THALASSA, THALASSA

the ancient Greeks as handed down to us by
Herodotus and Xenophon, for fear that, under
the lens, then- glory might fade away as the
glory of the peerless Greek isles fades away on
close approach. From a distance they are the
softest, the deepest and the most heavenly blue
that the mind can picture, shimmering divinely
in the ceaseless sunshine. At close quarters they
are but piles of arid sand, almost naked of
vegetation. Even the mainland is indecently
bare of trees, and the glare is indescribable.
Greece suffers from perennial drought. Its rain-
fall is infinitesimal and its sunshine eternal and
desiccating, so that nothing grows but currants,
olives and marble. In spite, however, of their
disappointing character at close quarters, the
long-distance views are quite intoxicating in their
beauty, and none more so than the vast lagoon
into which Themistocles pushed out his fleet of
barges from the shelter of the Straits of Salamis
and scattered to the winds the naval power of
Xerxes.

" A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;

And ships, by thousands, lay below.
And men in nations ; — all were his !

He counted them at break of day.

And when the sun set where Avere they? "

I was looking upon the same view as Xerxes,
but I was sitting on no rocky brow, but on the
wooden steps that led down into the waters of
the JEgean Sea, and, very soon, shaking off my
poetic mood, I slid off the steps into the smooth,

283

FORTY YEARS ON

warm sea and struck out from the shore. Some
fifty yards out, an obese Greek was floating on
his back and kicking up the water with his feet—
a detestable practice in any waters, but par-
ticularly detestable under the poetic shadow of
Salamis and Mgina. However, feeling at peace
with all men, I overlooked his misdemeanour and
as I passed remarked pleasantly and, as I hoped,
grammatically : " r6 vdojg Oeojliov £ot/," which
rendered into the Enghsh tongue means, " the
water is warm."

I should perhaps here explain that, when in
strange lands, I am always afflicted by a perhaps
childish but, none the less, overmastering desire
to address the natives in their own tongue. It
is a harmless foible and occasionally meets with
success. On this occasion it did not, for the
obese Greek, who was either deaf or lamentably
ignorant of his own language, replied in French
and told me what time it was, as to which he
evidently thought that I was inquiring. This
was, of course, a little disconcerting, but I was
not wholly discouraged, for it was evident to me
that a man who was capable of the offence of
splashing the water about with his legs was also
capable of being ignorant of his own language.
I accepted my first failure with resignation, but
I was still none the less determined, if I could,
to justify the expense to which my parents had
been put in giving me a classical education, and, as
it turned out, the opportunity was soon given me.

Having returned by the electric train to Athens,

284

THALASSA, THALASSA

I there took a taxi and visited some of the ancient
and world-famous temples. My brother, in one
of his books, has related with perfect truth how,
on my return to the hotel, I attempted to remon-
strate with the driver on the exorbitance of the
fare demanded. A phrase which seemed to me
to meet the case was " /</) yewtro," an ejaculation
very much in favour with St. Paul and which, in
the English version of the New Testament is
always translated as " God forbid ! " What
could be more applicable? " M?) yeVotro," I
accordingly thundered, with suitable gestures of
protest. The man stared blankly and continued
to hold up ten fingers in indication of the number
of drachma demanded. I racked my brain to
try and find some other suitable and objurgatory
phrase from Homer or the New Testament with
which to pulverise him, but I was able to think
of nothing more scathing than c5 nonol, which,
according to the lexicon, is an exclamation of
surprise, pain or anger equivalent to " Oh,
shame ! " With this parting shaft I withdrew
haughtily into the hotel and told the hall-porter
to settle with the man.

Some quarter of an hour later, while seated at
luncheon with our local agent, Mr. Marino, a
native of Athens, but a perfect English scholar,
I determined to clear up the mystery of the
cabman's ignorance.

" Why," I inquired of him, " did my taxi-
driver not understand when I said jurj yevoixo ? Is
the expression obsolete? "

285

FORTY YEARS ON

"When you said what?" he asked, with
perplexed and puckered brow.

I repeated the words.

" Would you mind writing it down? " he said,
still very puzzled. I did so.

" Oh ! ' me jeneto,' " he said at once, placing
the accent on the first syllable; " well, of course
he wouldn't understand you."

A long discourse on the modern pronunciation
of Greek followed, in the course of which all my
ideals were shattered. The one object of the
modern Greek seems to be to violate all the
hallowed dogmas of pronunciation as laid down
by those admirable but unappreciated authors,
Messrs. Liddell and Scott. There can be no other
reason for their reckless disregard for the age-
established quantities of vowels. Anaxagoras is
now Anaxagoras ; Demosthenes is Demostheenes ;
the Phaleeron Hotel at Piraeus is pronounced
Phalyuron, with the accent on the first syllable.

" But," I remarked to Mr. Marino, at the close
of his painful explanation, " according to the way
in which you pronounce all these words, Homer
does not scan."

" No," he replied, with the utmost indifference,
" of course he does not."

What more was there to be said? I turned
my eye on the passing throng of ballet-skirted
Athenians in the street; I thought of Miltiades
and Aristides, and I sighed.

Mr. W. E. Gladstone, who was one of the finest
Greek scholars in the kingdom, and an almost

286

THALASSA, THALASSA

fanatical admirer of Greece, paid a visit on one
occasion to Athens and there deUvered himself of
a carefully prepared speech in the Athenian tongue
to a large and deeply interested audience. They
did not understand a single word he said. At
the close of the meeting, one of those present
was asked how he liked the speech.

" Oh ! it was magnificent," he replied; " such
a wonderful voice, and such grand gestures !
But, as he spoke in English, I naturally did not
understand what he was saying."

Modern Greek appears to me to come faster
out of the mouth than any other language I have
heard spoken. It sounds as if it was entirely
composed of Unguals and labials, with the Unguals
predominating. Two Athenians discussing politics
sound to my ear exactly like two turkey-cocks
gobbling at one another. Anything bearing less
resemblance to the sonorous sounds we were at
such pains to produce at school when reading
Sophocles or ^schylus it is difficult to imagine.

With such an inherent enthusiasm for the sea,
it was only in the natural course of things that I
should have reared my family from a very early
age to take to the water. The task was not a
difficult one ; in fact, with such goodwill did they
take to the water that, after a few years of
elementary instruction, a moment arrived — as it
was inevitably bound to arrive — when the in-
structed began to show their heels, or, at any
rate, the back of their heads, to the instructor.
The instructor accepted the inevitable with be-

287

FORTY YEARS ON

coming philosophy, and, from that time on, took
his swimming exercise in dignified soKtude, or, at
any rate, in company with less adventurous
spirits.

The family, especially the two girls, having
permanently cast off my chaperonage, became
daring in the extreme in their swimming ventures,
and on more than one occasion gave me moments
of acute parental anxiety. Their delight was to
swim side by side straight out to sea, and the
rougher the weather and the bigger the waves,
the greater was their delight. At Minehead, three
years ago, half the population of the place collected
to see my son and youngest daughter swim out
to sea in the face of the worst gale of the year,
when no one else was dreaming of bathing. It
was no mean undertaking, for the shore at Mine-
head shelves very gradually, and consequently
the breaking waves extend for a long way out.
The return journey was, of course, the most
difficult, and the boy was smothered by one
gigantic curling wave and badly knocked about
before he could recover his equilibrium. On this
occasion I had very little anxiety, for I knew
that what they did was well within their powers.

Two years earlier, however, at Eastbourne, I
had a very bad half-hour. My youngest girl had
been ill for some time with swollen glands, and
consequently unable to bathe. At length, on a
certain fine morning, she was pronounced fit to
take to the water. It so happened that there
were very few people bathing when she made

288

THALASSA, THALASSA

her appearance, and she consequently attracted
some attention as she slowly walked into the
water and commenced swimming outwards with
her usual easy and indolent stroke. It was no
doubt expected by the onlookers that, after
covering some hundred yards or so, she would
turn and come back, after the usual fashion of
sea-bathers. As, however, she went steadily on
and on, as though bent on swimming the Channel,
the crowd on the beach began to get interested
and, finally, excited. Smaller and smaller grew
the black cap which she was wearing till, in the
end, it disappeared altogether in the shimmer of
sunshine on the water. The people now began
to get restive. They stood up, chattered volubly
in groups and craned their necks in an attempt
to extend their horizon. I must confess that I
did the same. We were all waiting for the
moment when the black cap would once more
become visible, as its owner turned to make her
way homewards. We waited and waited, but
there was no reappearance of the black cap.
Nothing met our expectant gaze but an unbroken
expanse of cold cruel sea. After a time one
woman became hysterical, and ran up and down
the beach wringing her hands and crying : " Can
nothing be done? Can nothing be done? "
Confident as I was in my daughter's swimming
powers, I could not help being, to a certain extent,
infected by the general panic and consternation.
Visions of cramp and kindred calamities took
possession of me. I mounted to the highest level

U 289

FORTY YEARS ON

of the sea-front, opposite the Grand Hotel, and
from that point of vantage strained my eyes
seawards. Not a sign was there of living being
on the shimmering water that stretched away
towards France. Then I must confess that my
heart sank. I recalled with a pang many of the
(so far unappreciated) virtues of my lost daughter.
I realised with contrition the injustice of many
of my past criticisms.

While still scanning the sea in this gloomy and
reproachful mood, my eye chanced for one second
to light on a tiny black speck far out on the
horizon. Next moment, it had gone again, but I
had seen all that I wanted to see. My mind was
at peace and I returned leisurely to the beach
and lit my pipe. When, some half an hour later,
my daughter landed and strolled nonchalantly
up the beach — happily unconscious of the wild
consternation which she had aroused in the breasts
of the good folk of Eastbourne — she was, I believe,
much astonished at the torrent of abuse with
which I greeted her. It was not till that moment
that I myself realised how shaken I had been.

I think the best swimming performance of my
two daughters was at Sidmouth four years ago,
when they swam to Ladrum Bay against the tide.
One morning after breakfast they announced
their intention of attempting this swim. I told
them it was impossible, as the tide would be
against them, but they insisted that they could
do it in spite of the tide, and so — after attempting
in vain to dissuade them — I went down to the

290

THALASSA, THALASSA

beach to arrange for a boat in which to accompany
them. While I was so engaged, a young officer
whom I knew, named Clarke, in the Hampshire
Regiment, happened to come up, and I told him
of what was in the wind, and asked his opinion
as to whether it was possible. He expressed
himself doubtful, but asked if he might form one
of the party. Clarke was by far the best swimmer
at Sidmouth, and many a morning I had watched
his performances in the water with admiration.
I was, of course, only too delighted to think that
the girls would have so powerful a swimmer as
escort.

Accordingly, as soon as preparations had been
made, Clarke and my two daughters and my son
entered the water, accompanied by me in the
boat with their clothes and luncheon. The whole
way across Sidmouth Bay the tide was adverse,
but not violent, as the full force of the tide runs
further out. Half-way across the bay Clarke
was seized with cramp and had to come into the
boat, and, shortly afterwards, my son, who was
only a boy at the time, had to give up and also
came into the boat. The two girls swam steadily
on. When they got opposite the point on the
far side of Sidmouth Bay, I thought that they
must surely be beaten, for the tide here was
running very strong, and I know that they swam
hard at this spot for fully three-quarters of an
hour without gaining a foot, for I had my eye on
the shore. I think, if anything, they lost ground.
So utterly hopeless did it seem that I strongly

291

FORTY YEARS ON

advised them to give up, but they indignantly
refused, so I gave them some hot bovril from a
thermos flask and on they went. Suddenly the
tide must have changed, for they at once began
to make headway, and, after that, it was all
plain sailing. They made Ladrum Bay without
any further trouble and without being either par-
ticularly tired or particularly cold. They were
over two hours and a half in the water. Girls,
for some mysterious reason, retain the heat of
their bodies much better than men and, being
less muscular, are not so liable to cramp.

292

CHAPTER XIX

PETWORTH

During my mother's twenty years* residence
at Coates in West Sussex we were naturally
thrown into very close touch with the house of
Wyndham at Pet worth. Lord Leconfield was
in fact my mother's landlord, and, as Lady
Leconfield was one of her closest friends, it came
about that much of our time was most en joy ably
spent at Petworth House.

Petworth has always seemed to me, and still
does seem to me — after a forty years' acquaint-
ance and in the light of mellow judgment — to
stand out as one of the most impressive country-
houses in the kingdom. It is difficult to say in
what exactly this impressiveness lies, but I think
it is partly in the immensity of the house and
partly in the sense of aloofness from the outside
world which it inspires. This aloofness is not
one of distance, for, in honest truth, the outside
world is very close, being but just beyond the
wall which separates the house from the town —
a wall, however, solid enough to suggest a fortress
and so high that even the Sussex hay-waggoner,
perched on the top of his load, can get no glimpse
of the sacred precincts within. Bidden guests
pass through a gateway of dimensions which fit

298

FORTY YEARS ON

the wall and, at the end of a hundred yards, draw
up between two large blocks of buildings, of which
the block on the left is the residence of the
Wyndhams, while that on the right contains the
stables and offices, which are connected with
the house by a subterranean passage. Through
this passage all communications with the offices
and stables pass unseen, so that the house itself,
cut off from all menial sights and sounds, stands
in a majestic silence which is certainly impressive.
The house itself, too, is impressive. It is im-
pressive in its great size; in the massiveness of
the stone blocks of which it is built, and in its
consequent appearance of unshakable solidity;
in the vastness of the entrance-hall and staircase,
and in the apparently endless chain of sitting-
rooms — each with its own distinctive style of
decoration and yet all blending into a harmonious
whole. I always feel as though Petworth should
be tenanted by dames and courtiers in eighteenth-
century costume. Velvet coats and silk stockings
would fit in so much better with the Gibbons
room, the marble hall and the Louis XVI. room
than knickerbockers and shooting-boots, or even
than modern hunting costume. The eighteenth
century, however, is adequately represented on
the walls, where the matchless collection of
pictures are a ceaseless joy to the eye.

The windows of the long chain of sitting-rooms
which face west look straight out upon the park,
without any intervening garden. This arrange-
ment— although so unusual as to be almost
unique — is not without its charm, for it adds to

294

PETWORTH

the general sense of aloofness and peace. Deer
are more picturesque and less inquisitive than
gardeners. Out in the park, beautiful with its
hills and plains and valleys, the sense of aloofness
and peace grows and grows at each turn. No
matter in what direction the eye wanders, it can
find nothing that does not please. To the south
the barrier of the downs, to the west the beautiful
valley of the Rother, to the north Blackdown,
and to the east the rolling weald of Sussex, all
aglow with that rich warmth of colouring which
I always fancy is a peculiar feature of this favoured
county. Small wonder that Turner thought Pet-
worth one of the most beautiful spots in England.

No man ever fitted his surroundings better
than did Henry Wyndham, second Lord Lecon-
field, for he himself looked exactly like a Vandyck
cut out of the canvas. It is difficult to picture
anyone who could more adequately represent in
his own person all that one associates with the
word " aristocrat." In manner, as in appearance,
he was the typical grand seigneur, as conceived by
painters and portrayed by novelists. In actual
fact he lived up to his appearance and manner,
for no one in West Sussex, north of the Downs,
would have ventured to question his suzerainty
over that little kingdom. The two Dukes were
on the other side of the Downs, Parham was
let and Cowdray uninhabited. Petworth and
its owner, by virtue of possessions and residence,
no less than by force of personality, stood out
pre-eminent.

West Sussex is one of the few spots in the

295

FORTY YEARS ON

country where hunting and shooting still walk
hand in hand and where, as a consequence, the
country squire dons knickerbockers and gaiters
the one day, and breeches and boots the next.
This is the spirit of the old country squire of
eighty years ago, and it is refreshing to find it
still lingering among the woods and wolds of
Sussex. The head of the Wyndhams sets the
example, for, throughout the winter, he hunts
his hounds four days a week and beats his coverts
the other two, and the whole of West Sussex
— where it gets the chance — imitates the example
thus set by its highest representative. In the
happy days when I was " West Sussex," I had
many a glorious day with Lord Leconfield, both
in breeches and boots and in knickerbockers.
The outlying shoots for which these last were
donned were very delightful affairs in their way.
Neighbours figured prominently on these occasions,
and there was much " Sussex " talk. The whole
atmosphere indeed was heavily charged with
" Sussex," from the beaters in their white smocks,
long wash-leather thigh-gaiters and wide-awake
hats with red ribbons, to the red-faced, dewy-
nosed " stops," contentedly gnawing raw turnips,
and saluting each gun as he approached with a
wide indefinite sweep of the arm. The woods
with their copper-coloured bracken undergrowth
and the russet leaves still hanging thick on the
oak trees lent themselves harmoniously to the
general scenic effect, and proclaimed at every
turn the county to which they belonged. A

29G

PETWORTH

further suggestion of old-world sport was im-
parted to the proceedings by the terrific detona-
tions of Lord Leconfield's gun. He always shot
with black powder and — despite constant evidence
to the contrary — sturdily refused to believe in
the efficacy of anything else. He himself ate no
luncheon and he was very impatient of the delay
occasioned by the necessary fortifying of weaker
vessels. The retired colonel who, at the smell
of the flesh-pots, rubs his hands and remarks :
*' By no means the least enjoyable part of the
day's proceedings," was distinctly out of place
at the Petworth shoots, for an interval of ten
minutes was as much as the impatience of our
host could tolerate. The sport, however, was
always good.

Many of Lord Leconfield's social equals pro-
fessed to be, and I believe honestly were, fright-
ened of him because of his autocratic temper
and of a certain grand manner, but there was
really nothing to be frightened of in him, for he
was not only one of the kindest of men, but also
one of the readiest to admit error in himself if
it were pointed out to him. He was quick to
appreciate the humorous side of any incident,
even if it were directed against himself. Curiously
enough, the fear of him which some of his equals
professed was not in the least shared by the
farmer class, who would chat with him freely
and on terms of perfect equality.

He was intensely " Sussex." Affairs outside
of this sacred county had only a passing interest

297

FORTY YEARS ON

for him. On the other hand, he had an intimate
knowledge of everyone that lived, and everything
that went on, in his own county or, at any rate,
in the western half of that county.

No one that I have ever met has left upon me
the same impression of a little monarch ruling a
contented and loyal community. Walter Francis,
fifth Duke of Buccleuch, had no doubt greater
possessions, but the very extent of those pos-
sessions and the fact that they were scattered
about here, there and everywhere prevented the
intimate relations between the over-lord and lesser
fry which was so noticeable at Petworth. A man
cannot own a dozen country places and be well
known at each; or, indeed, at any, if he dis-
tributes his favours impartially. Then, again,
in the Buccleuch possessions there were many
grimly Radical spots, whereas West Sussex was
fatuously Conservative.

Charles Wyndham, the present Lord Lecon-
field, married my great-niece, whose mother was
an Anson. In most respects he has followed
closely in his father's footsteps, but is perhaps
rather less of a shooting man and more of a
hunting man. The dignity of manner of his
father is tempered by the quick wit of his mother
(a sister of Lord Rosebery). He is as whole-
heartedly " Sussex " as his predecessor, and takes
an even more active interest in county adminis-
tration. He is less of the autocrat and more
of the country squire; less alarming and more
sociable. The routine of Petworth is in the main

298

PETWORTH

unchanged. It remains one of the few spots in
England where one can forget that there has
been a war. Its menage is pre-war; its atmo-
sphere is pre-war. Its hounds (whose kennels
are in the park) still hunt the country four days
a week without subscription. Its entourage
remains — in all essentials — the same as I first
remember it forty years ago. New houses, those
hideous excrescences which have broken out in
so many lovely districts, like scorbutic eruptions
relieving an overcharged system, have no place
in the sleepy landscape on which the eye rests
from Petworth park.

299

CHAPTER XX

IN MEMORIAM

In the early years of the twentieth century
there was to be found four miles from Petworth
a small but, in many ways, unique establishment.
Here my mother, who was at that time approach-
ing her ninetieth year, lived alone amidst sur-
roundings which she grew to be as fond of as
though they carried with them life-long associa-
tions. It was a very wonderful thing for an old
lady of that age to live alone and yet be happy ;
and yet happy she undoubtedly was, with an
irrepressible joie de vivre that many a girl of
twenty might have envied. In her self-made
garden, in her cows, her poultry, and even her
pigs, she took a never-flagging interest, as well as
in the personal welfare of all who served her and
in the families of all who served her. And so
she was never bored and always happy. This
faculty of being perfectly happy, with no com-
panions of her own class to talk to, did not
prevent her welcoming with outstretched arms
the sporadic visits of members of the little army
that owed her their existence. At the time of her
death in 1905 my mother could boast between 160
and 170 direct descendants, and it was seldom
that a week passed without one or another of

800

Pholo. \V. & D. Dnwnry.

Four Generations.

Standing: DUKE AND DUCHESS OF ABERCORN.

Seated: DOWAGER DUCHESS OF ABERCORN, MaRQUIS OF HAMILTON AND

HIS DAUCIITFR, I.APY MaRV HaMII-TON.

IN MEMORIAM

these descendants passing a night or two under
the roof of Coates Castle, as her residence was
locally called, though it was in truth no castle
at all, but just a castellated country-house of
moderate size.

The majority of the aforesaid 170 descendants
were grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and,
in the ordinary passage of events, these grand-
children and great-grandchildren became engaged
to persons of the other sex. On such occasions,
the person of the other sex was — according to
inviolable custom — taken down to Coates to
receive the blessing of " Grannie." And to him
or her, as the case might be, my mother became
*' Grannie " from that day on. No one dreaded
the ordeal, for my mother had never been known
to pass an unkind criticism on any single one of
the many probationers who had come down to
Coates seeking admittance into her sacred — but
very widespread — family circle. She obstinately
refused to see any of the failings which were
occasionally so noticeable to less kindly-hearted
critics, but pounced like a cat on the probationer's
outstanding good points, and dwelt admiringly
on these to the exclusion of all other comments ;
and so the probationer invariably went away as
full of worship of " Grannie " as the chorus of
grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who never
wearied of singing of her incomparable sweetness.

Up to her ninetieth year my mother always
insisted on attending the weddings of her descend-
ants, and, on these occasions, she was always—

301

FORTY YEARS ON

after the bride — the focus-point of all the love
and homage that such family gatherings call
forth. Shortly before her death, however, it
was foimd that the strain of these functions was
more than her strength was equal to, and
thenceforward she was persuaded, much against
her will, to stay quietly down at Coates and to
let the post carry the messages of love and good-
will with which her heart was charged almost to
overflowing.

She retained her amazing vitality and keen
interest in all family matters till the end, which
came in her ninety-third year. She had gone
through so many shaking illnesses from which
she had always emerged smiling and apparently
scathless that I think we had almost come to
look upon her as immortal; and, when the end
came, we felt as though the bottom had, literally,
dropped out of the world. With regard to a
certain small world this was no more than the
truth, for, with the lowering of the blinds at
Coates, there passed away the one golden link
that held together some fifty families scattered
here and there about the United Kingdom.

302

INDEX

Abercorn, Louisa, Duchess of,
1 1 ; marriage of, 35 ; her
numerous descendants, 300 ;
her wonderful vitality and
sympathetic nature, 301

Abercorn, first Duke of, 11;
appointed Lord-Lieutenant of
Ireland, 15; at Bentley
Priory, 30; marries Lady
Louisa Russell, 35; death of,
43 ; veneration of Irish people
for, ibid.; at Arisaig, 79, 106;
his promptitude in a gale, 108 ;
his bravery, 110; his pug-
nacity, 111; his adventure
with Mr. Costello, 112; starts
cricket at sixty, 114; second
term of office, 123; his excel-
lence as a public speaker, 124

Aberdeen, Lord, 34

Achnacarry, visit to, 86

Adams, Porter, 62

Adventure with a taxi-driver,
an, 285

Albany, Duke of, 21

Aldershot, soldiering at, 164;
insane wagering at, ibid.

Alfrey, Lieut., 60th Rifles, and
" Spring-heeled Jack," 163

Alison, Mr., a brave Scots
engineer, 110

Ambrose, " Bottles," a Harrow
bully, 104; punished by Fred
Ley land, 105

Andes, the, failure to ascend,
256; grandeur of, 269

Anglesea, Lord, Beaudesert Park
rented from, 12

Ansons, the, visits to, at Shug-
borough, 76

Archer, Fred, a famous jockey,

199, 200, 201, 202
Ardverikie, deer-stalking at, 82 ;

petty jealousy of guests at,

83 ; Sir Edwin Landseer at,

ibid.
Arisaig, 79; deer-stalking at,

91 ; a delightful spot, 106
Asquith, Mr., at Dumfries, 142
Asquith, Mrs., 6
Astley, Mr., 79, 106
Atlin City, a solitary lady in,

236 ; its wonderful trout, 242

Baal, " worship " of, at Harrow,
95

Balfour, Rt. Hon. A. J., at
Drumlanrig, 142

Ballincollig, soldiering at, 188
et seq.

Ballyrennan, a model Irish
village, 48

Barons Court, Ulster, 42 ; Duke
of Clarence visits, 44; life at,
45 et seq. ; an unpretentious
place, 56; woodcock shoot
at, 70

Bashful ladies at Dublin Statv
Drawing-Rooms, 16

Bath, Lord, and the grandeu
of Drumlanrig, 133

Bathing (ladies) in the Sixties, 6

Beasley, Johnnie, 198

Beaudesert Park, 12

Bell, John, head-keeper at Drum-
lanrig, and the tip, 143

Bessie Bell mountain, 49

Bezada, Don Miguel de, 259,
261, 262

Bezada, Don Vincente de, 262,265

FORTY TKABS ON.

805

INDEX

Black, William, author of " Land
of Lome," 107

Blandford, Lord, 91

Blessed Shades, 18 ei seq.

Boughton House, Kettering, a
miniature Versailles, 133

Bowen, Edward, author of
" Forty Years On," 102

Brewer, Mr., 201

British Columbia, humming-
birds of, 279

Brocket Hall, early days at, 11

Buccleuch Scottish estates, enor-
mous numbers of game on, 136

Buccleuch, fifth Duchess of,
hospitality of, 130

Buccleuch, sixth Duchess of, 147

Buccleuch, Charles, fourth Duke
of, his accumulation of country
seats, 132; his army of
labourers, ihid.

Buccleuch, Walter Francis, fifth
Duke of, at Drumlanrig, 130;
his hospitality, ibid. ; his many
possessions, 131 ; his valuable
art collection, 133; his charity,
136; grand seigneur and
country squire, 137

Buccleuch, William Henry, sixth
Duke of, 136, 147; death of,
156; lovable disposition and
happy married life of, ihid.

Buller, Charlie, 26 ; his fascinating
personality, 27 ; sad end of, 29

Bull-fighting in Spain and Peru
compared, 273-4

Burke, Micky, 170

Bvu-roughs, Captain Kildare, 172,
173

Butler, Dr., headmeister of
Harrow, 105

Byron, Lord, 282

Cambridge, H.R.H. the Duke of,

180, 181, 184, 185
Cameron of Lochiel, visit to, at

Achnacarry, 86; first stag at,

86-90; a typical Highland

chieftain, 90

Cannon, Tom, 202

Chamberlain, Mr. Joseph, 224

Chapman, A. P., 121

Chesterfield House, 36

Chilkoot Pass, Klondyke, the,
225

Chosica, an imsuccessful climb
at, 256

Chuquitambo, 265

Clarence, Duke of, visits Barons
Court, 44

Close, Pat, drawing-room acro-
batics of, 176

Colchester, soldiering at, 162;
" Spring-heeled Jack " at, ihid,

Copley, Catherine, miarriage of,
31

Copley curse, the, 33

Copley, Sir Joseph, 33

Cork, drawbacks to hxinting at,
190, 191; regimental races at,
ibid.

Corry, Dr., 210

Costeilo, Mr., and the Duke of
Abercorn, 112

Cricket in Dublin, 114

Cross, Dr., a doughty huntsman,
190; executed for wife mur-
der 191

Cunningham, C. J., 198, 199

Dalbiac, Mr., 164, 165; killed in

Boer War, 166
Dalkeith, Earl of, 11, 148}

death of, 152; endearing per-
sonality of, ibid.
Dalkeith, Lady, 74
Dawnay, Jack, 156
Dawson, Mr., Lord Mayor of

Dublin, hostile reception of,

in Derry, 182-4
Desborough, Lord, 103 M

Devine, Dan, 67 ■

Dillon, John, 203, 211 "

Dinner in the Sixties a religious

rite, 8
Dogherty, John, 69
Dogherty, Mr., defeated by Lord

Frederic Hamilton, 212

306

INDEX

Doneraile, Lord, 192

Drumlanrig Castle, tobacco taboo
at in the Sixties, 129; its
wonderful art collection, 133;
Lord Bath on the grandeur of,
ibid. ; its one hundred miles
of grass rides, ibid. ; first
visit to, ibid. ; over-weighted
shooting parties at, 138; visit
of present King and Queen to,
141; Rt. Hon. A. J. Balfour
at, 142

Duchess of Leinster, the late, 7

Dudley, Lord, 82

Dundreary foppery in the
Sixties, 4

Durham, John, third Earl of,
and the donkey-boy, 12

Durham, second Earl of, 73, 74,
76, 79, 108

Durham, Lady, 72

Dyer, Sam, 40

Dyke, Sir William Hart, at
Barons Court, 70

Early Victorian days, affecta-
tions of, 3
Eastwell, early days at, 36
Ellice, Mrs. Edward, visit to,
at Invergarry, 84

Famous musical combinations,
102

Faning, Eaton, 102

Farmer, John, and part-singing
at Harrow, 96, 98, 99 ; " Forty
Years On " composed by, 102

Farren, Nellie, and Gaiety bur-
lesque, 177, 178; magnetic
personality of, 179

Female dress in the Sixties,
disfiguring effect of, 10

Feversham, Lord, 7

Fitzwvgram, Sir Frederick, 167,
168

Forbes, Walter, captain of Eton

school cricket eleven, 119;

his record cricket-ball throw,

120
Fort, Dick, 165, 166
" Forty Years On," Harrow's

National Anthem, composed

by John Farmer, 101
Foster, Colonel Frank, 123

Gaiety burlesque and Victorian
fops, 4

Gaiety Theatre burlesque, popu«
larity of, 177

Gaiety Theatre chorus and those
of the present day compared,
177; an incident at Hounslow,
179

Gainsborough, a buck-jumping
horse, peculiarities of, 20

Garnet, Colonel, officer com-
manding 11th Hussars, 160

Georgian period, coarseness of
the, 3

Gladstone, Mr., fascinating per-
sonahty of, 223, 224, 282;
his admiration for Greece,
286; lecture in Greek at
Athens not understood, 287

Gordon, Lord Esme, 175, 177

Gordon, Lord Granville, 175,
177

Gormley, Hugh, 53

Grace, W. G., 173

Greek, modern pronunciation of,
286

Greville, Hugh, 11

Grimston, Bob, 119

Guayaquil, a pestiferous port,
253 ; its unhealthy town, 254

Hadow, Walter, 118

Haggard, Fred, 226, 230, 237,
239, 240, 241, 245, 247, 249,
256, 257, 259, 261, 276, 277

Haggard, Mrs., 247, 250

307

INDEX

Haiti, the mystery island of

the world, 247 ; a French

army annihilated in, 248 ;

visit to, 260
Haitian Navy, the, 252
Hamilton, Lady Maria, 32
Hamilton, Lord, 32, 34
Hamilton, Lord Claud, 70, 80,

203
Hamilton, Lord Frederic, 35, 45,

60, 73, 74, 80, 81 ; at Harrow,

94; 203, 212
Hamilton, Lord George, 121, 203
Hamilton-Copley alliance, dis-
astrous result of, 31-33
Hardy, Bob, 187
Harrow, at school at, 94 et seq. ;

"worship" of Baal at, 95;

part-singing at, 95 ; " Forty

Years On," national anthem

of, quoted, 101 ; fight with a

bully at, 105
Harrow, cricket at, 118
Henessey, Mens. J., 277
Herbert-Smith, Mr., 239
Herdman, Mr. Emerson T., 67,

221
High altitudes, effects of on the

constitvition, 258, 262
Hill, Alexander, 239
Hill, Lord George, 217
Hillingdon, Lord, 63
Hitchcock, Mrs., solitary lady

in Athn, 236, 237, 239
Hone, Willie, 115, 117, 118
Hounslow, soldiering at, 172

et seq.
House of Commons, the, a

disappointing experience, 222
Howson, Mr., song- writer of

Harrow, 102
Hunting in Co. Cork, drawbacks

to, 199
Hussars, 11th, life in, 159 et seq.

Impett, Mr., manager of the
Oroya Railway, an intrepid
trolley driver, 268, 270, 272

In Memoriam, 300-302

Invergarry, deer-stalking at, 84-6
Inverness-shire, enervating cli-
mate of, 109
I Zingari Club, 26

Jackson, Warren, 193 ff.

Jacmel, a forbidden town in
Haiti, 247

Junin, 260, 261 ; beautiful altar-
pieces at, 265; Pizarro and,
266

Kempster, Mr., 115

Kildare hounds and Ward Union,
first riding over fence lessons
with the, 125

King Edward, 140

King-Edwardes, Colonel, 212

King George at Drumlanrig, 141

Kingston, Jamaica, shark-in-
fested waters of, 281

Klondyke, rush to, in 1897-8,
225; tragedies of Chilkoot
and White Passes, ibid, ; gold
mining in, 244

Labrador retrievers, origin of
breed from Langholm, 151

Lambert, Lady Fanny, 17

Lambert, Gustavus, Viceregal
Chamberlain at Dublin, 17

Lambton, Lady Bee, and a pony
race, 78

Lambton Castle, 72 ; its colossal
hall, 73

Lambton Worm, the, 73

Land of Lome, the, 107

Langholm, Labrador retrievers
first bred at, 151 ; visit to, 148 ;
improvements made by Lord
George Scott at, 154; aston-
ishing shooting at, 155-6

Landseer, Sir Edwin, at Ard-
verikie, 84

Lansdowne, Lord, 91

308

INDEX

Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 31

Leconfield, Lady, 293

Leconfield, Lord, 293, 296, 297,
298

Leconfield, Henry Wyndham,
second Lord, 295

Leeds, Duchess of, 108

Letterbin, a model Irish village,
48

Leyland, Fred, at Harrow, 103,
104; punishes a bully, 105

Lichfield, Lord, 71, 108

Lima, a mud-built town and a
tropical rainstorm, 255 ; bull-
fights in, compared with Spain,
273-4

Lochiel. See Cameron of
Lochiel.

Loch Laggan inn, 81

Lynn Canal, the, grandeur of,
229

Mount -Edgcumbe, Earl of, 11,

75 n.
Mount St. EUas, 229

Newport, Lord, at Barons Court,

70
Nurse, the, and the slop-basin,

"Old Marquis," the, 30; his

ill-fated first marriage, 31 ;

marries and divorces Lady

Cecil Hamilton, 33
Oroya Railway, a fine engineering

work, 258; trolley driving

on the, 270

McAnany, Paddy, 64, 66, 67
McBay, Alec, 64, 66
McConologue, Father, 213, 214
McFadden, Father, of Gweedore,

visit to, 218-220
McLeod, Dr., and a wonderful

charitable collection, 144-6
Mahafiy, Prof., 114
Manchester, the Duke of, 71
Marino, Mr., 286, 286
Merrick, Frank, 256, 259, 261
Middleton, Bay, excitability of,

126
Mid- Victorian girls, artificiality

of, 5; pastes and powders

Tinknown to, ibid.
Millionaires, self-made, and

Society in the Sixties, 10
Mining camps, siunmary pvmish-

ments in, 242
Mitchell, R. H., 25, 27
Montgomery, Captain, a swim-
mer in shark -infested waters,

281
Montgomery, Sir Hugh, 69
Morris, Charlie McPatrick, 68
Mount-Edgcumbe, 76

Palmerston, Lord, Brocket Hall
rented from, 11

Panama crabs, 276

Panama hats not obtainable in
Panama, 276

ParUament, 222-3

Parliamentary elections in Ire-
land, 203 et seq.

Part-singing at Harrow, 96, 98

Pearl islands, the, 276

Pembroke, Lady, 108

Peru, 247 et seq. ; its suitability
for food production, 263;
dangerous natives of, 264}
unpopularity of the British
in, 273 J bull-fights in, 273

Peruvian Pampa, the, one hun-
dred mile ride across, 258 j
sparsely inhabited, 266

Peruvians' hatred of the British,
272

Petworth, 293; Lord Leconfield
and, 295-7

Petworth House, 293} impres-
siveness of, 294

Philip McHugh island, 47

Pitt, William, at Bentley Priory,
30

309

INDEX

Piraeus, the, an ideal bathing

place, 282
Pizarro and the altar-pieces of

Junin, 266
Politics, 203 et seq.
Ponsonby, Fred, 119
Popham, Judge, 15
Popham, Mrs., a charming

singer, 14
Port Antonio, Jamaica, a perfect

bathing place, 275
Prince of Wales (King George V),

the, at Barons Court, 19;

visit to Cork, hostile reception

at, ibid.
Princess Mary at White Lodge,

186
Princess of Seattle turns turtle

in Queen Charlotte's Sound,

229
Princess of Wales (Queen Mary),

the, at Barons Court, 19;

visit to Cork, hostile reception

at, ibid.
Professional cricketers at Dub-
lin, 115; at Harrow, 119
Professional jockeys and racing,

201

Quasi -clerical bowlers, 114
Queen Alexandra at Dublin
Castle, 18; her wonderful
memory, 19
Queen Charlotte's Sound, Prin-
cess of Seattle tvirns turtle in,
229
Queen Mary at Drumlanrig, 141
Queen Victoria heads crusade
against tobacco in the Sixties,
128

River Mourne, Ireland, 63
Rose, Sir Hugh. See Strath-

nairn. Lord.
Royce, Edward, and Gaiety

burlesque, 177, 178

Russell, Lady Louisa, marriage
of, to the first Duke of Aber-
corn, 35

Scot, the, generosity of, 144;
innate honesty of, 145

Scott, Lord Francis, 155 I

Scott, Lord George, 153; intro- i

duces improvements at Lang-
holm, 154

Scott, Lord Henry, 147, 155

Scott, Sir Walter, 132

Seven Sisters, the, 71 et seq.

Sexton, Mr., Irish M.P., 224

Shark-infested waters, swimming
in, 281

Shaw, Alfred, 116

Shifner, Mr., a Harrow student,
95

Sixties, the, and the present
day compared, 2 ; women
and swimming in, 5 ; pro-
fessional beauties in, 6 ; draw-
ing-room conversation in, 7 )
high status of doctors in, 9;
Society small in, 9 ; no glaring
parade of wealth in, 10;
fashions in, ibid.

Skagway, the, Klondyke, 225,
231

Society in the Sixties, exclusive-
ness of, 9

Soldiering, 159 ef seq.

Soroche, the (motmtain fever),
262

Southesk, Lord, 91

Spain, bull -fights in, compared
witli those in Peru, 273

Spanish Peruvian, ancestry of,
272 H

Spencer, Earl, 126, 127 ■

Sports and exercises and the ™
mid-Victorian girl, 5

Stewart, Baby, 25, 26, 27

Stratlinairn, Lord, Commander-
in-Chief in Ireland, 22, 23;
his absent-mindedness, 24

Suez, sharks at, 281

Surtees, Robert, 3 J

310

INDEX

Tagasmayo, 260

Taku River, the, a fisherman's
paradise, 233

Teck, H.S.H., the D\ike of, his
hospitality at White Lodge,
186

Tenant farmers of the Border
counties, sterling qualities of,
137

Terry, Edward, and Gaiety bur-
lesque, 177, 178

Thalassa, Thalassa, 275 et seq.

Tipperary Steeplechases, 197

Tobacco considered deadly to
feminine organisms in the
Sixties, 128; Queen Victoria
leads crusade against, 128

Vaughan, Kate, and Gaiety bur-
lesque, 177

Viceregal cricket in Dublin, 25

Viceregal days, 123 et seq.

Viceregal Lodge, Dublin, State
Dra wing-Rooms at, 16;
country-house life at, 123

Victorian fops, 3

Vielle Castel, Comte de, 277

Ward Union and Kildare hounds,
first riding over fence lessons
with, 125

Webb, Fred, 200

Webbe, A. J., 118

West Donegal and the Armada,
220; indolence of peasantry
of, 221

West Sussex, hunting and shoot-
ing in, 295, 296

Western miners, good qualities
of, 242

White Pass, Klondyke, the, 225

Wilmot, Robert, 256, 259, 276

Winchilsea, Lord, 35

Winterton, Lord, 92; popu-
larity of, 93

Yukon, desolation of, 232
Yukon River, 226

311

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