CHAPTER XX

THE HAPPY HAVEN

Had a visit from Sir Richard F. Burton, one of the discoverers of Lake Tanganyika. He seems much broken in health. Lady Burton, who copies Mary, Queen of Scotland, in her dress, was with him. In the evening, we met again. I proposed he should write his reminiscences. He said he could not do so, because he should have to write of so many people. ‘Be charitable to them, and write only of their best qualities,’ I said.—‘I don’t care a fig for charity; if I write at all, I must write truthfully, all I know,’ he replied.

He is now engaged in writing a book called ‘Anthropology of Men and Women,’ a title, he said, that does not describe its contents, but will suffice to induce me to read it. What a grand man! One of the real great ones of England he might have been, if he had not been cursed with cynicism. I have no idea to what his Anthropology refers, but I would lay great odds that it is only another means of relieving himself of a surcharge of spleen against the section of humanity who have excited his envy, dislike, or scorn. If he had a broad mind, he would curb these tendencies, and thus allow men to see more clearly his grander qualities.

From Maloja, we went to the Lake of Como, visited Milan, and spent a night at Captain Camperio’s delightful house, ‘La Santa,’ near Monza. Stanley thus describes it:—

Camperio and Casati, the African travellers, were at the station to greet us. After twenty minutes’ drive from Monza we reached Camperio’s place; it was formerly a convent, and has been in possession of the family two hundred years. Captain Camperio has been the devoted friend and patron of Casati for many years, and was the cause of his going to Africa. It appears that Casati, far from being a champion of Emin, is now resentful towards him, because Emin, as usual with him, has been neglectful of his friend’s susceptibilities. Casati has done very well with his Book.

Captain Camperio and his delightful family were soon fast friends with us. A few years later he died, and so La Santa became only a happy memory. We now turned homeward, going first to Geneva, then to Paris, and, finally, on the 3rd October, 1890, to Ostend, where we stayed at Hôtel Fontaine, as guests of the King. We dined at the Châlet Royal, and the next day Stanley took a long walk with the King. Thus we spent four days, Stanley walking daily with His Majesty. We dined every evening at the Châlet Royal. On the 8th, we left Ostend. State-cabins were given to us, and a Royal lunch served.

We now returned to London, and, on October 22nd, Stanley received his D. C. L., at Durham; on the 23rd, we went to Cambridge, where he received the LL. D., from the University. In June, Stanley had been made D. C. L., by Oxford, and, soon after, LL. D., by Edinburgh. The University of Halle had bestowed its Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in 1879.[42]

On the 29th October, we sailed for America. Stanley had undertaken a lecture tour, under the management of Major Pond. It was a tremendous experience; the welcome we received everywhere, and the kindness shown to us, were something very wonderful.

We remained over a week in New York, where Stanley lectured, and then we visited all the great Eastern cities.

Stanley, in his Journal, writes:—

The untidiness and disorder of the streets of New York strike me as being terrible for so rich a city, and such an energetic population. The streets are cut up by rails in a disgraceful fashion. The noise of bells, and wheels, and horses’ hoofs, dins the ears. Telegraph-posts, with numberless wires, obstruct the view, and suggest tall wire-fences; furlongs of posters meet the eye everywhere, and elevated railroads choke the view of the sky. The man who invented the hideous ‘Elevated’ deserves to be expelled from civilisation, and the people who permitted themselves to be thus tortured have certainly curious tastes. If they were of my mind, they would pull these structures down, and compel the shareholders to build it in such a manner that, while it might be more useful and safe, it would not be such an eyesore, nor so suggestive of insolence and tyranny on one side, and of slavish submission on the people’s side.

The view from our hotel-window shows me the street ploughed-up, square blocks of granite lying as far as the eye can see, besides planking, boarding, piles of earth, and stacks of bricks. I counted one hundred and seventy-four lines of wire in the air, rows of mast-like telegraph-poles, untrimmed and unpainted, in the centre of the American Metropolis! What taste!

We now travelled over the States and Canada, in a special Pullman-car, which had been named ‘Henry M. Stanley.’ It was palatial, for we had our own kitchen and cook, a dining-car, which, at night was converted into a dormitory, a drawing-room with piano, three state-bedrooms, and a bath-room.

After visiting all the Eastern cities, and Canada, we returned to New York. On Sunday, the 25th January, 1891, we dined with Cyrus Field (who laid the first Atlantic Cable), at 123, Gramercy Park, and met General W. T. Sherman, David Dudley Field, Charles A. Dana, and others.

On the 31st, Stanley went to a Banquet given by the Press Club. The following is the entry in his Journal:—

Was dined by the Press Club. General Sherman was present, with a rubicund complexion, and in an exceedingly amiable mood. He and I exchanged pleasant compliments to each other in our after-dinner speeches.

On the 14th February, at Chicago, Stanley wrote in his Journal:—

The sad news reached us to-day of the death of General W. T. Sherman, the Leader of the Great March through Georgia, and the last of the Immortal Three—Grant, Sheridan, Sherman. His last public appearance was at the Press Club Banquet to me in New York. At the time of his death he was the most popular man in New York, and well deserved the popularity.

In his speech at the Press Club, I recognised an oratorical power few men not knowing him would have suspected. He had the bearing of one who could impress, also those easy gestures which fix the impression, and the pathos which charms the ear, and affects the feelings. When we remember what he was, and that we saw in him the last of that splendid trio who, by their native worth, proved themselves possessors of that old American patriotism of Revolutionary days, not genius, but fine military talents, directed by moderating single-mindedness to one common and dear object,—when we consider this, the effect of General Sherman’s presence may be better understood than described.

Los Angeles, California, 21st March. A Fresno newspaper, in commenting on my personal appearance, said that I was only five feet, three inches, and quoted Cæsar and Napoleon as examples of what small men are capable of. The Los Angeles ‘Herald’ informed its readers this morning, that I am six feet, four inches! The truth is, I am five feet, five and a half inches in my socks.

Sunday, 20th March, 1891. Reached New Orleans after thirty-two years’ absence. I left it in 1859, and return to it in 1891. I drove with D. to the French Market, down Tchapitoulas St., St. Andrew’s St., Annunciation St., Charles Avenue, to St. Charles Hotel. Took a walk with D. to Tchapitoulas St., then to the Levee; gazed across the full view, and pointed to ‘Algiers’ opposite, where I had often sported.

Monday, 30th March. Rose at six-thirty and went with D. to French Market, to treat her to what I have often boasted of, ‘a cup of the best coffee in the world.’ The recipe appears to be two pounds of Java Coffee to one and a half gallons of water. Monsieur L. Morel owned the coffee-stand. He came from France in 1847. Very likely I must have drunk coffee, many a time, as a boy, at his stand!

We walked home by Charles Street, well known to me. New Orleans changes but slowly.

From New Orleans we visited Chattanooga. Went to the top of Lookout Mountain. People are very kind and attentive to us wherever we go, but I wish the lectures were over; I am very weary.

On Saturday, April 4th, we visited Nashville. Stanley’s entry is simply ‘Dear old Nashville!’

This tour was very exhausting. The constant travelling, lecturing, and social demands made upon us, taxed Stanley’s strength severely. By nature shy and retiring, he shrank from ovations, and wished, above all things, to pass unnoticed. This letter written to me from our private car when I was in Colorado, where he joined me a few days later, will give an idea of his feelings:—

I spend most of my time in my own little cabin, writing or reading, enduring the breaks on my privacy because they are a necessity, each time invoking more patience, and beseeching Time to hurry on its lagging movement that I might once more taste of absolute freedom. Meanwhile, what pleasure I obtain is principally in reading, unless I come to a little town, and can slip, unobserved, out-of-doors for a walk. I often laugh at the ridiculous aspect of my feelings, as I am compelled to become shifty and cunning, to evade the eager citizens’ advances. I feel like Cain, hurrying away with his uneasy conscience after despatching Abel, or a felonious cashier departing with his plunder! When I finally succeed in getting off without attracting anyone, you would be amused could you peep in underneath my waistcoat and observe the sudden lifting of the feelings, just like the sudden lighting of a waste of angry sea by the full sun, warm, bland, and full of promise. Then away I go against the keen, cold wind, but the feelings are rejoicing, laughing, babbling of fun and enjoyment; and the undertone of the great harmony is Freedom! I am free! Block after block is passed without a glance, until I get to the quieter parts, and then I straighten out, take a long breath, expressing by the act the indescribable relief I have of being away from the talking man, with his wayward moods, and exceeding sensitiveness.

I sometimes think with a shiver of what I shall have to endure in London: just because a person sends a polite invitation to dinner, or tea, or reception, one must note it down as a binding engagement for that evening or afternoon. One must not forget it; one must think of it, and cut out that period of existence from his short life, to eat and drink at the express hour! This is not freedom! To be free is to have no cares at all, no thought of the next hour, or the next day, or the next month; to be as we were at Melchet,—early breakfast, walk out, sit on chair or bench, walk in, or walk out, as though irresponsible beings. How I did enjoy Melchet! Afterwards came busy, exacting life, preparation for lectures, etc. All Europe and America were not so pleasant as lovely, dreamy Melchet.

There are butterflies and bees in the world; the butterflies like to play amid the flowers, I am content to belong to the bee class. The bees do not envy the butterflies, do not think at all about them, and that is the same with me. I might stand it for a week, perhaps a month; but the utter waste of life would begin to present itself, until, at last, my mind would conceive an accusing phantom, composed of lost days and weeks, with their hosts of lost opportunities ever reproaching me for my devotion to the inane and profitless. Ah, no, I must be doing something; no matter what it appears to others, if to me it satisfies the craving for doing or learning, that is enough.

On April 15, 1891, we sailed for Liverpool. Stanley ends the Journal of our American tour with the words:—

The greatest part of America is unequalled for its adaptability for the service of man, and her people are doing the utmost they can to utilize its productiveness. They have every right to be grateful for their land, and I think they are both grateful and proud of it.

The American farmer, of whom but little mention is made, is one of the finest natures in existence. Milton’s description of Adam, ‘the great Sire of all,’ a little altered, would befit the typical American farmer. I never see one but I feel inclined to say to him, ‘Good and honest man, all blessings attend thee!’ His life is without reproach, his soul without fear, he has faith in God, he is affectionate, serene in demeanour; there is confidence in his gait, and he understands and loves the kindly earth. The typical American merchant is a sober and solid man, shrewd and practical, a pillar of the Commonwealth, and daringly enterprising on occasion.

We now returned to London, and from there Stanley went on a lecturing tour over England and Scotland. I did not accompany him throughout, but joined him at different places, so that I possess some delightful letters written to me when we were apart. In one he writes:—

Rest! Ah, my dear! we both need it—I more than you. Absolute stillness, somewhere in remote and inaccessible places, in an island, or in the air, only certain articles of food and comfort being indispensable. Then let me wake to strains of music, and I think I should rise to life again! Until then, existence is mere prolonged endurance.

Stanley all his life had a passion for reading, when he could not be ‘doing.’ He delighted in reading Cæsar, Thucydides, Xenophon, Polybius, and lighter books also did not come amiss. From Cheltenham, he wrote:—

I have begun again on Thucydides. Gladstone’s ‘Gleanings’ are ended. They are all good. Strange! how I detect the church-going, God-fearing, conscientious Christian, in almost every paragraph. Julian Corbett’s ‘Drake’ is fair; I am glad I read it, and refreshed myself with what I knew before of the famous sailor.

From the Bell Hotel, Gloucester, he wrote, June 3, 1891:—

I had a long walk into the country, which is simply buried under bushy green of grass and leaves.

I saw the largest river in England yesterday: it appears to be a little wider than what I could hop over with a pole in my best days. It was a dirty, rusty-coloured stream, but the meadows were fat. The country seems to perspire under its covering of leafy verdure. I always loved the English country, and my secret attachment for it seemed to me well confirmed to-day, as I thrilled with admiration and affection for all I saw.

June 4th. Took a walk along the heights of Clifton! What a picture of the Severn Gorge—woods, cliffs, villas, good roads, rosy-cheeked children, romping school-boys, fond mamas, and a score of other things—one can get from the Suspension Bridge!

His next letter was from Clifton:—

You press me to accept the invitation to preside at the Eisteddfod. I feel that we, the people of Wales generally, and I, are not in such close sympathy as to enable me to say anything sufficiently pleasing to their ears. How could it be otherwise? The Eisteddfod, as I understand it, is for the purpose of exciting interest in the Welsh nationality and language. My travels in the various continents have ill-prepared me for sympathising with such a cause. If I were to speak truly my mind, I should recommend Welshmen to turn their attention to a closer study of the English language, literature, and characteristics, for it is only by that training that they can hope to compete with their English brothers for glory, honour, and prosperity. There is no harm in understanding the Welsh language, but they should be told by sensible men that every hour they devote to it, occupies time that might be better employed in furthering their own particular interests. But who will dare tell men, so devoted to their own people and country as the Welsh, the real truth? I am not the man! There is no object to be gained save the good of the Welsh people themselves, who, unfortunately, fail to see it in that light, and would accordingly resent whatever was said to them. I am so ignorant of the blessings attending these local studies, that my speech would be barren and halting. If I could only feel a portion of what the fervid Welshman feels, I might carry through the day a bearing as though I enjoyed it all, but I fear I shall hang my head in self-abasement.

Now if it were a British community that met to celebrate British glories, what themes and subjects! But how can I shout for Cambria? What is Cambria, alone? What has she done, what hope for her, separate and distinct from her big sister Britannia, or rather Anglia? United, they are great; but divided, neither is aught. Now do you understand to what a hard shift I am put? I shall be hooted out of the country, because my stubborn tongue cannot frame agreeable fictions!

June 16, 1891, he wrote to me:—

You ought to have been with me at Carnarvon, simply to be amazed at the excitement in North Wales, along the line, as I stepped from the train; the people, hard-featured, homely creatures, rushed up, the crowd being enormous. Yesterday I had a striking explanation of why and wherefore the woman in the Scriptures kissed the hem of the Master’s garment: as I moved through the crowd, I felt hands touch my coat, then, getting bolder, they rubbed me on the back, stroked my hair, and, finally, thumped me hard, until I felt that the honours were getting so weighty I should die if they continued long. Verily, there were but few thumps between me and death! A flash of fierceness stole over me for a second, and I turned to the crowd; but they all smiled so broadly that, poor, dear, mad creatures, I forgave them, or, at least, resolved to submit. Well! until 11.45 P.M., from 5 P.M., I was either talking at the pitch of my voice to six thousand people, or being wrung by the hand by highly-strung, excited people. Were it not for the prayer, ‘God bless you, Stanley! God prosper your work, Stanley! The Lord be praised for you, my man!’ I could have done anything but feel grateful, the strain on my nerves was so exhausting. But I need prayers, and their blessings were precious.

The streets were full; eight excursion trains had brought the country folk; they blocked the way of the carriage, coming in, and going out. Dear sons of toil and their sisters, the grand stout-hearted mothers who bore them, and the grey-haired sires! My heart went out to them; for, underneath all, I felt a considerable admiration for them—indeed, I always had. I feel what all this means, just as I know what is passing in the African’s heart, when I suddenly make him rich, instead of hurting him. There is a look, as of a lifting-up of the soul into the eyes, which explains as fully as words.

June 20th, 1891. I have nine more lectures to deliver, and then, God and man willing, I shall cast me down for rest.

I have just begun to read Walter Scott’s ‘Journal.’ I like it immensely. The Life of Houghton is dull; his own letters are the best in it, but there is no observation, or judgment upon things; merely a series of letters upon town-talk; what he did, seldom, however, what he thought. Where you see his thought, it is worth reading twice.

It is a great relief at last to be able to ‘speak my mind,’ not to be chilled and have to shrink back. Between mother and child, you know the confidence and trust that exist; I never knew it; and now, by extreme favour of Providence, the last few years of my life shall be given to know this thoroughly. Towards you I begin trustfully to exhibit my thoughts and feelings; as one, unaccustomed to the security of a bank, places his hard-earned money in the care of a stranger, professing belief in its security, yet inwardly doubting, so I shyly revealed this and that, until now, when I give up all, undoubting, perfect in confidence.

June 29th. To-morrow, a lecture at Canterbury will finish my present course. And then I shall be at large to look at everything on earth with different eyes. Think of the novel liberty of lying in bed as long as I please, to take coffee in bed, the morning cigar and bath, without an inward monitor nagging persistently and urging to duty! By the way, apropos of that word, M. said yesterday she disliked the word ‘duty.’ I wonder if she has been reading Jeremy Bentham, who wrote to the same effect.

Duty, though an imperious, is a very necessary master; but I shall be very glad to pass a few weeks, at least, owing no duty but that which I shall owe to your pleasure and mine.

Canterbury, July 1st, 8.30 A.M. I have risen thus early to celebrate my emancipation from the thraldom imposed upon me by lecture agents and my own moral weakness, to write to you.

I have seen the time when I could have written gloriously about this singular old town; I love it no less now than I did years ago when I first saw it, but I am much busier with various things now than then.

The old Fountain Hotel is a typical English inn. I heard a little bit of vocal music from the Cathedral choir, and very much admired it. What a fine old Cathedral it is! But oh! how the religion that built it has faded! The worship of the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth, who, we were taught in our youth, sat in the Heaven of Heavens, has been so superseded by that degrading worship of gold and Society!

Apropos of this, I picked up at a book-stall yesterday a little brochure called ‘Cæsar’s Column,’ a tale of the twentieth century, by Ignatius Donnelly. I read it through. It pretends to be a series of letters from a man named Gabriel, a visitor to New York from the State of Uganda, Central Africa. They are directed to one Heinreich, a resident of the village of Stanley! He describes the marvellous inventions of the age, especially the air-demons, which are air-warships loaded with bombs, charged with poisonous fumes, which, dropped from above in the streets, destroy a quarter of a million soldiers. The armed force of the State thus disposed of, the canaille proceed to exterminate the devotees of Society and the cold, selfish civilisation, or rather that methodical system founded upon spoliation and oppression of the poor which the wealthy have initiated by huge trusts, etc., wherein there is no thought of mercy, justice, or sweet charity.

The end of all is destruction and utter extermination of the wealthy classes over Europe and America, and the quick upheaval of everything resembling Order and Law by the Anarchist clan, and the two continents relapse, fast enough, into barbarism, in consequence. It is a powerful story—impossible, of course; but some of its readers will rise from reading it, thoughtful, and a small seedling of good may, or ought, to come from it.

At last, Stanley’s holiday came, and we went to Switzerland at the end of July. The fine mountain air, the beauty of the scenery, long walks, peace and quiet, gave Stanley what he so needed—physical and mental rest. Of an evening, we read aloud, retiring very early, as Stanley had the African habit of rising at six.

I persuaded Stanley sometimes to play at cards, but he never much cared to do so; he not only thought cards a great waste of time, but he also thought playing for money discreditable; he wanted all the time he could get for reading, or planning something he meant to do, or write. He was, in fact, an inveterate worker.

We were returning to England at the end of August, when Stanley, in a damp mountain-meadow at Mürren, slipped and broke his left ankle. He suffered a good deal, the injury bringing on malaria; but the bone united without shortening the leg, and, in time, the lameness disappeared. This accident prevented his presiding at the Eisteddfod.

On the 2nd October, Stanley went to Ostend, by invitation of the King of the Belgians. Mr. Mounteney Jephson accompanied him. Stanley wrote to me:—

The King does not look greyer than I remember him during the last two years. He tells me he will be fifty-seven next April, and that he feels the approach of age, one sign of which is loss of memory. He cannot remember names. I told him that that fact did not strike me as suggestive of age, since the longer we lived the more names we had to remember, and there was a limit to one’s power of remembering.

Stanley then wrote at length his conversation with the King; but I will not give it here.

After dinner, we adjourn to the King’s private room to smoke. Baron Goffinet takes charge of Jephson, and shows him the Casino. The King tells me he walks twenty-five kilometres every day: his daily life begins at 5.30 A.M., when he takes a cup of tea; he breakfasts at 8.30. All his letters for his Ministers are written by himself between 6 A.M. and breakfast, and, at 10 o’clock, they are sent to the Ministers. He says he has been twenty-six years in active service.

After dinner, the King cautiously approached and sounded me on the possibility of my resuming my duties on the Congo.

I pointed to my broken leg, for I am still very lame.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘not now, but when you return from Australia, sound in health and limb.’

‘We shall see, Your Majesty,’ I said.

‘I have a big task on hand for you, when you are ready,’ were his last words.

In October, 1891, we left England for a visit to Australia, New Zealand, and Tasmania, travelling viâ Brindisi, some twelve miles from which our train came into collision with a goods train. Stanley thus describes the accident:—

At 3.45 P.M., we were rattling along at forty miles an hour, when the train jostled dangerously at the northern end of a siding. D. and I cast enquiring glances at each other, but, finding we were not derailed, resumed our composure. A second later there was an explosion like that of a rocket, and, the next second, there was a jar and a slight shock. ‘Lift up your feet,’ I cried to D.; and, at the words, my window burst into a shower of finely-powdered glass, which fell over me, and we stood stock-still. Rising on my crutch, I looked through the broken window and discovered four freight trucks, crumpled up into a pitiful wreck, just ahead of us, within about fifty yards of a levelled wall, and I then saw that our engine and van were lying on their side. Our escape was a narrow one, for our coupé compartment came next to the van. Fortunately, there was no loss of life.

I regret that space does not allow me to quote Stanley’s descriptions of persons and places during his half-year in Australia. I give one or two personal passages from his Journal.

Auckland, December 30th. Sir George Grey called on us in the afternoon, and took us out to show us the Public Library. There we saw valuable old Missals, with wonderful paintings of scroll-work and impossible leafage. In another room, he showed us private letters from Livingstone, received by him when Governor of Cape Colony. There were also some from Speke.

Livingstone’s letters are marked ‘Private.’ He must have recognised a kind of cousinship in Sir George, to have delivered himself so frankly. He wrote strongly and earnestly to one whom he rightly supposed would understand him.

Sir George, a traveller himself, and likewise a strong man, would appreciate him. It did me good to see his handwriting, and also to see letters of Speke.

I doubt whether Speke will ever be thoroughly known to the world, though there was much that was great and good in him; but Speke, unfortunately, could not express himself.

It was a keen pleasure to read these old letters, which breathed of work, loyalty of soul, human duties, imperial objects, and moral obligations, and then to look up at the face of the venerable statesman to whom they were addressed, and trace the benevolence, breadth of mind, and intelligence which elicited the spontaneous, free expression of their hopes from these travellers and pioneers. It is so elevating to see a man who is not tainted with meanness and pettiness, with whom one can talk as to a Father-confessor, without fear of being misunderstood, and without risk of finding it in the newspapers of the next day.

Sir George has a grand, quiet face, and a pair of round blue eyes beaming with kindness, and the light of wisdom. There are others like him in the world, no doubt, but it is only by a rare chance we meet them. Should I be asked what gave me the most pleasure in life, I would answer that it was the meeting with wise and good elders, who, while retaining a vivid interest in the affairs of life, could, from their height of knowledge and experience, approve what I had done, and bid me strive on, undaunted, undismayed.

I here give a letter from Sir George Grey, written a month later:

Auckland, 29th Jan., 1892.

My dear Stanley,—This is the 52nd Anniversary of New Zealand, a public holiday.

I am left in perfect tranquillity, with full time for calm reflection, for all are gone on some party of pleasure. I have occupied my morning in following your sufferings and trials as recorded in Parke’s ‘Experiences in Equatorial Africa.’ After reading, with the greatest pleasure, pages 512, 513, and 514, these have set me reflecting upon what you have done for the Empire by your services, and what has been the reward given publicly to you by the authorities of that Empire—well, neglect!

I am inclined to think it is best that the matter should stand thus.

All of danger, sorrow, suffering, trial of every kind that man could endure, you have undergone.

From all of these you have emerged unshaken, triumphant, every difficulty overcome, reverenced by those who served under you, Africa opened to the world, the unknown made manifest to all. So to have suffered, so to have succeeded, must have done much to form a truly great character, the remembrance of which will go down to posterity.

Yet one thing was wanting to render the great drama in which you have been the great actor complete. Could the man who had done all this, and supported such various trials, bear that—perhaps hardest of all—cold neglect, and the absence of national recognition and national reward for what he had accomplished? From this trial, as from all the others you have undergone, you have come out a conqueror—calm, unmoved, and uncomplaining. Your own character has been improved by this new trial, which will add an interest to your history in future times; and I sit here, not lamenting that you move amongst your fellow-men untitled, undecorated, but with a feeling that all has taken place for the best.

I had wished to write to you on several points. I was much struck by a statement in Parke’s journal, that at one point it only took fifteen minutes to walk from the headwaters of the Nile to those of the Congo.[43] This distance could hardly be shown upon a small map, and probably caused an error in the old maps, or in verbal descriptions from which the old maps were made.

But I shall weary you with this long letter. I hope we shall meet again before long, but I fear some time may elapse before I can start for England. I feel that I owe duties to New Zealand, Australia, and the Cape, and, until I have at least partially fulfilled them, I hesitate to indulge my longing once more to revisit my early home, and my many relatives.

Will you give my regards to Mrs. Stanley, and tell her that the interesting photograph of yourself which you were good enough to send me has been handsomely framed and adorns the Public Library.

Yours truly,

G. Grey.

February 12th, Tasmania. A curious thing happened this morning. I am obliged to rise at an early hour on account of habits contracted during more than twenty years of African travel, and to avail myself of the silent hours of the morning to procure an exercise-walk for the sake of health. At 5.30 I was shaving, and somehow my thoughts ran persistently on what Colonel J. A. Grant (the companion of Speke) said to me in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster, on my marriage day, July 12th, 1890. Said he, ‘I must take this opportunity to say a long good-bye, for, after to-day, I don’t suppose you will care to come to my symposium and talk about Africa.’—‘Why?’ I asked.—‘Oh! well, you are married now, and marriage often parts the best of male friends.’—‘Oh, come!’ I replied, ‘I can’t see how my marriage will affect our friendship; I will make it a point to disprove what you say.’ Then Grant and I were separated. ‘And it is quite true,’ I reflected; ‘we have not met since, somehow. But I will make it a point to visit Grant the first evening after I reach London.’ And I shook my razor at the figure in the mirror, to confirm the mental vow. A short time afterwards, I went down; the hotel was not yet opened. As I put my hand on the knob of the door to open it, the morning paper was thrust underneath the door by the newspaper-boy outside. Anxious to read the cablegrams from London, I seized the paper, and the first news to catch my attention was,—‘Death of Colonel J. A. Grant, the Nile Explorer.’ What an odd coincidence!

This is the second time in my experience that a person thousands of miles away from me has been suddenly suggested to me a few moments preceding an announcement of this kind. From the day I parted with Grant, till this morning, his words had not once recurred to my mind.

On the other occasion, the message came as an apparition. I was in the centre of some hundreds of men,[44] and the vision of a woman lying on her bed, dying, appeared to me suddenly. I heard her voice plainly, every item of furniture in the room was visible to me; in fact, I had as vivid a picture of the room, and all within it, as though I stood there in broad daylight. The vision, clear as it was, passed away, and I awoke to the reality of things around me. I was bewildered to find that no one had witnessed any abstraction on my part, though one was so close, that he touched me. Yet, in spirit, I had been six thousand miles away, and saw my own figure at the bedside of the dying woman; months after, when I had actually arrived in Europe, I was told that she had died a few hours later.

CHAPTER XXI

POLITICS AND FRIENDS

At first, he would not hear of it, but his friend, Mr. Alexander Bruce,[45] of Edinburgh, joined me in persuading Stanley to become Liberal-Unionist candidate for North Lambeth. We went into the battle just ten days before the polling day. We were quite ignorant of electioneering, and I must say we had a dreadful ten days of it. Stanley wrote in his Journal, Monday, 20th June, 1892:—

‘Have consented to contest the constituency of North Lambeth against Alderman Coldwells, Radical. I accepted because D. is so eager for me to be employed, lest I fly away again to Africa.’

On the 29th, Stanley held a great meeting at Hawkeston Hall, Lambeth, but he was howled down by an organised rabble imported for the purpose! The leader of these rowdies, stationed in the Gallery, from time to time waved a folded newspaper, which was the signal for fresh interruptions, and an incredible din. The platform was stormed, and we had to withdraw; when we tried to get into our brougham and drive away, the roughs held on to the door of the carriage and tore it off. Stanley was greatly disgusted: African savages, he thought, would have behaved better. He was not sorry to be beaten, though the majority against him was only one hundred and thirty.

But I persuaded him to remain the Liberal-Unionist candidate. He thought the election would not come for some years, and faint-heartedly consented, on condition that he would never be expected to call personally on voters—never visit from ‘house-to-house.’ He consented to speak at working-men’s clubs and meetings, but ‘never will I degrade myself by asking a man for his vote,’ and no man can boast that Stanley ever did so.

I shall remember those meetings to my life’s end. No one present could ever forget them. They took place at the local ‘Constitutional Club’—in the York Road, Lambeth—and in various school-rooms. Here Stanley for some years, as Candidate, and then as Member, spoke on the great questions of the day.

He spoke to them of Empire, of Commerce, of what the Uganda railway could do—that railway which the Liberals had so hotly objected to constructing! He showed them what Home-Rule in Ireland really meant. He explained to them the Egyptian position; every subject he made clear. He did not harangue working-men on their wrongs, nor on their rights, but he spoke to them of their DUTY, and why they should give of their best and highest. He told them about our colonies, how they were made, not by loafers, but by men eager to carve out their own fortunes; and he told them what manner of man was required there now. He spoke with the greatest earnestness and simplicity, rising at times into a fiery eloquence which stirred the heart. I hardly ever failed to accompany him to those meetings.

Stanley took infinite trouble with these speeches, as with everything else he did. He wrote them out carefully, so as to impress the subject on his memory; but he did not read, nor repeat them by rote.

These lectures and addresses taught me a great deal, and further revealed to me the splendid power of Stanley.

I used to wish he had greater and better-educated audiences; but he never considered any such efforts too much trouble, if the humblest and poorest listened intelligently. I here give his first address to the Electors of North Lambeth, in 1892.

Gentlemen, I venture to offer myself as your representative in Parliament, in place of your esteemed Member who has just resigned.

The circumstances under which I place my services at your disposal, if somewhat unusual, are, I hope, such as may dispose you, at least, to believe in my earnest desire to serve you, and in serving you to serve my country.

Gentlemen, my one mastering desire is for the maintenance, the spread, the dignity, the usefulness of the British Empire. I believe that we Englishmen are working out the greatest destiny which any race has ever fulfilled, but we must go on,—or we shall go back. There must be firm and steady guidance in Downing Street, there must be an invincible fleet upon the seas, if trade is to expand, and emigrants to spread and settle, and the name of England still to be reverenced in every quarter of the globe. From which of the two great English parties—I ask myself, and I ask you—may we expect the firmest, the steadiest guidance, the most unflinching effort to maintain our naval strength? The whole colonial and foreign policy of England under the last two administrations prompts to no doubtful reply. I have followed that policy, not as a partisan, but as a man deeply, vitally, concerned; a man who, at least, has based his opinions upon practical and personal conversance with great and difficult affairs. I say, unhesitatingly, that I believe that the continuance of Lord Salisbury’s firm, temperate, wise foreign policy is worth to England millions of money, and again, far more important than money, though harder to measure in national power, national usefulness, and national honour.

First of all the merits of Lord Salisbury’s Government, in my eyes, comes the enormous strengthening of the navy. Gentlemen, that is the essential thing. In this island, in this great city alone, is a treasure of life and wealth such as no nation ever had to guard before. It is no small achievement to have insured that wealth, those lives, by seventy new ships of war, while at the same time lightening taxation, and remitting especially those burdens which the poorest felt the most.

Gentlemen, I am, as you know, a man of the people. Whatever I have achieved in life has been achieved by my own hard work, with no help from privilege, or favour of any kind. My strongest sympathies are with the working-classes. And had the conflict of parties now been, as it once was, a conflict between a few aristocrats and many workers, between privilege and popular rights, I should have ranged myself, assuredly, on the workers’ side. But I now see no such conflict. I see both sides following the people’s mandate, honestly endeavouring to better the condition of the masses, and I see the Unionist party actually effecting those reforms of which Radicals are too often content to talk. Most of all do I see this in Ireland,—looking with a fresh eye, and with no party prepossessions, upon the Irish affairs, I cannot but perceive that while others may have declaimed eloquently, Mr. Balfour has governed wisely; that while others propose to throw all into the melting-pot, in the hope of some magical change which no one can define, Mr. Balfour and his colleagues are successfully employing all these methods,—steady and gentle rule, development of natural resources, administrative foresight and skill, which have, in times past, welded divided countries into unity, and lifted distressed and troubled communities into prosperity and peace.

I sympathise with all that the present Government has well done and wisely planned for the bettering of the lot of the people; to all such measures I will give the best thought that I can command. Yet I cannot but feel that the destiny of the English working-classes depends in the last resort on measures, on enterprises, of a larger scope. In the highlands of Africa, which skilful diplomacy has secured for England, those lands to which the Mombasa Railway will be the first practicable road, there is room and to spare for some twenty millions of happy and prosperous people. There is no need for the poorest among us to covet his neighbour’s wealth, while nature still offers such immense, such inexhaustible boons. Only let England be united at home, wise abroad, and no man can assign a limit to the stability of our Empire, or to the prosperity of her sons.

In conclusion, the preservation of peace, with jealous care of the dignity and honour of the Empire, the wonderful economies effected during the past six years, the readiness to reform judiciously where reform was necessary, as manifested by Lord Salisbury’s Government, are worthy of our best sympathies; and if you will do me the honour to return me to Parliament, I promise to be active and faithful in the discharge of my duties to my constituency.

I am,
Yours sincerely,
Henry M. Stanley.

2, Richmond Terrace, Whitehall, London,
June 21st, 1892.

After our defeat in 1892, I received the following letter from Sir George Grey, who was still in Auckland, New Zealand:—

October, 1893.

My dear Mrs. Stanley,—I am only just recovered from a long and serious illness, and can as yet hardly hold my pen, but I am so ashamed of not having written to you, that I am determined to make an effort to do so, and to ask for your forgiveness. I was seriously sorry at Stanley losing his election, although we should have been on different sides in politics; but his profound judgment and knowledge of African affairs would have been of the greatest service in Parliament, and would, I believe, have prevented the Government from committing many errors. But the fact is, that Stanley’s services to the empire have been too great and too unusual, and I ought to have known he would have to undergo many trials; perhaps he is lucky in having escaped being put in chains, as Columbus was! Men of this kind have no business to act in the unusual manner they generally do, throwing their contemporaries in the shade—this is never forgiven!

However, these truly great men can bear misfortunes in whatever guise they come, like heroes, and thus add greater lustre to their ultimate renown, and will make their history much more wonderful reading. Those who climb to heights must expect to meet with toils and many trials. Give my regards to Stanley, who, tried in so many, and such vast toils and dangers, whilst working for his fellow-men, will not falter now.

Truly yours,

G. Grey.

In January, 1893, Stanley wrote to me at Cambridge, where I was spending a week:—

Having announced my intention of standing again as Candidate for N. Lambeth, I propose doing so, of course, for your sake; but after my experience in North Lambeth you must not expect any enthusiasm, any of that perseverant energy, which I may have shewn elsewhere, and which I could still show in an honourable sphere.

But this political work involves lying, back-biting, morally-damaging your opponent in the eyes of the voters, giving and receiving wordy abuse, which reminds me of English village squabbles; and I cannot find the courage either to open my lips against my opponent, or to put myself in a position to receive from him and his mindless myrmidons that filthy abuse they are only too eager to give. That so many members of Parliament can do so, smiling, only shows difference of training as well as difference of character between us. I do not respect them less for the capacity of being indifferent to the vileness, but rather feel admiration that they can do something which I cannot do. If I were once in the House, possibly I should not feel so thin-skinned, and at the next fight, I should probably be able to face it better; but, not being in the House, and, finding the House moated around by the cess-pool of slander and calumny, I detest the prospect of wading in for so doubtful a satisfaction.

You remember that meeting in Lambeth. Well! I have been through some stiff scenes in my life, but I never fell so low in my own estimation as I fell that day; to stand there being slighted, insulted by venomous tongues every second, and yet to feel how hopeless, nay impossible, retort was! and to realise that I had voluntarily put myself in a position to be bespattered with as much foul reproaches as those ignorant fools chose to fling!

I will, nevertheless, stand again, but my forbearance must not be tested too far. I declare my strict resolve never to ask for a vote, never to do any silly personal canvassing in high streets or by-streets, never to address open-air meetings, cart or wagon work, or to put myself in any position where I can be baited like a bull in the ring. The honour of M. P. is not worth it.

If it is not possible to represent North Lambeth without putting my dignity under the Juggernaut of Demos, let Demos find someone else. I will visit committees, and would be pleased to receive them anywhere; I will speak at clubs and committee-rooms, or any halls, and pay the expenses, etc., but that is all. But this shall be my final effort. If I am beaten, I hope it will be by an overwhelming majority, which will for ever prove my incapacity as a candidate.

Six or seven years ago I was a different man altogether, but this last expedition has sapped my delight in the rude enjoyments of life, though never at any time could I have looked upon electioneering as enjoyable. The whole business seems to me degrading. I refuse to promise to the people that which I think harmful to the nation. I object to the abject attitude of politicians towards constituents. If I stand, it is as their leader, not their slave. I shall go to Parliament simply to work for some good end, and not for personal objects.

I now realised that since usage and custom demand that the Parliamentary candidate shall call on the voters, and that Stanley positively, and I think rightly, refused to do so, we were in danger of losing the Constituency.

I realised that whichever way the working-man means to vote, he likes to feel he has something you want, something he can give. He likes even to refuse you, and oblige you to listen to his views and his principles. So, if you do not choose to go and kow-tow before him, he puts you down as ‘no good,’ or, at any rate, ‘not my sort.’ After our defeat, therefore, in 1892, I resolved to ‘nurse’ North Lambeth, since that is the accepted term, and to do so in my own way.

It was hard work, undoubtedly, but very interesting and instructive; I had some unforgettable experiences, and on the whole I was very kindly and pleasantly received.

1893.—February 21st. General Beauregard died last night at New Orleans. He was my old General at the Battle of Shiloh, 1862. I remember, even now, how enthusiastic my fellow-soldiers were about him, and I, being but an inconsiderate boy, caught the fever of admiration and raved. Thank Heaven there were no reporters to record a boy’s ravings! This is not to say that he was not worthy of the soldiers’ respect. But his achievements were not those of a military genius, and genius alone deserves such unmeasured praise as we gave him.

The Civil War only developed two first-rank men, and those were Grant and Lee, but in the second rank there were many who might possibly, with opportunities, have rivalled the first two. I believe if it were put to the vote of the military class as to which was the greater of the two greatest captains of the war, the vote would be cast for Robert E. Lee. Nevertheless, there was something in Grant which, though not so showy as the strategy and dash of Lee, makes me cast my vote for Grant.

March 10th. Mrs. Annie Ingham died this day on the Congo, aged thirty-seven. She was the wife of Charles E. Ingham, ex-lifeguardsman, and missionary, mentioned in ‘Darkest Africa.’ She was a sweet, good woman. She is now safe in that heavenly home she laboured so hard to deserve. Such women as this one are the very salt of our race.

June 12th. Went to hear Lord Salisbury’s speech at the Surrey Theatre. He just misses being an orator. Nature has given him a personality; a voice, education, experience, observation, and rank, have all contributed elements to the forming of an orator, and yet he lacks two things—imagination and fire. With those two qualities which he lacks, how he would have swayed that audience, how he would have straightened himself, and with the power of eye and voice, and the right word, he would have lifted everyone to a pitch of enthusiasm such as is almost unknown in England.

June 22nd, Thursday. My dear old friend Sir William Mackinnon, Bart., died this morning at 9.45, after a long illness contracted on his yacht ‘Cornelia,’ as the result of a cold, and deep depression of spirits created by a sense that his labours, great expenditure, and exercise of influence over his friends on behalf of British East Africa, were not appreciated as they deserved by Lord Rosebery and his colleagues in the Government. A lack of appreciation is indeed a mild term for the callous indifference shown by the Rosebery Government.

Sir William had for years (since 1878) been feeling his way towards this great achievement. By dint of generosity, long continued, he finally won the confidence of successive Sultans of Zanzibar, especially Syyed Barghash, and when once that confidence was established, he gradually developed his projects, by which he, as well as the Sultan, might greatly profit. Being already rich enough for gratifying his very simple wants, he wished to lead his friend the Sultan into the path of profitable enterprise. He was ably seconded by Sir John Kirk and Fred Holmwood, the Consul-general; and, though it was tedious work, he finally succeeded.

I claim to have assisted him considerably during my stay in 1887, and it was according to my advice that Barghash finally consented to sign the Concession, and Mackinnon hurried on the negotiation. A few weeks after I left, the Concession was signed, and Mackinnon’s way to form a Company, and obtain a Charter from the British Government, was clear. Sir William subscribed fifty thousand pounds to the capital, and raised the remainder from among his own friends, for no friend of Mackinnon could possibly resist a request from him.

The object of the Company was mainly commercial, and, left alone by politicians, Mackinnon was the man to make it remunerative. But after the advent of Germany into the African field, with Bismarck at the helm, and the principles declared at the Berlin Conference behind them, it became necessary, in order to prevent collisions between Mackinnon’s Company and the Germans, to give the East African Company a political status; hence, with the utmost good-will and promises of support, the Charter was given to it by the British Government, and the Company thereby incurred tremendous responsibilities.

Egged on, urged on, advised, spurred, encouraged by Her Majesty’s Government, the Company had first of all quickly to gain other Concessions, for the Sultan’s only covered the maritime region; and this meant the despatch of a series of costly expeditions into the interior, over a region that embraced hundreds of thousands of square miles; and as this region was almost unexplored, these expeditions meant the employment of some thousands of armed and equipped natives, led by English officers. Between 1887 and 1890, some thousands of pounds were squandered in these costly enterprises, and the capital that rightly was called for the development of the commerce of the maritime region, and would surely have been remunerative, was thus wasted on purely political work; which the national exchequer should have paid for.

In 1890, the Mackinnon Company entered Uganda, and, on account of the territories turned over to it by me, the government of the Company extended from Mombasa to the Albert Edward Nyanza, and North to the White Nile, and South of 1°S. The Company bravely and patriotically held on, however, and sustained the enormous expense of maintaining the communications open between Uganda and the sea; but it soon became evident to Mackinnon, who was always so hopeful and cheerful, that the responsibilities were becoming too great for his Company.

The transport of goods to Uganda to sustain the force required to occupy it, was very costly. Every ton cost three hundred pounds to carry to Uganda; that is, it required forty men to carry a ton, and as the distance was three months’ travel from the coast, and little less than three months to return, and each man received one pound per month, two hundred and forty pounds was required for the pay of these forty men for six months, exclusive of their rations. The force in Uganda, the various garrisons maintained along the route, would naturally consume several hundred tons of goods each year, and every additional act of pressure from the Government increased this consumption and expense.

It is thus easily seen how, when the Government, always extravagant when they manage things themselves, dipped their hands into the coffers of a private Company, bankruptcy could not be far off. Though Mackinnon, through patriotism, held on much longer than his friends deemed prudent, he at last informed the Rosebery Government that the Company intended to abandon Uganda and the interior, and confine themselves to their own proper business, namely commerce, unless they were assisted by a subsidy.

I happened to be in Mackinnon’s room at The Burlington a few minutes after he had sent the Foreign Office messenger with his answer to Lord Rosebery’s question, what was the least sum the Company would accept per annum for five years to undertake, or rather to continue, the administration of Uganda, and I was told that Mackinnon’s answer was fifty thousand pounds.

I remember when I heard the amount that I thought the matter was all over, for Rosebery, with Harcourt supervising the treasury, would never have the courage to allow such a sum. Why had he not asked for half that amount, twenty-five thousand pounds? ‘But even fifty thousand pounds is insufficient,’ cried Mackinnon. ‘Certainly, after the style in which you have been administering during the last eighteen months; but it is clear by the nature of Rosebery’s question, that “administering Uganda” means simply its occupation, and keeping things quiet in order to prevent its being abandoned to Germany, or reverting to the barbarous methods of Mwanga. Rosebery wants to stand well with the country, and at the same time to pacify Harcourt. And twenty-five thousand pounds a year he could easily persuade Harcourt to grant.’

We were still engaged in discussing this subject when the F. O. messenger returned with another letter. Mackinnon’s hand trembled as he opened it, and when he had fully understood the letter, it was only by a great effort he was able to suppress his emotions. The letter contained but a few lines, to the effect that the sum demanded was impossible, and that there was no more to be said on the matter.

From that day my dear old friend became less cheerful; he was too great a soul to lay bare his feelings, but those who knew him were at no loss to find that the kind old face masked a good deal of inward suffering; had one questioned me about him, I should have said, ‘I believe that as Mackinnon, since he made his fortune and was childless, devoted his ripest and wisest years and the greater part of his fortune to this idea, which, like the King of the Belgians, he had of making an African State valuable to his Government and people, he was struck to the heart by Rosebery’s curt refusal to consider his offer and his determination to displace the Company by the Government. Had Rosebery said he was willing to allow twenty-five thousand pounds, Mackinnon would have accepted it rather than the world should say he had failed. East Africa had become Mackinnon’s love, his pride, and the one important object of life. Mackinnon’s soul was noble, his mind above all pettiness. His life was now bereft of its object, and the mainspring of effort had been removed, and so he visibly declined, and death came in kindness.

Sunday, 25th June. Called at the Burlington Hotel, and viewed the body. I found the Marquis of Lorne there, and both of us were much affected at seeing the small, still body on the bed. Was this the end of so many aspirations and struggles! I am glad I knew him, for he was in some things a model character, great of soul, though small of body. Too generous at times, and parsimonious where I would have been almost lavish; and yet I loved him for the very faults which I saw, because, without them, he would not have been just my dear Mackinnon, whose presence, somehow, was always a joy to me.

Tuesday, at 10 A.M., I left for Balinakill, Argyleshire, to attend the funeral of my friend Mackinnon. Arrived Wednesday. We walked from his house, after a simple service in the dining-room, which had witnessed such hospitable feasts, and kindly-hearted gatherings. The coffin was borne on the shoulders of relays of the Clachan villagers. In the parish grave-yard was an open grave, as for a peasant, into which the sumptuous oak coffin, enclosing a leaden one, was lowered. Two bundles of hay were spread over the coffin, and then the earth was shovelled in, and in a short time all that was mortal of a dearly-loved man lay beneath a common mound.

July 5th. Attended a Garden-party at Marlborough House. I generally dislike these mobs of people; but I met several interesting characters here, and, of course, the Prince and Princess of Wales were, as usual, charming.

July 13th. Glanced over Burton’s Life—it is written by his wife. It is very interesting, but the real Burton is not to be found in this book; that is, as he was to a keen observer of his character and actions.

During the autumn, I received the following letters from Stanley:

Cromer, October 17th, 1893. Yesterday was a most enjoyable day for me. I feel its effects in an all-round completeness of health.

At 8.50 A.M., I was off by slow train, creeping, creeping west, within view of the sea for some time, then turning round a great horseshoe curve to east, as though the railway projectors had thought it necessary to show all that was really beautiful in these parts before taking the traveller towards the mouth of the Yare.

As I have been immensely pleased with the views so gained, I am grateful. All this part of East Anglia is wholly new to me, and not yet having you to talk to, my inward comments upon what I saw were more exclamatory than otherwise.

The beauty of this country is like the beauty of a fair Puritan; it is modest, and wholesome; no flashiness, nor regality, no proud uplift of majesty, no flaunting of wealth, or suggestion of worldliness; but quiet English homesteads, and little church-loving villages, tidy copses, lowly vales, and sweet, modest hills, breathed over by the sea-air, which the lungs inhale with grateful gasps.

By half-past eleven we rolled into Yarmouth, and, with only an umbrella in hand, I made my way to the sea, by a street which has some very nice houses of the modern Surrey-villa type. This was the reverse of what I had expected to see. Presently, I was on the parade, a straight two miles, flanked on one side by a long line of sea-side houses, and on the other by a broad, sandy strand, smoothly sloping to a greenish sea. Three or four piers running out from the drive caused me to think that the place must be crowded in the season. I can imagine the fine expanse of sands populous with children, nurses, and parents; music, in the air, from the band-stands, and a brisk circulation of human beings from all parts around; the famous Yarmouth yawls, doing a good business with the ambitious youths, who wish to boast of having sailed on the sea, when they return from their holidays; the seats comfortably filled with those who wish to fill the eye with the sights of the sea, and the ear with the sound of artificial music, blended with the countless whispers of the waves!

I strode down this parade, debating many things in my mind. I went past a military or naval hospital, a battery of old-fashioned, muzzle-loaders, which I fancy are not of much use except as means of drilling volunteers; then I came to a tall monument to Nelson—at a point of land given up to rubbish and net-drying, when I found that I had been travelling parallel with the Yare, and was now at its mouth. I crossed this point, and on coming to the river, walked up along the interesting quay. I was well rewarded, for as picturesque a sight as can be found in any sea-side town, in any country, met me.

The river is narrow, not quite the width of the Maritime Canal of Suez, I should say, but every inch of it seems serviceable to commerce. The useful stream is crowded with coast shipping, trawlers, luggers, small steamers, and inland barges, which lie mainly in a long line alongside this quay. It did my heart good to see the deep-bellied, strong, substantial vessels of the fisher-class, and still more entertainment I obtained in viewing the types of men who handled the fish, and the salt. The seed of the old vikings and Anglian invaders of Britain were all round me, as fond of the sea as their brave old ancestors!

I saw some splendid specimens of manhood among them, who were, I am certain, as proud of their avocation as the Rothschilds can be of banking. It was far better than going to a theatre to watch the healthy fellows swinging up their crates of salted herrings—the gusto of hoisting, hand-over-hand—the breezy, hearty lightsomeness of action—the faces as truly reflecting the gladness of the heart as the summer sea obeys the summer air.

I turned away deeply gratified by the sight, and sure that these fellows thought little of Home-Rule and other disturbing questions.

On reaching a bridge across the Yare, I found myself in ‘Hall quay’ with the Cromwell House, Star, Crown, and Anchor, and other old-fashioned houses. Then I turned into one of the rows, as the narrow alley-like streets are called, taking brief glances at the cheap wares for sale—boots, shod with iron, the nails recalling memories of early farm-life; mufflers of past days; ‘two-penny-ha’-penny’ wares in general, suitable for the slim purses of poor holiday-makers.

Then, after a long tour, I struck into a street running towards the sea, where the quieter people love to brood and dream away their summer. Finally, I came to the ‘Queen’s,’ ordered my lunch, and afterwards took train to Norwich. As I was not yet too tired for sight-seeing, I drove to the Cathedral. It is like a long Parish-church within. The gateways are grim-looking objects, similar to many I have seen elsewhere, but quite ancient and venerable. The Cloisters, however, are grand, over one hundred and fifty feet square, and as good as we saw in Italy, to my mind. The Close has a remarkably ecclesiastical privacy and respectability about it, but had not enough greenery, green sward or foliage, to be perfect. Thence I wandered to the Castle, about which I had read so much in a lately-published romance.

What one sees is only a modern representation of the fine old keep, around which the writer had woven his story, and I suppose it is faithful to the original, without; but through the windows one sees a glass roof, and then it is evident that the building is only a shell, got up as for a Chicago Exhibition.

The mound on which it stands, and the deep, dry ditch around, are sufficiently ancient. As I walked around the Castle, old Norwich looked enchanting. I cannot tell whether the town is worth looking at, but I have seldom seen one which appeared to promise so much. The worst of these old towns is that their hotels are always so depressing. If the Grand Hotel of Cromer was at Yarmouth, it would totally change the character of the town, and so would a similar one for Norwich. On the Continent, they have just as interesting old towns to show the visitor, but they have also good hotels. Yarmouth beach is equal to that of Cromer, but the hotels are deadly-dull places.