Well, after a good three hours’ walk, I took the train for Cromer. It was a happy thought of mine coming here. I love to look at the sea, and hear the windows rattle, and the soughing of the waves; and between me and these delights, nothing human intervenes. For the sight of the sea is better than the sight of any human face just now. Whenever the nerves quiver with unrest, depend upon it, the ocean and the songs of the wind are more soothing than anything else; so when you arrive you will find me purified, and renovated somewhat, by this ogling with quiet nature.

Cromer, October, 1893. How I do begrudge the time spent on trifles, interminable waste of time, and prodigal waste of precious life as though our hours were exhaustless. When I think of it! Ah, but no more! That way madness lies! Oh! I am delighted with this Norfolk air, and this hotel, this rest, the tranquillizing effect—the deep inhalations, the pure God-blest air—the wonderful repose of the sea! When you join me here, how we shall enjoy ourselves!

Yesterday, while on my afternoon walk, I felt such a gust of joy, such a rapturous up-springing of joy to my very finger-tips, that I was all amazement at its suddenness. What was the cause? Only three miles of deserted sand-beach, a wide, illimitable sea, rolling from the east. Roll after roll of white-topped surge sounding on the shore, deep, solemn, continuous, as driven by a breeze, which penetrated into the farthest recesses of the lungs, and made them ache with fulness, and whipped the blood into a glow! Presently, I respond to the influence; I condescend to stoop, and whisk the round pebbles on the glorious floor of sand, smooth as asphalt. I burst out into song. Fancy! Years and years ago, I think I sang. The spirits were in an ecstasy, for the music of the waves, and the keen, salt wind, laden with scent of the sea, the absolute solitude, the immensity of my domain, caused me to sing for joy!

I knew there was something of my real old self, the lees, as it were, in me still;—but, such is civilised man, he enters a groove, and exit there is none, until solitariness discovers the boy, lying hidden under a thick husk of civilised custom! This solitude is so glorious, we must try and secure it for three months out of each year. Yes, this is glorious! No Africa for me, if I can get such solitude in England!!

There is a fox-terrier here, the duplicate of my old Randy in Africa, smooth-haired, the white like cream, the black on him deep sable, simply beautiful, a gentleman all over, understands every word, automatically obsequious; lies down with a thump, rises with a spring, makes faces like an actor! Say ‘Rats!’—he wants to tear the room to pieces, he is sure he sees what is only in your own imagination! Why, his very tail is eloquent! I seem to understand every inclination or perpendicular of it! This dog is the embodiment of alertness and intelligence. The pity of it is, he is not for sale; no money would buy him. I would give twenty pounds for him, I should so like you to realise what a perfect dog can be!

Your patience may make something of our dog in time, but his nature is not gentle to begin with. This dog, as I said, is a gentleman—yet while gentle to friends, bold as a lion to all vermin—human and other.

He attracted my attention three days ago, as he was outside the hotel-door, beseeching to come in. He saw me take a step as though to go on my way, his eyes became more limpid, he whined; had he spoken English, I could not have understood him better!

November 15th, 1893. I left Manchester yesterday at noon, and arrived in London at 5 P.M., and found a mild kind of November fog and damp, cold weather here. After an anchorite’s dinner, with a bottle of Apollinaris, I drove off to the Smoking-concert at the Lambeth. The programme consists of comic songs, ballads, and recitations, as usual; just when the smoke was amounting to asphyxiation, I was asked to ‘say a few words.’ I saw that my audience was more than usually mixed, very boyish young fellows, young girls, and many, not-very-intellectual-looking, men and women. The subjects chosen by me were the Matabele War, and the present Coal-war or Strike. In order to make the Matabele War comprehensible to the majority, I had to use the vernacular freely, and describe the state of things in South Africa, just as I would to a camp of soldiers.

In doing this, I made use of the illustration of an Englishman, living in a rented house, being interfered with in his domestic government by a burly landlord, who insisted on coming into his house at all hours of the day, and clubbing his servants; and who, on the pretence of searching for his lost dog and cat, in his tenant’s house, marched away with the Englishman’s dog and other trifles. You who know the Englishman, I went on, when in his house, after he has paid his rent and all just debts; you can best tell what his conduct would be! It strikes me, I said, that the average man would undoubtedly ‘boot’ the landlord, and land him in the street pretty quickly. Well, just what the Englishman in Lambeth would do, Cecil Rhodes did in South Africa with Lobengula. He paid his rent regularly, one thousand two hundred pounds a year or so, besides many hundreds of rifles, and ammunition to match, and other gifts, for the right to manage Mashonaland as he saw fit. Now in the concession to Rhodes, Lobengula had reserved no rights to meddle in the territory. Therefore, when, under the plea that his cattle had been stolen by Rhodes’s servants, or subjects, the Mashonas, Lobengula marched into Rhodes’s territory and slaughtered the Mashonas and took the white man’s cattle, besides creating a general scare among the outlying farmers, and the isolated miners,—Jameson, who was acting as Rhodes’s steward, sent the sub-agent Lendy upon the tracks of the high-handed Matabele,—hence the war.

This little exposition took amazingly, and there was not one dissentient voice.

About the Coal-war I was equally frank, and said, in conclusion, that, if I had any money to spare at the present time, it would not be given to men who were determined to be sulky, and who, to spite the coal-owners, preferred to starve, but to those poor, striving people, who, though they had nothing to do with the dispute between miners and coal-owners, had to bear the same misery which the miners were supposed to suffer from, and who were obliged to pinch and economise in food, in order not to be without coals. This drew a tremendous burst of cheers, and ‘Aye, aye, that is true.’

Some very bad cigars and black coffee were thrust upon me, and I had to take a cigar, and a teaspoonful of the coffee; neither, you may rest assured, did me any good!

Yesterday, I read W. T. Stead’s last brochure, ‘2 and 2 make 4.’—I think it is very good. Stead aims to be the ‘universal provider’ for such people as cannot so well provide for themselves. He is full of ideas, and I marvel how he manages to find time to write as he does; he has mortgaged his life for the benefit of the many sheep in London, who look to him as to a shepherd.

The ‘Daily Paper,’ of which I have a specimen, may be made very useful; and I hope he will succeed with it; but it does not touch the needs of the aristocratic, learned, and the upper-middle class. Some day, I hope some other type of Stead will think of them, and bring out a high-class journal which shall provide the best and truest news, affecting all political, commercial, monetary, manufacturing, and industrial questions at home and abroad; not forgetting the very best books published, not only in England, but in Europe, and America, and from which ‘Sport’ of all kinds will be banished.

It ought to be printed on good paper, and decent type; the editorials should be short; the paper should not be larger than the ‘Spectator,’ and the pages should be cut. I quite agree with Stead that it is about time we should get rid of the big sheets, and the paper-cutter. Wherefore I wish Stead all success, and that, some day, one may arise who will serve the higher intelligences in the country, with that same zeal, brightness, and inventiveness, which Stead devotes to the masses. Now I have faithfully said my say, and send you hearty greetings.

November 17th, 1893. I have been to Bedford, and am back. My inviter and entertainer was Mr. A. Talbot, a Master of the Grammar School at Bedford. This school was founded in 1552, by Sir William Harper, a Lord Mayor of London, who endowed it with land which, at the time, brought only one hundred and sixty pounds a year, but which has since grown to be sixteen thousand pounds a year. A new Grammar School was completed three years ago, at a cost of thirty thousand pounds, and is a magnificent structure of red brick with stone facings. Its Hall is superb, between forty and fifty feet high, and about one hundred feet, by forty feet. It was in this Hall I lectured to a very crowded audience.

The new lecture on ‘Emin’ was received in perfect silence until I finished, when the applause was long and most hearty. But, to my astonishment, after all my pains to prune it down, it lasted one hour and fifty minutes in delivery. As I drew near the catastrophe, you could have heard a pin drop—and I really felt emotional, and was conscious that every soul sympathised with me when I came to the meeting of the avenger of blood and his victim, Emin.[46]

Strange! I read in a telegram in the ‘Standard,’ which came to the house before I left, that Said-bin-Abed, the avenger, had been caught by the Belgian officers at Kirundu (which I know well), was condemned to death, and shot. Thus retribution overtook him, too!

Few in this country know that I am the prime cause of this advance of the Belgians against the Arab slave-raiders. Indeed, people little realise how I have practically destroyed this terrible slave-trade, by cutting it down at its very roots. I have also been as fatal to Tippu-Tib, Rashid, his nephew, who captured Stanley Falls from Captain Deane, Tippu-Tib’s son, Muini Mubala, and, lastly, Said-bin-Abed,—the son of my old host, ‘Tanganyika,’ as Abed-bin-Salim was called—as if I had led the avengers myself, which I was very much solicited to do.

It has all been part of the policy I chalked out for myself in Africa, and urged repeatedly on the King of the Belgians, at every interview I have had with him, with one paramount object in view,—the destruction of the slave-traffic.

At this very time, we have a great scheme which must not be disclosed, no! not even to you, yet! but which you may rest assured is for the ultimate benefit of that dark humanity in the Lualaba region.

Of course, military men, especially continentals, are rather more severe than I should have been; for, if I had caught Said-bin-Abed, I should have sent him to Belgium, even though he murdered Emin, or had murdered a friend. But the suppression of the Arabs had to be; and my prophecy to Charles Allen, of the Anti-slavery cause, that I made to him in June, 1890, has come to pass. I said that ‘in the next five years, I should have done more for the Anti-slavery cause than all the Anti-slavery Societies in Europe could have done,’ and it is done, in the complete conquest of those receivers and raiders, who have been so often mentioned in my lectures!

The king did not wish to proceed to extremes, but I drove home every argument I could think of, each time I met him, or wrote, to prove that it was essential. ‘Yet,’ I said, ‘at the first sign of submission, remember mercy; but exercise it only when they have laid down their arms.’ When the Belgians have reached Tanganyika Lake, and either drive the surviving Arabs across the lake, or into unconditional submission, the work may be considered over. The death of so many of my officers and men will then have been amply avenged; and an era of peace for the poor, persecuted natives will begin.

Mr. Phillpots, the Headmaster, I forgot to say, introduced me very nicely indeed by touching on the six journeys I have made to Africa, leaving me to speak upon the seventh. After the lecture, Mr. Phillpots, and all the Masters, supped at Mr. Talbot’s, and I was in such a vein, that I kept them all up until it was a little after 1 A.M. I was horrified! and, soon after the departure of the guests, I jumped into bed, and was fast asleep within a few minutes.

I am at the Second Volume of Lowell, and time flies by so rapidly that I will not be able to read Lugard’s book for a few days yet.

The First Volume of Lowell’s Letters gives us a pretty clear idea of the man. I see in him the type of a literary character, whose nature I have often been made acquainted with in the past, though not in quite so cultured a form as in Lowell.

But, with all his culture, learning, and poetry, and though he is so kind-hearted, loving, sympathetic, ready to oblige, he is what I should call in England, ‘provincial,’ in every feeling. Though I never saw Lowell face to face, I feel as if I could make a presentment of every characteristic lineament, his walk, gesture, bearing, the smile on his face, the genial bluish-grey eye, even to his inches.

These Letters, however, only reveal the generous temper, humour, moods, and his fond weaknesses. We should know more about his inward thoughts, his best views of men, and matters political, literary, social, etc., etc., to get a complete knowledge of him. These letters only refer to Lowell and his immediate acquaintances, and there are very few things in them that a reader would care to hear twice. I could scarcely point to a dozen sentences, all told, that compel a pause.

How different this is from what one could show in Ruskin, the prose poet of England, or in Carlyle; or in Boswell’s Johnson, or in De Quincey, even! Yet, I admit, it is unfair to judge Lowell by his Letters only, and that we should examine his prose and poetry before deciding. Twice, only, was I thrilled, just a little, and then from sympathy with the bereaved husband and father.

Had Lowell kept a journal like Sir Walter Scott, I feel the world would have had something worth reading. Sometimes I appear to look, as through a window, into the heart of the writer and his correspondent. There is something too frequent, also, in the phrase, ‘I do not care what you think of my books, but I want you to like me!’ I do not wish to pursue this theme, for fear you will get the impression that I do not like Lowell; but I do heartily like him; and, again, I think his journal would have been infinitely better.[47]

November 20th, 1893. This year has been fatal to my friends: Mackinnon, Parke, and now my best friend, Alexander Low Bruce.[48] He was one of the staunchest, wisest, trustiest men I ever knew. This England has some other men as worthy, as sensible, as good, as he, but it is not likely it will be my good fortune to meet again a man of this kind to whom I could expose all that is in my breast with full reliance on his sympathy and his honour. I always felt that Bruce was like a dear brother to me.

November 29th. This is the severest blow I have yet received. Bruce was more of my own age than either Mackinnon, or Parke, and it is perhaps owing in a measure to that fact, that his views of men and affairs were more congenial, or more in harmony with my own.

Mackinnon belonged to an older generation, and was the centre of many interests in which I had no concern. Parke again was of a younger generation, and with all his sweet, simple nature I found it difficult to maintain that level of ideas which belonged to his age. But, with Bruce, it was wholly different. His judgment was formed, and he was in the free exercise of his developed faculties. He was originally of a stronger fibre than either Mackinnon or Parke, i. e., from the common-sense point of view. He might not have the bold, business audacity of Mackinnon, nor his keen foresight for investments, but his level-headedness was more marked. One felt that Bruce’s judgment could be trusted, not only in business matters, but in every concern included in practical life.

He was not a literary man, but truly imperial, and highly intelligent, endowed with such large sympathies, that nothing appertaining to British interests was too great or too small for him. In politics, he was simply indefatigable in behalf of the Union. Formerly a Liberal like myself, Gladstone’s sudden ‘volte-face’ was too much for him, which proves him to be more attached to principles than to whims.

The amount of correspondence entailed on him by the influence he exercised in South Scotland was something extraordinary; his bill for postage must have been unusual. His industry was incredible. His labours did not fray that kindly temper of his in the least, nor diminish the hearty, friendly glance of his eyes. I know no man living among my acquaintances who took life with such a delightful sense of enjoyment, and appeared so uniformly contented. Considering his remarkably penetrative discernment of character, this was the more to be wondered at. I really envied him for this. He could look into the face of a declared opponent, and, though I watched, I could not detect the slightest wavering of that honest, clear, straight look of kindness which was a recognised characteristic of Bruce. I could not do it: when I love, I love; and when I disagree, I cannot hide it!

I should say, though I do not pretend to that intimate knowledge of his boyhood that a relative or school-mate might have, his life must have been a happy one. It is nearly twenty years since I first knew him, and, during that time, there has been a steady growth of affection and esteem for him. I could have been contented on a desert island with Bruce, because contact with him made one feel stronger and nobler. Well, my dear, knowing and loving Bruce as you know I did, you can appreciate my present feelings.

These repeated blows make me less and less regardful of worldliness in every form. Indeed, I have done with the world, though there are a number of little things that I should do before quite surrendering myself to the inevitable. I wonder, indeed, that I am still here,—I, who, during thirty-five years, have been subjected to the evils of almost every climate, racked by over three hundred fevers, dosed with an inconceivable quantity of medicine, shaken through every nerve by awful experiences, yet here I am! and Bruce, and Parke, and Mackinnon, are gone; I write this to-day as sound, apparently, as when I started on my wanderings; but then a week hence, where shall I be?

November 27th, 1893.

My dear D.,—I finished Volume Two of Lowell’s Letters yesterday. My former opinion needs slight modification, or rather expansion; it was incomplete, as any opinion of an unfinished career must be.

But, now that the career is ended, and the Life is closed, I am at liberty to amplify what I would willingly have said, at once, of any promising man who had continued in consistent goodness, that the expectations formed have been fulfilled. Soon after beginning the Second Volume the attention is not so often arrested by signs of youthful vanity. He has no sooner passed middle age, than one’s love for the writer grows more and more complete. He is a ‘littérateur’ above all things, to the last; but you also observe his growth from letter to letter into a noble-hearted, affectionate, upright old man.

He is not free, to the closing letter, of the Lowellian imperfections; but these do not detract from the esteem which I find to be increasing for him; like the weaknesses of some of one’s personal friends, I rather like Lowell the better for them, for they lighten one’s mood of severe respect towards him. After dipping into one or two specimens of poetry which the book contains, his letters do not reveal him wholly, in my opinion. There is one to ‘Phœbe’ which deeply moved me, and I feel convinced there must be gems of thought among his poetical productions. As I closed the books, Lowell’s image, though I never saw him, came vividly before me as he sat in Elmwood library, listening to the leafy swirl without, the strange sounds made by winds in his ample chimney, and the shrill calls, ‘wee-wee,’ of the mice behind the white wainscoting!

May his covering of earth lie lightly, and his soul be in perfect communion with his loved dead!

December 12th, 1893. Sir Charles and Lady Euan-Smith, Mr. E. L. Berkley, of Zanzibar, and Mr. H. Babington Smith lunched with us.

January 1st, 1894. Sir Samuel White Baker died yesterday. Some years ago I had the photographs of the four greatest travellers of the period, Livingstone, Burton, Speke, and Baker, enlarged, and framed them all together. They are all dead now, Baker being the last to go!

Each was grand in his own way: Livingstone, as a missionary explorer, and the first of the four to begin the work of making known the unexplored heart of Africa, and he was deservedly the most famous; Burton, as a restless wanderer in foreign lands, and a remarkable and indefatigable writer; Speke, the hunter-explorer, with strong geographical instincts, was second to Livingstone for his explorations; Baker, as a hunter, carried his hunting into unknown parts, and distinguished himself by his discovery of the Albert Nyanza, and by his adventures.

The Prince of Wales became interested in him, and through the influence of the Prince, he was appointed Egyptian pro-consul of the Upper Nile regions at a munificent salary. Baker was not an explorer in the sense that Livingstone and Speke were, and, consequently, beyond the discovery of the existence of the Albert Lake, he did little to make the Upper Nile region known. The record of his five years’ rather violent administration of Equatoria is given in his book called ‘Ismailia’; and it will be seen there that he left the region surrounding Ismailia almost as unknown, after his term of service was over, as when he reached it to begin his duties as Administrator.

Apart from this, however, he was a fine fellow—physically strong, masterful, and sensible; as a brave hunter, he was unmatched; as a writer of travels, he was a great success. He was a typical Conservative Englishman; he knew by intuition what Englishmen like to hear of their countrymen’s doings, which, added to his artistic style of writing, charmed his readers.

Another thing to his credit, be it said by me, who know whereof I am speaking, he was too great in mind, and too dignified in character, to belong to any geographical clique, and join in the partisan warfare which raged in Savile Row between 1860-80. He rather took the opposite way, and did not disdain to speak a good word for any explorer who happened to be an object of attack at the time.

November 28th. The death of another friend is to-day announced. This time it is Charles Edward Ingham, ex-guardsman and missionary, whom I employed, in 1887, for my transport service. He is reported as having been killed by an elephant. It is not long ago I recorded in these pages the death of his good and beautiful wife. This devoted couple were wonderful for their piety, and their devotion to the negroes of the Congo.

Early in 1894, Stanley caught cold, and had a succession of malarial attacks. Change of air was advised, and he went to the Isle of Wight, where I joined him a few days later. I here give extracts from his letter.

Shanklin, March 15th, 1894. I came here from Fresh-water, because that place did not agree with me, and because the accommodation provided was wretched, and the rooms ill-ventilated. I wonder how many people died in the room I occupied? I fancied their spirits sailing about from corner to corner, trying to get out into the air, and at night settling around my head, disturbing my sleep in consequence! I have been reading Vasari’s ‘Machiavelli,’ and, I am thankful to say, he has removed the disagreeable impression I had conceived of his principles from a book I read about him twenty-five years ago; or, perhaps my more mature age has enabled me to understand him better.

Vasari gives one chapter of comments, from various writers, on him; but the one that comes nearest the right judgment on him is Bacon, who said that gratitude was due to him, and to those like him, who study that which men do, instead of that which they ought to do. In fact, Machiavelli has written about contemporaneous Italy just as we speak privately, but dare not talk openly, of our political world.

When we described Gladstone, before his retirement, we called him by the euphonious term of the ‘old Parliamentary hand.’ What did we mean by that, we who are his opponents? We meant it in this strictly Machiavellian sense. This would once have shocked me, just as many of the Florentine’s critics, especially Frederick the Great, affected to be; yet Frederick, and Napoleon, and almost every eminent English politician, except Balfour, were, and are, Machiavellian, and are bound to be!

The following passage is taken from the Journal:—

October 29th, 1894. D. and I left London for Dolaucothy, Llanwrda, S. Wales, to spend three days with Sir James and Lady Hills-Johnes.[49] Lord Roberts and his daughter Eileen were there. Sir James is a delightful host, a most kind, straightforward soldier. He is a V. C., because of dashing exploits in India. He has been Governor of Cabul.

Lord Roberts, Sir James, and myself were photographed by Lady Hills-Johnes. When the photograph came out, it was seen that we were all three of the same height, with a sort of brother-like resemblance.

Sir James is a very winning character, for he takes one’s good-will and affection by storm. His heart is white and clean. As for Lady Hills-Johnes, her rare gifts of intellect and sympathy penetrate the heart, like welcome warmth.

I have been more talkative in this house than I have been in any house I can remember, except Newstead Abbey, where one was stimulated by that exceptional, most loveable being, Mrs. Webb.

I happened to be full of speech, and the Hills-Johnes had the gift of knowing how to make me talk. So, what with full freedom of speech, friendly faces, and genuine sympathy, I was very happy, and I fear I shall leave here with a reputation for loquacity. When I leave, I shall cork up again, and be my reserved self!

November 7th, Wednesday. Went to the Queen’s Hall to hear Lord Salisbury speak. Again I was struck by the want of the proper spirit which makes the orator. His appearance, especially his head, large brow, and sonorous voice, his diction, all befit the orator; but the kindling animation, that fire which warms an audience, is absent. The listener must needs follow a sage like the Marquis, with interest; but what an event it would be in the memory of those who haunt political gatherings of this kind, if, suddenly, he dropped his apparent listlessness, and were to speak like a man of genuine feeling, to feeling men! It would be a sight to see the effect on the warm-hearted audience!

Christmas, 1894, we spent on the Riviera, and here Stanley wrote part of his Autobiography, which he had commenced the year before.

Monte Carlo. Have written a few pages of my Autobiography, but these spasmodic touches are naturally detrimental to style.

CHAPTER XXII

IN PARLIAMENT

When I reached the crudely-lighted Club-room, and stood by the door, the shout of multitudes was overwhelming. Men, in black masses, were surging up the street. They poured in, Stanley in their midst, looking white and very stern. He was seized, and swung up like a feather, on men’s shoulders, and carried to a table at the further end of the Hall. As he passed me, I caught his hand; it was so cold, it seemed to freeze mine! He was called upon for a speech. ‘Speak to us, Stanley,’ was shouted. Stanley merely drew himself up, and, with a steady look, very characteristic, said quietly, ‘Gentlemen, I thank you, and now, good-night!’ In a few minutes, he and I were stepping into a hansom cab in a back street. During the drive we did not speak. In the hall of our home, I thought he would say something about the victory, but he only smiled at me, and said, ‘I think we both need rest; and now for a pipe.’ We both, as Stanley said, needed rest; I was tired out, and left London for the Engadine, whilst Stanley remained for the Opening of Parliament. He promised to keep a Journal of his first impressions of the House of Commons, and sent the pages to me day by day. I here give extracts from that ‘Journal of one week in the House of Commons.’

August 12th, 1895. The architect of the House must have been very deficient in sense of proportion, it seems to me. I think, of all the Parliament Houses I ever saw, I am obliged to confess that any of the State Houses in America would offer superior accommodation to the Members. Where are the desks for the Members, the comfortable, independent chairs, the conveniences for making notes, and keeping papers? In contrast to what my mind recalls of other Chambers, this House is singularly unfurnished. Money has been lavished on walls and carved galleries, but nothing has been spent on conveniences. Then, again, the arrangements: the two Parties, opposed in feeling and principle, have here to confront one another, and present their sides to the Speaker, instead of their faces. Surely we ought to find something more congenial to look at than sour-looking opponents!

At ten minutes to two, I was back in the House. It was now crowded, every seat was occupied, Cross-benches, and under the Gallery, as well as both doorways. Then the House hushed, and in came an officer from the Lords, in old-fashioned costume of black, and a wig, gingerly carrying a gilded rod. He walked trippingly along the floor of the House to our table, at which sat three old-fashioned and be-gowned officers, and delivered a message in a not very clear voice. Whereupon the centre officer stood up, and advanced from behind the table towards him, the one with the gilded rod tripping mincingly backward. When they were both near the door, G. J. Goschen and a few other leaders strode after him; then, from either side of the House, Members poured and formed procession, until there were probably three hundred in it.

We marched through the passage in twos and threes, passing two great Halls crowded with visitors, many of whom were ladies. We halted at the Bar of the Lords. Then I knew we were in the ‘gilded chamber,’ which has been so often spoken about lately. This was my first view of it, and I looked about me curiously. To call it a ‘gilded chamber’ is a simple exaggeration. There was not enough gilding for it to merit that term. It was nearly empty, there being about sixteen Peers in their seats. Four scarlet-gowned, cock-hatted gentlemen sat in front of the Throne, and some twenty ladies occupied the settees on the right.

As soon as our ‘Commons’ officer, whom we had followed, had entered, the Clerk of the Lords, standing between him and the scarlet-gowned four, commenced reading from an elaborately-engraved parchment. He was well into his subject before I could get near enough to the Bar to hear his voice. I could not distinguish any word he said, but when he concluded, the Lord Chancellor—I suppose it was he—read in a much clearer voice some message to the effect that we could proceed to elect a Speaker. When he concluded, he and his three friends took off their hats; at which we retired, betaking ourselves to our own House through the long passage by which we had left.

I met many friends, but I have not been able to exchange twelve sensible words with any of them except Mr. Charles Darling, Q. C., M. P.,[50] and Colonel Denny, M. P. All the rest appear to be in a perfect fever. They no sooner grasp your hand and pour out congratulations than they turn away to another person, and, during their glib greetings, keep looking away to someone else.

I searched the faces on the Radical benches to see if I recognised John Burns and James J. O’Kelly. I would not be sure of O’Kelly, because he is so different from the slim young man I knew in Madrid in 1873—twenty-three years ago.

It is too early yet to say whether I shall like the House or not. If there is much behaviour like that of Dr. Tanner in it, I shall not; but it is ominous to me that the man can be permitted to behave so badly.

William Allen, the Northumbrian, was a prominent figure among the Radicals, with his American felt hat, and loud grey suit. He is certainly a massive fellow; and I am half-inclined to think that he is rather vain, under all that Radical affectation of unkemptness. If true, it is a pity; for he must have a good heart, and plenty of good sense.

I have written this out on the spur of the moment, while all is fresh in my mind. Mayhap I will send you more of the hasty diary, the day after to-morrow.

Second day, 14th Parliament of Her Majesty’s reign.

August 13th. I walked down to the House at 11 A.M. Members were just beginning to arrive. Secured my seat, this time on an upper bench, behind our leaders, that I might be away from the neighbourhood of that ill-mannered Dr. Tanner, and not vis-à-vis to the scowling Radicals.

I strode through the passages to the big ante-hall, where I found the Members had begun to gather. One came to me with level eyes, and was about to indulge in an ejaculation, when I said, ‘I almost think I know you by your look. You can’t be O’Kelly?’ He softened, and answered ‘Yes,’—upon which, of course, I expressed my surprise that this stout figure could be the slim young man I knew in Madrid, twenty-three years ago. At that time he had just been released from a Cuban prison, and had been sent to Spain by the Cuban authorities. Sickles, the American Minister, obtained his release on parole. Now, here he stood, transformed into an elderly legislator! I gently chaffed him that, knowing I had been in London so many years, he had never sought my acquaintance. ‘Tell me, honestly,’ I said, ‘was it not because you had become such an important public man?’ It confused him a little, but O’Kelly and I were always pretty direct with each other.

Just near me was the worthy Kimber, of Wandsworth. I turned to him, and said, ‘Now come, have some tenderness for a stranger, and tell me something of someone. May we not sit together for this one time, and let me hear from you, who is who?’

‘By all means, come,’ he said, gaily; and, as it was drawing near noon, we entered the House, and we took our seats near old Sir John Mowbray. I was fairly placed for observation, and sufficiently distant from the Radicals.

‘Who is that gentleman opposite to me, next to John Ellis, second in support of Speaker Gully yesterday?’—‘That is Farquharson, of Aberdeen. That light-haired young man is Allen, of Newcastle. The gentleman on the upper bench is Sir E. Gourley, of Sunderland; and the one opposite, on the other bench, is Herbert Gladstone.’ But it is unnecessary to go further, you will understand his method. He pointed out quite two-score of people, with some distinctive remark about each.

It was two or three minutes past twelve. A hush fell on the House, the doors were thrown open, and in walked Black Rod, Captain Butler, straight to the Bar, but daintily, as though he were treading consecrated ground. He delivered his message to the Speaker, who sat bareheaded, out of courtesy to the stranger. Black Rod having backed a certain number of paces, the Speaker, William Court Gully, rose, stepped down to the floor, and marched resolutely forward. Members poured out in greater number than yesterday, as though to protect our gallant leader during the perils he was to encounter with the awful Lords. I looked up and down the procession, and, really, I think that not only the Speaker but the nation might have been proud of us. We made such a show! Of course, the halls were crowded with sight-seers.

By the time the Speaker was at the Bar, Kimber and I had got into the Gallery of the Peers’ Chamber, and I now looked down upon the scene. The four big-wigs in scarlet and cocked hats were before the Throne. They looked so still that they reminded me of ‘Kintu and his white-headed Elders.’[51] The Peers’ House was much emptier even than yesterday; I counted five Peers only. The Speaker, backed by the faithful Commons, demanded freedom of debate, free exercise of their ancient privileges, access to Her Majesty’s presence on occasion, etc., and when he had ended, the Lord Chancellor, immoveable as yesterday, read out that Her Majesty graciously approved his election as Speaker, and was pleased to grant that her faithful Commons should enjoy, etc., etc., etc.

It was over! Back we strode to our House, policemen bareheaded now. Our Speaker was full Speaker, if you please, and the First Commoner in the realm. We reached our House, the Speaker disappeared, and, when we had taken our seats again, he presently burst upon the scene. We all rose to our feet bareheaded. He was now in full heavy wig and robes. He had a statelier pace. Irving could not have done it better on the Stage.

He rose to his chair, ampler, nobler, and sat down heavily; we all subsided, putting on our hats. Up rose the Speaker, and informed us that he had presented our petition to the Throne, and had been graciously received, and all the Commons’ privileges had been confirmed. He took the opportunity, he said, while on his feet, of thanking us once more for the honour we had done him. He had not gone far with his speech before he said ‘I graciously,’ and then corrected himself, one or two Members near me grunting, ‘Humph.’ What will not nervousness make unhappy fellows say! He meant to say, ‘I sincerely’!

We were now to prepare to take the Oath. He took it first, Sir Reginald Palgrave delivering it to him. He signed his name on the roll, after which the book was brought to the table, on which were five New Testaments, and five cards on which were these words:—

‘I —— do solemnly swear to bear faithful and true allegiance to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, her heirs and successors according to law. So help me God.’

Balfour, Goschen, Harcourt, Fowler, and another, stood up at the table, held the book up, repeated the oath, kissed the Testament, and each went to subscribe his name on the roll. What an Autograph-book, after all have signed it!

Another five Ministers came, took the Oath, and departed; another five, and then the Privy Councillors, and after them the ordinary Members. And now that stupid English habit of rushing occurred, just as they do everywhere, and on every occasion, at Queen’s levées, at railway-stations, and steamer-gangways. An Englishman is a gregarious animal. He must rush, and crowd, and jostle, looking as stupidly-amiable as he can, but, nevertheless, very much bent on getting somewhere, along with the crowd. The table could not be seen for the fifty or more who formed a solid mass. I waited until 1.15 P.M. I then went; the mass was much reduced, but I was driven to the table with force. I looked behind. It was O’Kelly. ‘Keep on,’ he said; ‘I follow the leader.’ ‘All right, I will pass the Testament to you next.’ Two begged for it—Colonel Saunderson was one—but I was firm. ‘Very sorry, Colonel, I have promised.’

I repeated the Oath, kissed the Testament, and handed the book to O’Kelly, hoping he will be honest with his Oath, and ‘bear faithful and true allegiance,’ etc.!

I signed my name in the book,—‘Henry M. Stanley, North Lambeth,’—was introduced to Mr. Speaker, who knows how to smile, and nod, and shake hands graciously,—passed through, and met the doorkeeper, who said, ‘Mr. Stanley, I presume?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Ah, I thought I recognised you. I heard you lecture once at Kensington,’ etc., etc.

I was shown the way, got out into the street, took a hansom, and drove to Mr. (now, Sir Henry) Lucy’s, at Ashley Gardens, for lunch, where we had an extremely pleasant party. Parted at 3.30, and I travelled home, where I looked over a pile of Blue-books, and wrote this long entry of the second day of Parliamentary life!

The 15th inst. was the beginning of work. I was at Prayers for the first time. Canon Farrar officiated. There was a short exhortation, when we turned our faces to the wall and repeated the Lord’s Prayer after him; after which, we had three short prayers, and the ‘Grace,’ and it was over. I noticed the Members joined heartily on our side in the Lord’s Prayer. It is at such times that Englishmen appear best to me. They yield themselves unreservedly to the customs of their forefathers, in utter defiance of the blatant atheism of the age. The ceremony was sweetly simple, yet it moved me; and, in my heart, I honoured every Member the more for it. I thought of Solomon’s beautiful Prayer for Understanding, and the object of these supplications was for assistance in the right doing of the legislative work before the House.

The Speaker has grown sensibly, in my estimation, since the first day when he sat in the ranks, on the Radical benches. Then he appeared a clever, legal-looking member, of somewhat high colour, a veritable ‘Pleydell’ (Scott’s ‘Guy Mannering’). Though I have seen him in his process of transformation into the First Commoner, I was not quite prepared for this increased respect. I suppose the form and ceremony attending his coming and going, the ready obedience and respect of every Member and official, have somewhat to do with my conversion. I feel as if we were going to be proud of him.

The seconder of the Address was our friend Robertson, of Hackney, who was in Court dress. He spoke well, but wandered discursively into matters that seemed to have no application to the Address. He referred slightly, by innuendo, to me, as being in the House, with a large knowledge of Africa. Dr. Tanner, contravening the usage of the House, cried out, ‘That is Stanley!’

After Robertson, up rose Sir William Harcourt in a ponderous way, extremely old-fashioned and histrionic. I used, in my boyhood, to fancy this style was very grand; but, with more mature intelligence, I cannot say I admire it. It is so markedly stage-like, that I feel a resentful contempt for it. All the time I thought how much better his speech would sound if he left off that ponderous manner, and was more natural. He, no doubt, has the gift of speech; but the style is superfluous. It is slow and heavy, reminding one of the heavy gentlemen of a past age on the boards, playing The Justice; and, naturally, chaff came in freely; for it all seemed part of the comedy. Balfour called it ‘easy badinage,’ but that is his polite way.

I find that the art of speaking has not been cultivated. Each speaker, so far, has shewn that he possesses matter abundantly—words flow easily, which make readable speeches; but while I did not expect, where it was not needed, any oratorical vehemence or action, I did expect what I might call ‘the oratorical deportment,’ such as would fit the subject-matter. The speakers have words and intonations that ought, with improved manner, to elevate them in the mind of the listener. Their hands fidget about books and papers, their bodies sway in contrary attitude to the sentiment. I attribute this to want of composure, born of nervousness. Yet such veteran speakers by this time ought to be above being flurried by a sympathetic House.

Balfour came next, with a long speech, which was undoubtedly a relief.

Sir Charles Dilke jumped up after Balfour, and he seemed to me to come nearer to what I had been expecting to see. His voice is showy, but not so sweet as Balfour’s. His manner is cool, composed, and more appropriate to the spirit of debate, as I conceive it. There is an absence of all affectation, so that he is vastly preferable to Harcourt. It is a cultivated style; he seems to be sure of his facts, there is no deprecation, neither is there haughtiness. He is professionally courteous, and holds himself best of all. With the sweet voice of Balfour, his own composure and self-possession, I think Dilke would have been superior to all.

Mr. Seton-Karr was also excellent. Matter, style, bearing, most becoming; no hesitancy, doubt, or awkwardness, visible. Good-tempered, too. His subject was not such as to call for exertion of power; but he was decidedly agreeable.

Up rose Mr. Haldane, and gave us a lecture, extremely bantering in tone. His whole pose was so different from all his predecessors! The solemn ponderousness, and affected respect for the House, of Harcourt; the deprecating manner of Balfour; the professional gravity of Dilke, were so opposite to the gage-throwing style of Haldane. He is a combatant, and only bides his chance.

John Redmond followed, with a plain, matter-of-fact, but good speech. He does not aim at making impressions, but to deliver himself of a duty.

John Dillon was next. He, also, has a thin voice, and speaks well; but, while it would be impossible for him to excite excessive admiration, he wins our respect and friendly tolerance. There is no arrogance; but he impresses one as well-meaning, though blindly devoted to meaner glories for his country, and wholly unconscious of the grander glories that he might obtain for Ireland, if he had good sense.

After Dillon, followed Gerald Balfour, with his brother Arthur’s voice and manner. He wins our regard for him personally, and we feel sure as he goes on that the speaker has a lofty idea of his duty, and that he will do it, too, though he die for it. There is not a single phrase that expresses anything of the kind; but the air is unmistakeable: neither bludgeons, nor knives, nor pistols held to his head would make him budge from the performance of duty! It is a noble pair of brothers—Arthur and he! We are all proud of them! They are fine personalities, ‘out and out!’

The impossible Dr. Tanner, however, found that he could make objections to them. I was quite thirty-five feet away from him, and yet I heard him call him—Gerald—‘the Baby.’ ‘Baby doesn’t know. Oh, they are only snobs,’ etc., etc.

There were sixty gentlemen on our side who heard Tanner, but all they said was ‘Order! Order!’ This, to me, is a wonderful instance of the courtesy to be found in the House. Sixty big, strapping gentlemen can sit still, and hear their chiefs insulted, and called ‘snobs,’ and only call ‘Order! Order!’

‘Tay-Pay’ followed, which, if it had not been for the brogue, would have been equal to the best speech of the House. He might have been Curran, Shiel, O’Connell, and Burke combined, but the ‘brogue’ would have reduced his oratory to third-rate. Nevertheless, in the construction, copiousness, command of words, and easy, composed bearing, he deserves to rank with Dilke. But the sibilancy of his words distracts the ear, and that is a pity. He can be animated, though, and at the right time. He made good play with Gerald Balfour’s expression of an ‘unchanging, and an inflexible, opposition to Home-Rule.’ I have always cared for ‘Tay-Pay.’

At midnight, we rose and left the House. Before I had finished my pipe, and a chapter of Grote, it was 1 A.M. At 6 A.M. of the 17th, punctually, I was up again, made my own tea, and, at 7 A.M., I was at my desk writing this rapid sketch for my wife!

August 20th. Yesterday was one of the most wearying days I have experienced since leaving Africa. To secure a seat at all, one has to visit the House at an early hour to write his name, and then one had to be on hand for Prayers. The sitting began at 3 P.M., and ended this morning at 2.20—eleven hours and forty minutes! We voted seven times, which occupied over three hours. We listened to the most dreary twaddle which it has ever been my lot to hear! Tim Healy was up from his seat oftener than any two men, and appeared to be maliciously bent on tiring us all out. He reminds me, when he speaks, of a gentle little zebra, trying to ‘moo.’ His round glasses, and the vast concave between his cheek-bones and eyebrows, give him this peculiar resemblance. When he turned to us, and said, ‘I look across at the boasted Majority, and I cannot say I regard it with awe,’ his likeness to a little zebra-cow was impressed on me by the way he brought out the words. It was a perfect, gentle ‘moo,’ in tone.

I have now learned to know all the most prominent among the Irish Members by sight. There is a marked difference in type between them and our Members. The Celtic, or Iberian, type affords such striking contrasts to the blonde, high-coloured Anglo-Saxon. There is the melancholy-looking John Dillon, who resembles a tall Italian or Spaniard; there is the sanguine Dalziell, like one of the Carlists of my youthful days; there is the quaint-faced Pickersgill, with the raven hair; ‘Tay-Pay,’ with hair dark as night, who, despite his London training, is still only a black-haired Celt; and many more singular types, strongly individualistic. While, on our side, Sir William Houldsworth best represents the florid-faced gentlemen who form the sturdy, long-suffering Majority.

The Obstructive tactics, about which I heard so much in the past, have been pursued for three days now, most skilfully. Like an unsophisticated new Member, I have sat watching curiously, speaker after speaker rising to his feet on the Opposition side, wondering why they showed so much greater energy than our people, and expecting to be rewarded with a great speech; but so far I have waited in vain. It dawned upon me, after a while, that they were all acting after a devised plan. There was absolutely nothing worth listening to in anything any one of them said, but it served admirably to waste time, and to exasperate, or, rather, fatigue one.

Towards midnight, the patience of the Government seemed worn out, and from that hour, until 2.20 A.M., we were kept marching to the lobbies, and being counted. Each count occupies from twenty minutes to half an hour. We went through the performance four times in succession, and our majorities were double the total number of the minority.

I was so tired, when I came home, that I felt as if I had undergone a long march. The close air of the House I feel is most deleterious to health, for the atmosphere of the small chamber after the confinement of about three hundred and fifty Members for eleven hours, must needs be vitiated.

We are herded in the lobbies like so many sheep in a fold; and, among my wonders, has been that such a number of eminent men could consent voluntarily to such a servitude, in which I cannot help seeing a great deal of degradation.

The criminal waste of precious time, devotion to antique customs, the silent endurance of evils, which, by a word, could be swept away, have afforded me much matter of wonder. There are Irish M. P.’s who must feel amply rewarded, in knowing that, through sheer excess of impudence only, they can condemn so many hundreds of their betters to bend servilely to their behests! At many of the divisions, I have been almost smothered by Hicks-Beach, the Marquis of Lorne, Austin Chamberlain, Arthur Balfour, Tom Ellis, Arnold-Forster, Henry Chaplin, George Curzon, Lord Compton, Sydney Gedge, Lord Dalkeith, Coningsby Disraeli, and scores of great land-owners and others; temperature in the nineties. While, on the other side of our cage, stood Tim Healy in the cool hall, smiling inwardly at this servility on the part of so many noble and worthy men!

But, if I pity this dumb helplessness of our great Majority, and marvel at its meek submissiveness to the wholly unnecessary, I pity still more that solitary figure in the Speaker’s Chair, who has been sitting, and standing, from 3 P.M. to 2.20 A.M. One said to me, ‘What won’t six thousand pounds a year do?’ Well, I swear that I am above it, if the reward was double; because I should not survive it long, and hence would derive no benefit from the big pay. I pity him from my heart, and I hope sincerely that his constitution is strong enough to bear it. No mortal can sit eleven hours, on a rich diet, and long survive.

August 23rd. The vote in connection with the Foreign Office, on the 21st, formed a legitimate excuse for my rising to deliver a few remarks, in answer to Sir Charles Dilke. I see those remarks are called my Maiden Speech, but as I made no preparation—as I really did not suspect there would be any occasion for interposing in the debate—I do not think they deserve to be called a speech.

Sir Charles, in that professional manner I have already alluded to, began with drawing attention to Armenia and China, and, as though he was again about to set out on a tour through Greater Britain, soon entered upon the question of the evacuation of Egypt; and, then airily winging his way across the dark continent, lighted on West Africa and its affairs, dipped into the liquor traffic; then suddenly flew towards Uganda, and, after a short rest, continued his flight to Zanzibar and Pemba.

As an exhibition of the personal interest he took in matters abroad, in little-known countries, no fault could be found with his discursive flights; that is, if the Committee were sitting for the purpose of judging his proficiency and knowledge. But, as the House takes no interest in any one’s personal qualifications, his speech was, I thought, superfluous.

It is not easy, however, to reply in the House, all at once. Half a score of Members are on the ‘qui-vive’ to discharge upon the submissive body their opinions. I perceive as each would-be speaker rises to attract the Chairman’s attention that his thoughts are abundant; but, when he is permitted to speak, the thoughts do not flow so smoothly out of his lips as they may have coursed through his mind! If he is a new Member, he is a pitiable object at such a time. Even the old Members are not always happy.

Well, after Sir Charles Dilke sat down, our friend James Bryce rose, who, I must admit, speaks fluently, as well he might, with his great experience as a Lecturer, Member, and Minister. I do not think he is at all nervous; at least, I should not judge him to be so from his manner.

After him, rose Mr. McKenna to ask about Siam. I had made a little move, but I was too late, having not quite concluded in my own mind that I ought to speak.

When he finished, Commander Bethell had the floor. These old Members shoot to their feet with a sudden spring, like Jack-in-the-Box. He spoke upon Egypt and the new countries of Central Africa like one desirous of obtaining information upon matters which puzzled him.

Parker Smith, sitting beside me, was on his feet in an instant; but what he said seemed to me rather an indistinct echo of what his brother C. S. Smith (formerly Consul at Zanzibar) thinks of Zanzibar slavery.

I rose, a trifle after he finished; but the veteran, ‘Tommy’ Bowles, was ahead of me, and what he said was fatal to the repose, and concentration, of mind necessary for a speech. He speaks excellently, and delivers good, solid matter. My surprise at his power, and my interest in what he said, was so great, that I could not continue the silent evolution of thought in which I should have engaged, had he been less interesting and informing; and here I ought to say, that I do not join with some in their dislike of him. He is not a man to be despised. As a public speaker, he comes very near in ability to Chamberlain, who is, without doubt, the best debater in the House. Given the fitting subject, suited to his manner, Mr. Bowles would certainly prove that my opinion of him as a Parliamentary debater is correct. He is quite cool, uses good language, and handles his arguments with skill. Then, again, there is no oddity or awkwardness of bearing, to neutralize the effect of his words. As I supposed he was drawing to a close, I resolutely collected my straying thoughts, and excluded what he was saying out of my mind; and, as he was sitting down, I stood up, and Mr. Lowther called out ‘Mr. Stanley’ in a firm, clear voice.

It is not a pleasant feeling to look down from the third row upon an intelligent and critical Opposition, who, you feel, are going to pay more attention to the manner than the matter of your speech. The reporters and editorial Members, in remarking upon how I spoke, gave free rein to their fancies. ‘Tay-Pay,’ as you must have seen in the pink ‘Sun’ I sent you, has excelled all the rest in his imaginative description of my deportment. You will wonder, perhaps, when I say that the picture of me, which he gives, is far from representing my inwardness. All my fellow-members have a remarkable gift of easy verbosity. There is a small kernel of fact in almost every sentence they deliver, but it is often indistinguishable, through the vast verbiage.

The veriest trifle of commonplace fact is folded round and round with tissue after tissue of superfluity. If a Member wished to say that he had seen a rat, he seems to be unable to declare the fact nakedly, but must hedge it about with so many deprecatory words that you are apt to lose sight of the substance. He says: ‘I venture to say, with the permission of the House, that unless my visual organs deceive me, and the House will bear me out when I say that my powers of ocular perception are not of the most inferior kind, that,’ etc., etc.

To nervous people, this verbiage serves as a shelter, until they can catch the idea they are groping for. I wanted some such shelter badly, for it requires a strong effort to marshal out your ideas and facts, so that there shall be no awkward break in the speech. Gladstone used to shelter to excess; he circumvented, to a weary length; and often required more than one sentence before he could muster courage to approach the fact.

Well! I have not got the art! First, I have not the patience; and, then, again, I disdain the use of the art, on principle. I want to say what I have to say, right out, and be done with it,—which does not tend to elegance.

Considering these, my Parliamentary imperfections, my facts rolled out without being over-detached. Some say I spoke rapidly. They are wrong. I spoke at the ordinary rate of public speech, and distinctly. By the kindness of the House, I was made to feel that I was not saying anything foolish or silly. That was the main point, and inspired me with just enough confidence to prevent an ignominious breakdown. I sat down with the feelings of one who had made a deep dive, and came up just in time to relieve the straining lungs. Members all said that I had done well. I was congratulated right and left. Well, honestly, I did not know whether I was doing well or ill! I had a few sentiments to utter, and I felt relieved that they were not botched.

In the afternoon, Parker Smith got up, and remarked that, in what I said, I had been ‘trading on my reputation.’ Fancy a young fellow, sitting next to you, getting up and saying such a thing,—and he a veteran Parliamentarian! I chose my time, and got up to say that I was wholly unaware of having uttered a word calling for such a remark; and I begged the honourable gentleman not to make any more such!

Yesterday, however, I did not make a brilliant figure. Ashmead-Bartlett, a truly busy bee, asked a question in regard to the hanging of Stokes, an English trader in East Africa. I, not wishing that the House should express too great an indignation, got up a question which, while it did justice to poor Stokes’s merits, showed how rash and misguided he had been in consorting with Kibonge, the murderer of Emin Pasha, and supplying him with arms. But the question was too long, and the Speaker checked me when I was near the end of it.

I have not been clear of a headache all this week. The atmosphere in the House, during this great heat, is simply poisonous. I do not wonder, now, at the pasty, House-of-Commons complexion; four hundred people breathing for ten or eleven hours the air of one room must vitiate it. Then my late hours, 2 and 3 A.M., simply torture me. One night, I was relieved by Labouchere pairing with me; and so got home by midnight, and slept six hours. On all other nights, I have not been able to obtain more than four hours’ sleep.

Yesterday, I paired with Labouchere, for the rest of the Session from to-night; so I shall lie in bed all day to-morrow, to rest; and, after finishing some private work, shall depart on my holiday.

Thus ends this Journal of Stanley’s first week in Parliament.

CHAPTER XXIII

SOUTH AFRICA

The English papers have been quite taken aback by it; and, here and there, some fools are talking of resistance! One man, who holds a high office in the State, talked to me last night of the manner we should fight the Americans! Poor old soul, he did not expect the contempt with which I extinguished his martial ardour. Why! if Venezuela and Guiana were both wiped out of the map, America and England would suffer from it far less than from recent speculative dishonesty. In addition to this shock from America, we are considerably disturbed by the Armenian atrocities, and what action we might be urged to take in behalf of the oppressed Armenians. The Radicals are very bellicose, and would applaud Lord Salisbury if he sent a fleet up the Dardanelles. To-day, we have news that Dr. Jameson has invaded the Transvaal, with a small force between four hundred and six hundred strong! The details are meagre, but the impression is that he is alone in this wild escapade. A ‘Sun’ interviewer has asked me my opinion in the matter, and I have said frankly that it is our duty to drive him back quicker than he went in. It is not so very long ago that I entertained both Jameson and Rhodes here. I never suspected that either of them would have been concerned in such a harum-scarum act as this!

July 7th, Tuesday. Dined with Mr. and Mrs. Yates Thompson. The Jameson Raid was very much discussed; and I found myself, in this instance, quite in accord with the Radicals whom I met there.

July 9th. Dined with Lord James of Hereford. I was surprised at his saying that there were extenuating circumstances for Jameson’s act, but it is evident that his legal acumen is awry. Under no circumstances would we profit by this Raid, however successful it might have been.

Stanley greatly rejoiced at the arrival of our little boy, Denzil, and bought picture-books for him, and toys suited to a child of four! In 1896, during a long and serious illness, what best pleased Stanley was to have the baby placed beside him on the bed. One day, when the child was there, Stanley looked up at me and said, ‘Ah, it is worth while now ... to get well!’

It was these frequent attacks of gastralgia, or gastritis, complicated by malaria, which made me so dread his returning to Africa. After our marriage, I felt no security. He himself thought he would have to go back to the Congo, for a time, ‘to put things right.’ But I knew that he ought never to return there.

Stanley was constantly being attacked by fever and these internal pains, which came without any warning, and with such intensity, that breathing was impeded. The first attack was in the Forest of Central Africa, and he describes his illness in ‘Darkest Africa,’ an illness attributable, possibly, to the poor diet, and, afterwards, to starvation.

Two days before our marriage he was taken ill, in the same way, an illness that lasted many weeks.

During Stanley’s malaria attacks, the shivering preceding the hot stage was so violent that the bed he lay on would shake, and the glasses on the table vibrate and ring. I might come in from a walk, and, not seeing Stanley in his library, run upstairs to his room, and find him in bed, covered with blankets, quilts, even great-coats; with chattering teeth, and hurried speech, he would bid me get hot-water bottles to pack round him. Then, when the cold fit had passed, and the heat had reached its maximum, he would speak to me re-assuringly, and tell me not to fear, that all would be well; that it was only ‘Africa in me,’ and I must get the quinine ready. The terrible sweating over, he would take twenty to twenty-five grains of quinine, and ... wait! So I came to know exactly what to do; but I vowed, in my heart, that he should never return to the country which had taken so much of his splendid vitality; for Stanley had had three attacks of hæmaturic fever, in Africa, and more severe malaria fevers than he could number.

In June, 1896, we arranged to visit Spain, as he wanted to show me Madrid, Toledo, etc., etc.; but, in the train, four hours before we got to Madrid, he was seized with one of these mysterious gastric attacks, and when we arrived, soon after midnight, he was hardly conscious, from extreme pain.

I could not speak Spanish, and knew no one in Madrid. We went to the principal hotel, on the Puerta del Sol; and there I waited till morning, when a clever Austrian doctor came to my assistance, but there seemed little we could do. Day by day, Stanley grew weaker; and, at last, in desperation, I decided, ill as he was, to get him back to England. By the time we reached Paris, Stanley was rather better, and, for two days, he was free from the pain and intermittent fever. But it was only a short lull, for the spasms returned, with redoubled violence, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded in getting him back to our home in London.

There, I nursed him for three months, until he gradually recovered. Thus he would enjoy spaces of perfect health, with intervals of the old trouble. I think Stanley feared nothing in the world as he feared those first ominous stabs of pain; but when the spasms were steadily recurrent, and no doctor could give him any relief, Stanley accepted the pain and weakness, silently and stoically. Here, for instance, is an entry in his Journal, in 1897:—

Pain has commenced—unable to take even milk without sickness; am resigned for a long illness—it is now inevitable; shall not be able to attend Parliament again this Session.

I knew by the sound of his voice, when he called me in the middle of the night, that the pain had come; sometimes it left quite suddenly, and we looked at each other, I, pale with fear, lest it should return. In 1897, the attack recorded above did not last, as he had feared, but, in 1898, at Cauterets, in the Pyrenees, he was again taken ill. He writes in his Journal, August 15th:—