Part 10 (1/2)

The summer of 1878 witnessed the meeting of the Congress at Berlin which followed the Russo-Turkish War. Despite all the scares through which we had pa.s.sed during the winter and spring, we had escaped the war between ourselves and Russia with which we had been so often threatened, and the purpose of the Congress was to render such a war impossible in the immediate future. It was this summer of 1878 that also witnessed Disraeli's complete triumph over his enemies and his rivals.

He had secured his own way in the Cabinet, though in doing so he had to lose the services of Lord Derby and Lord Carnarvon, and to convert Lord Salisbury to views which, up to that time, he had professed to abhor. He had brought the Indian troops to Malta, and had thereby given a significant hint to Europe as to the extent of our resources. He had got a vote of five millions from the House of Commons, and had spent a great part of it in the purchase of s.h.i.+ps of war, some of which turned out to be wholly unfitted for the requirements of the English Naval Service. His picturesque and audacious policy had won the favour of the mult.i.tude, and, despite the criticisms of Mr. Gladstone, the Prime Minister was the undisputed master of the nation.

Looking back, I do not think I am unfair when I say that Disraeli's triumph seemed to be largely due to his power of playing to the gallery.

He gave the crowd in the streets the scenic effects which they loved. He flattered their vanity, and he played upon their weaknesses, and thus he was able in a great measure to realise the florid dreams of his youth, and to strengthen English influence in that Eastern world which had always exercised so great a fascination over him. When he went to Berlin with Lord Salisbury as his companion, there was a great crowd at Charing Cross Station to see him depart. I was one of the spectators, and was struck by the deference which was paid to him by the many distinguished persons who had come to speed him on his journey. Lord Salisbury pa.s.sed unnoticed by his side. At Berlin the same thing happened. In the great Congress in which all the European Powers were represented, Disraeli's figure outshone all others. Even Bismarck seemed to take a secondary place to that of the Jew adventurer, who had made so splendid a fight for his own hand, and had achieved so magnificent a success. The story of his life, the romance of his career, and his personal peculiarities seemed to have produced a deep impression upon people of all cla.s.ses and of all nationalities, and it is no exaggeration to say that during his residence in Berlin the eyes of the whole world were fixed upon him.

When Disraeli came back from Berlin, having by an astute and not very creditable transaction secured the Island of Cyprus for the British Crown, besides compelling Russia to forego some of the fruits of her victory over Turkey, he met with a reception of extraordinary enthusiasm.

A conqueror returning from the wars could hardly, indeed, have been acclaimed more loudly than was Lord Beaconsfield as he drove from Charing Cross Railway Station to Downing Street. If he had seen fit to dissolve Parliament then he would have swept the country, and would have been confirmed in the possession of power. But he had his own standard of honour, and it did not permit him to attempt to s.n.a.t.c.h a victory of this kind. His political opponents are bound to acknowledge their indebtedness to him in this matter.

Shortly after the close of the Berlin Congress I took a long holiday from my duties at Leeds, and made a most interesting tour through Europe in the company of a friend, Mr. Greig, the manager of the Leeds Steam Plough Works. Greig was engaged on a business tour, his purpose being to see the different estates on which the system of steam culture--of which his partner, Mr. Fowler, was the author--was employed. Our trip took us in the first place to Germany, where we visited Magdeburg, Halberstadt, Berlin, and Saxon Switzerland. Thence we went into Bohemia, staying at Prague some days, and visiting some remote parts of that picturesque but most unromantic country--for there is, alas! no kins.h.i.+p between the Bohemia of reality and that of romance. After Bohemia came Vienna, Budapest, and the Danube. Then at Orsova we turned north, and went by way of Bucharest, Roman, and Lemberg into Galicia, finally making our way back again to Vienna, and thence to Paris and home. In those days much of the ground I have mentioned was practically unknown to English tourists.

The lower Danube, for example, and the great plains of Roumania, though they were within four days' rail of London, were not so well known to English people as the Nile, the Ganges, or the Mississippi. It seems strange, indeed, now to recall the fact that both in Hungary and in Roumania we visited places where Englishmen were regarded as rare and curious animals, people to be run after and stared at as they pa.s.sed along the village street. All this, I presume, is changed now through the influence of the wonder-working Cook. Yet one cannot believe that even now there are not some nooks and corners of the Bukovina where my fellow countrymen have hardly penetrated, and where they are still regarded with eyes of curiosity, if not of fear.

At all events, in my own case, in this year 1878, I no sooner diverged from the beaten track than I had experience of the fact that there was still an unexplored world within the confines of Europe. The long journey down the Danube in a steamboat, now superseded by the railway, formed in itself an expedition of no common interest. It happened that my friend and I had to leave the steamer at Mohacs, famous in history, and in the pages of Thackeray, in order to visit the vast estates of the Archduke Albrecht, at that time the richest member of the Imperial family. It was then that I had the first experience of a genuine Hungarian town, with its streets knee-deep in mud, and swarming with huge dogs of ferocious temper. On quitting the steamboat for the inn, I seemed at one step to have pa.s.sed from civilisation into savagery. Anything more atrociously filthy and repulsive than this establishment I never saw, and yet it was the best inn of a town of thirty thousand inhabitants.

When we reached our destination--a castle of the Archduke's--the next day, we found ourselves once more surrounded with the comforts and decencies of civilised life, but there were many evidences of the fact that we were here far from the world. The game of croquet, for example, had been for some ten years before this time practically extinct in England. At the Archduke's castle they seemed just to have heard of it, and were eagerly learning it when we arrived. At one of the outlying farms on the splendid estate, the manager, like all his colleagues, was of n.o.ble birth. When he found that we were Englishmen he suddenly disappeared from the room. In a few minutes he returned with a smiling and handsome young lady on his arm. ”My wife speaks English,” he declared, in accents of pride. It turned out that the lady, who had been educated at Budapest, had never spoken to any Englishman before. We seemed to be almost the first who had ever penetrated into that unknown land. When the husband found that his wife was able to converse with us he literally danced for joy, and invited all the rest of the company to witness the wonderful spectacle. The hospitality and friendliness of the Hungarians were delightful. However unpopular Englishmen might be elsewhere in Europe, at that time they were certainly loved in Hungary, and the mere fact of his nationality was sufficient to secure for the English traveller an unstinted hospitality.

Bucharest, when we reached it, was still in the occupation of the Russian army. The war with Turkey had ended many months before, but the Russian troops had not yet been withdrawn from the Danube, while thousands of Turkish prisoners of war were still under detention in Roumania. It was interesting to observe the unveiled hostility of the Russian and Roumanian officers when they met in the streets and cafes. The only salutation that pa.s.sed between them was a scowl. I heard many stories as to the jealousies and dissensions which had broken out during the war between the Russians and their allies. The siege of Plevna, in particular, had left bitter memories behind it. The Roumanians openly accused the Russian officers of having selfishly sacrificed the soldiers of the little princ.i.p.ality in order to save the lives of Russians. Great fear was felt in Bucharest that the Russians meant to stay there, and their swaggering and domineering att.i.tude certainly seemed to justify the dread felt by those who were entertaining them so unwillingly. The only happy and smiling people I encountered during my stay in Bucharest were the Turkish prisoners of war and the gipsies. The prisoners were cheerful and good-natured fellows. Most of them were eager to eke out their scanty allowance for food by doing work of any kind, and I was told that when Prince Charles returned in triumph at the head of his army after the close of the war, these Turkish prisoners had begged for and obtained the work of erecting a triumphal arch in his honour. As for the gipsies, they abounded in Bucharest now that winter had begun to close in upon the country, and the stirring strains of their quaint melodies were to be heard in every cafe and at almost every street corner.

Brofft's Hotel was at that time the chief place of entertainment in Bucharest. The princ.i.p.al bedrooms were occupied by ladies who purported to be the wives of the leading Russian officers, but about whom there was a strong smack of the boulevards. In the restaurant the officers themselves dined and drank freely at numberless small tables, Roumanians and Russians taking care to keep apart from each other. You could dine very well at Brofft's, but you had to pay for your dinner at a rate which cast into the shade the highest charges of Paris or Vienna. It was here that I had experience of an amusing piece of effrontery on the part of the proprietor. On our first evening in Bucharest my two friends and I--for Mr. Greig had been joined by another member of his firm--dined very well, but we were somewhat startled when we had to pay the bill, which amounted to more than a pound a head. The next evening, determined to be economical, we ordered a very moderate repast. Whilst we were eating it, Brofft himself appeared at our table. ”I am sorry you are having so poor a dinner to-night, gentlemen,” he said. ”I do hope you will let me add something to it, for, you know, the price will be the same, whatever you have.” And, sure enough, we again had to pay more than a pound apiece for this very unsatisfactory dinner. After that experience, we always took care to order the rarest and most costly viands on the _carte du jour._

I made one interesting acquaintance at Bucharest. This was Mr. White, the English Consul. Few at that time antic.i.p.ated that he was destined to rise to a height never before attained by a member of the Consular Service, and to end his career as Sir William White, her Majesty's Amba.s.sador at Constantinople. Yet all who are acquainted with the facts are aware that Sir William was better qualified than almost any other man for this high position, and that his death was nothing less than a national misfortune.

At Bucharest in 1878 he was living in the simplest fas.h.i.+on in the rambling Consulate. When I first went to call upon him he himself opened the door in response to my knock. We had a long conversation upon Eastern politics, in the course of which he explained his own perfect knowledge of affairs in the Balkan Peninsula by telling me that he knew all the languages spoken in that part of the world, and was consequently able to study the local newspapers for himself. White was a big, powerful man, with an air of unpolished frankness and good-nature that seemed to belie his character as a diplomatist. His was one of the most interesting careers in the public service of this country. In diplomacy he climbed from the very bottom of the tree to the very top, and he did so without having any special personal influence. The Russians both hated him and feared him, and there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a game of diplomatic bowls with Prince Gortschakoff or his successor. Some years before he went to Constantinople Lord Salisbury offered to make him our Minister at Pekin, and rumour has it that he recommended the new position to White on the ground that it was at Pekin that the battle between England and Russia would have to be fought out. But White's great ambition was to be her Majesty's Amba.s.sador to the Sublime Porte, and he declined the post at Pekin, where he might have been of even greater service to us than he was at Constantinople.

On my return to England I wrote some account of my trip in the _Fortnightly Review,_ then under the editors.h.i.+p of Mr. John Morley.

My journey had undoubtedly opened my eyes to the economic possibilities of Eastern Europe, and it had also proved to me that, at that time, at all events, England was well able to hold her own in the race for commercial supremacy even against Germany. Again and again, in visiting German workshops, I found that the practical direction of the establishment was in the hands of some Englishman or Scotsman, and the intensely practical character of the English workman, his readiness of resource, and his reliance upon himself in difficulties, were themes upon which my German friends were never tired of dilating. I am afraid that the case is somewhat different now, and that we are not so well able to compete, even on their own ground, with the artisans and business men of Germany as we were in 1878.

CHAPTER XII.

A CHAPTER OF MISFORTUNES.

Death of my Sister's Husband and of my Brother James--An Accident on Marston Moor--Sir George Wombwell's Story of the Charge of the Light Brigade--His Adventure on the Ouse--Editing a Daily Newspaper from a Sick Bed--Reflections on Death--Death of my Mother--Serious Illness of my Only Daughter.

There is a great deal of truth in the lines which declare that sorrows and troubles do not come alone--”they come not single spies, but in battalions.” I have had experience of the fact more than once in my own life; but never was it presented to me in such overwhelming force as in the year 1880. On January 1st in that year I attended the funeral of my only sister's husband at Kilmarnock. He, the Rev. William Bathgate, D.D., was a Scottish minister, a man of culture and refinement, and the author of some theological works which had attained considerable popularity. His death is a.s.sociated in my mind with a great public calamity, the fall of the Tay Bridge, when a train with all its pa.s.sengers was destroyed. The wind that toppled over the Tay Bridge proved fatal to my brother-in-law.

It was on a Sunday night--the last Sunday of 1879--and he had gone to visit one of the Sunday schools attached to his church. The furious gale, which about the same time destroyed the Tay Bridge, burst in its full fury upon him soon after he had left his house, and after battling against it for some time he found himself so much exhausted that he was unable to move. It was only with the a.s.sistance of a kindly pa.s.ser-by that he was enabled to return home. Half an hour later he died in my sister's presence, without a sound or a movement. I began the year, consequently, in melancholy circ.u.mstances, in attendance at his funeral.

A few weeks later, at the beginning of February, a loss which I felt still more keenly fell upon me. My elder brother, James, who had been my constant companion from boyhood, and who had spent the closing years of his life in intimate a.s.sociation with me at Leeds, died after a lingering illness. The loss of one who had been for so many years my closest companion and my most confidential friend, with whom I consulted over almost every step of my life, was irreparable, and to this hour I continue to feel the lack of his sympathy and advice in moments of personal perplexity. Always more or less of an invalid, he lived much in the life of his brothers, and his cheery fort.i.tude, kindly humour, and unfailing sympathy made his loss keenly felt in our family circle. He died, by a strange coincidence, on the tenth anniversary of the death of my first wife.

Three months later, I myself met with an accident which not only entailed great suffering upon me, but almost cost me my life. It was in the month of May, when, after the severe exertions imposed upon me by the General Election--of which I shall speak fully later on--I had left Leeds for a few days' rest and change. Sir George Wombwell, of Balaclava fame, had invited a small party--of whom I was one--to join him on a driving tour among the abbeys and ruins of the East Riding. The other members of the party were William Black, Bret Harte, who had not long before taken up his residence in England, and C. O. Shepard, the American Consul at Bradford. Our rendezvous was at York, on a certain Sat.u.r.day, and we had agreed to spend that afternoon in visiting the battlefield of Marston Moor. We drove out to the field in the highest spirits. I, in particular, was elated at the thought of my escape from the drudgery of my office, as well as by the prospect of the agreeable companions.h.i.+p of Black and Harte, not to speak of Shepard, who was an admirable teller of American stories, of which he possessed an inexhaustible fund.

We were crossing the battlefield on foot when we found our way stopped by a hedge. It was a long way round to the gate of the field, and the hedge did not seem very formidable. At all events, Black and Shepard cleared it at a bound, and laughingly challenged Harte and me to follow their example. But we were prudent men, and openly congratulated ourselves upon that fact when we discovered a gap, through which it seemed possible to pa.s.s quite easily. Harte pa.s.sed through without difficulty, and I followed his example. I had to jump about eighteen inches from the bank of the hedge into the field. Nothing seemed simpler. Yet when I landed on my feet one of them was caught in some mysterious way in a hole in the ground, and whilst it was held as in a vice, my body was wrenched round on the axis of my knee. To this day I do not understand how it happened.

All I knew at the moment was that something had given way in the knee-joint, and that when I attempted to put my foot to the ground after extricating it from the hole in which it had been caught ”the pains of h.e.l.l gat hold upon me.” I suppose I must, up to that time, have been fairly free from physical torments of any kind. I had certainly no conception, before that moment, that it was possible for a human being to suffer such torture as I had then to endure.

I turned away my face from my companions so that they might not see that I was suffering, and they went on unconscious of anything having happened. I set off to follow them, supporting myself as best I could with an umbrella which I chanced to be carrying. When they saw that I limped they inquired the cause, but I rea.s.sured them by saying that it was nothing more than a slight sprain. I was determined that I would not spoil sport, or cast a shadow over the good spirits of our party. But, Heavens, how that knee tortured me! I suppose I was a fool. Indeed the doctor told me so the next morning, with some heat and quite unnecessary emphasis. But I went on at the moment as if nothing had happened, crawling with the aid of my umbrella across field after field, and even climbing up some steps in order to see the room where Cromwell slept the night before--or was it the night after?--the battle. Then I walked on to the place where our carriage was waiting for us. It was standing at a little country public-house. ”I am going in here to get a drink,” said I to Black. ”What!” cried he. ”Drink anything here? Why, they'll poison you!”

”So much the better,” I retorted, and then my friends began to realise that I was hurt. They consulted together as to the stimulant that was most likely to be innocuous, and finally decided upon gin. I had never drunk gin in my life before. I now tossed off three gla.s.ses in quick succession. It was very nasty, and it did not take away the pain, but it made me feel rather less like dying than I had done before.

Somehow or other I got back to York, and, with the aid of the hotel porter, undressed and got to bed. By this time my knee was enormously swollen, but I was so ignorant of the actual position of affairs that I honestly thought that all that was necessary to put me right again was a rest of a few hours. Unfortunately, I was not allowed even that h.o.m.oeopathic remedy. We were to dine with Sir George Wombwell at the Yorks.h.i.+re Club that evening. I proposed to stay in bed at the hotel, but to this Black demurred. He hated to meet strangers, and he declared that if I did not go with him to the club he would not go at all. So once more the porter was requisitioned, and with his help I managed to get into evening clothes. Arrived at the club, the quick, soldierly eye of Sir George Wombwell instantly detected my condition, and diagnosed it more accurately than either I or my companions had done. I remained to dinner, but a leg-rest was provided for me, and everything done to make me feel comfortable, whilst Sir George sent a messenger to Mr. Husband, an eminent surgeon of York, asking him to see me at the hotel as early as possible next morning.

The evening pa.s.sed like a nightmare, but I still have a vivid recollection of the account which Sir George Wombwell gave me of his famous ride with the Light Brigade at Balaclava. His horse was shot under him whilst they were charging for the guns, and, being left behind whilst the brigade thundered onward, he was made prisoner by the Russian cavalry, which closed in behind our English horse. His captivity lasted, however, for but a few minutes. The cry was raised that the English were returning from their mad but heroic enterprise, and instantly the Russians scattered and fled. As Lord Cardigan, who was riding in front of the remnant of the shattered brigade, pa.s.sed Wombwell, he shouted, ”Catch a horse, you d--d young fool, and come with us!”--advice which Wombwell promptly took. He found the charger of a Russian officer, and, mounting it, came back in safety with the few survivors of the awful day.