a.s.suredly not. For, supposing he were crazy, who could have answered for his deeds? Most likely he was shadowed; and to a certainty the Emperor would be so. Still, what could save the latter from a pistol-shot? Yet, here he was, sauntering about the badly lighted streets of a town where his kenspeckle figure was familiar to every inhabitant. Call this fatalism if you will; but these were not the acts of a coward. I told this story to a friend who was well 'posted' in the club gossip of the day. He laughed.

'Don't you know the meaning of Kinglake's spite against the Emperor?'

said he. '_Cherchez la femme_. Both of them were in love with Mrs. -'

This is the way we write our histories.

Wishing to explore the grounds about the palace before anyone was astir, I went out one morning about half-past eight. Seeing what I took to be a mausoleum, I walked up to it, found the door opened, and peeped in. It turned out to be a museum of Roman antiquities, and the Emperor was inside, arranging them. I immediately withdrew, but he called to me to come in.

He was at this time busy with his Life of Caesar; and, in his enthusiasm, seemed pleased to have a listener to his instructive explanations; he even encouraged the curiosity which the valuable collection and his own remarks could not fail to awaken.

Not long ago, I saw some correspondence in the Times' and other papers about what Heine calls 'Das kleine welthistorische Hutchen,' which the whole of Europe knew so well, to its cost. Some six or seven of the Buonaparte hats, so it appears, are still in existence. But I noticed, that though all were located, no mention was made of the one in the Luxembourg.

When we left Compiegne for Paris we were magnificently furnished with orders for royal boxes at theatres, and for admission to places of interest not open to the public. Thus provided, we had access to many objects of historical interest and of art-amongst the former, the relics of the great conqueror. In one gla.s.s case, under lock and key, was the 'world-historical little hat.' The official who accompanied us, having stated that we were the Emperor's guests, requested the keeper to take it out and show it to us. I hope no Frenchman will know it, but, I put the hat upon my head. In one sense it was a 'little' hat-that is to say, it fitted a man with a moderate sized skull-but the flaps were much larger than pictures would lead one to think, and such was the weight that I am sure it would give any ordinary man accustomed to our head-gear a still neck to wear it for an hour. What has become of this hat if it is not still in the Luxembourg?

CHAPTER XLV

SOME few years later, while travelling with my family in Switzerland, we happened to be staying at Baveno on Lago Maggiore at the same time, and in the same hotel, as the Crown Prince and Princess of Germany. Their Imperial Highnesses occupied a suite of apartments on the first floor.

Our rooms were immediately above them. As my wife was known to the Princess, occasional greetings pa.s.sed from balcony to balcony.

One evening while watching two lads rowing from the sh.o.r.e in the direction of Isola Bella, I was aroused from my contemplation of a gathering storm by angry vociferations beneath me. These were addressed to the youths in the boat. The anxious father had noted the coming tempest; and, with hands to his mouth, was shouting orders to the young gentlemen to return. Loud and angry as cracked the thunder, the imperial voice o'ertopped it. Commands succeeded admonitions, and as the only effect on the rowers was obvious recalcitrancy, oaths succeeded both: all in those throat-clearing tones to which the German language so consonantly lends itself. In a few minutes the boat was immersed in the down-pour which concealed it.

The elder of the two oarsmen was no other than the future firebrand peacemaker, Miching Mallecho, our fierce little Tartarin de Berlin. One wondered how he, who would not be ruled, would come in turn to rule?

That question is a burning one; and may yet set the world in flames to solve it.

A comic little incident happened here to my own children. There was but one bathing-machine. This, the two-a schoolboy and his sister-used in the early morning. Being rather late one day, they found it engaged; and growing impatient the boy banged at the door of the machine, with a shout in schoolboy's vernacular: 'Come, hurry up; we want to dip.' Much to the surprise of the guilty pair, an answer, also in the best of English, came from the inside: 'Go away, you naughty boy.' The occupant was the Imperial Princess. Needless to say the children bolted with a mingled sense of mischief and alarm.

About this time I joined a society for the relief of distress, of which Bromley Davenport was the nominal leader. The 'managing director,' so to speak, was Dr. Gilbert, father of Mr. W. S. Gilbert. To him I went for instructions. I told him I wanted to see the worst. He accordingly sent me to Bethnal Green. For two winters and part of a third I visited this district twice a week regularly. What I saw in the course of those two years was matter for a thoughtful-ay, or a thoughtless-man to think of for the rest of his days.

My system was to call first upon the clergyman of the parish, and obtain from him a guide to the severest cases of dest.i.tution. The guide would be a Scripture reader, and, as far as I remember, always a woman. I do not know whether the labours of these good creatures were gratuitous-they themselves were certainly poor, yet singularly earnest and sympathetic.

The society supplied tickets for coal, blankets, and food. Needless to say, had these supplies been a thousand-fold as great, they would have done as little permanent good as those at my command.

In Bethnal Green the princ.i.p.al industry is, or was, silk-weaving by hand looms. Nearly all the houses were ancient and dilapidated. A weaver and his family would occupy part of a flat, consisting of two rooms perhaps, one of which would contain his loom. The room might be about seven feet high, nearly dark, lighted only by a lattice window, half of the panes of which would be replaced by dirty rags or old newspaper. As the loom was placed against the window the light was practically excluded. The foulness of the air and filth which this entailed may be too easily imagined. A couple of cases, taken almost at random, will sample scores as bad.

It is one of the darkest days of December. The Thames is nearly frozen at Waterloo Bridge. On the second floor of an old house in - Lane, in an unusually s.p.a.cious room (or does it only look s.p.a.cious because there is nothing in it save four human beings?) are a father, a mother, and a grown-up son and daughter. They scowl at the visitor as the Scripture reader opens the door. What is the meaning of the intrusion? Is he too come with a Bible instead of bread? The four are seated side by side on the floor, leaning against the wall, waiting for-death. Bedsteads, chairs, table, and looms have been burnt this week or more for fuel. The grate is empty now, and lets the freezing draught blow down the chimney.

The temporary relief is accepted, but not with thanks. These four stubbornly prefer death to the work-house.

One other case. It is the same hard winter. The scene: a small garret in the roof, a low slanting little skylight, now covered six inches deep in snow. No fireplace here, no ventilation, so put your scented cambric to your nose, my n.o.ble Dives. The only furniture a scanty armful of-what shall we call it? It was straw once. A starving woman and a baby are lying on it, notwithstanding. The baby surely will not be there to-morrow. It has a very bad cold-and the mucus, and the-pah! The woman in a few rags-just a few-is gnawing a raw carrot. The picture is complete. There's nothing more to paint. The rest-the whole indeed, that is the consciousness of it-was, and remains, with the Unseen.

You will say, 'Such things cannot be'; you will say, 'There are relieving officers, whose duty, etc., etc.' May be. I am only telling you what I myself have seen. There is more goes on in big cities than even relieving officers can cope with. And who shall grapple with the causes?

That's the point.

Here is something else that I have seen. I have seen a family of six in one room. Of these, four were brothers and sisters, all within, none over, their teens. There were three beds between the six. When I came upon them they were out of work,-the young ones in bed to keep warm. I took them for very young married couples. It was the Scripture reader who undeceived me. This is not the exception to the rule, look you, but the rule itself. How will you deal with it? It is with Nature, immoral Nature and her heedless instincts that you have to deal. With what kind of fork will you expel her? It is with Nature's wretched children, the _betes humaines_,

Quos venerem incertam rapientes more ferarum,

that your account lies. Will they cease to listen to her maddening whispers: 'Unissez-vous, multipliez, il n'est d'autre loi, d'autre but, que l'amour?' What care they for her aside-'Et durez apres, si vous le pouvez; cela ne me regarde plus'? It doesn't regard them either.

The infallible panacea, so the 'Progressive' tell us, is education-lessons on the piano, perhaps? Doctor Malthus would be more to the purpose; but how shall we administer his prescriptions? One thing we might try to teach to advantage, and that is the elementary principles of hygiene. I am heart and soul with the Progressive as to the ultimate remedial powers of education. Moral advancement depends absolutely on the humanising influences of intellectual advancement. The foreseeing of consequences is a question of intelligence. And the appreciation of consequences which follow is the basis of morality. But we must not begin at the wrong end. The true foundation and condition of intellectual and moral progress postulates material and physical improvement. The growth of artificial wants is as much the cause as the effect of civilisation: they proceed _pari pa.s.su_. A taste of comfort begets a love of comfort. And this kind of love militates, not impotently, against the other; for self-interest is a persuasive counsellor, and gets a hearing when the blood is cool. Life must be more than possible, it must be endurable; man must have some leisure, some repose, before his brain-needs have a chance with those of his belly. He must have a coat to his back before he can stick a rose in its b.u.t.ton-hole. The worst of it is, he begins-in Bethnal Green at least-with the rose-bud; and indulges, poor devil! in a luxury which is just the most expensive, and-in our Bethnal Greens-the most suicidal he could resort to.

There was one method I adopted with a show of temporary success now and then. It frequently happens that a man succ.u.mbs to difficulties for which he is not responsible, and which timely aid may enable him to overcome. An artisan may have to p.a.w.n or sell the tools by which he earns his living. The redemption of these, if the man is good for anything, will often set him on his legs. Thus, for example, I found a cobbler one day surrounded by a starving family. His story was common enough, severe illness being the burden of it. He was an intelligent little fellow, and, as far as one could judge, full of good intentions.

His wife seemed devoted to him, and this was the best of vouchers. 'If he had but a shilling or two to redeem his tools, and buy two or three old cast-off shoes in the rag-market which he could patch up and sell, he wouldn't ask anyone for a copper.'

We went together to the p.a.w.nbroker's, then to the rag-market, and the little man trotted home with an armful of old boots and shoes, some without soles, some without uppers; all, as I should have thought, picked out of dust-bins and rubbish heaps, his sunken eyes sparkling with eagerness and renovated hope. I looked in upon him about three weeks later. The family were sitting round a well provided tea-table, close to a glowing fire, the cheeks of the children smeared with jam, and the little cobbler hammering away at his last, too busy to partake of the bowl of hot tea which his wife had placed beside him.

The same sort of treatment was sometimes very successful with a skilful workman-like a carpenter, for instance. Here a double purpose might be served. Nothing more common in Bethnal Green than broken looms, and consequent disaster. There you had the ready-made job for the reinstated carpenter; and good could be done in a small way, at very little cost.

Of coa.r.s.e much discretion is needed; still, the Scripture readers or the relieving officers would know the characters of the dest.i.tute, and the visitor himself would soon learn to discriminate.

A system similar to this was the basis of the aid rendered by the Royal Society for the a.s.sistance of Discharged Prisoners, which was started by my friend, Mr. Whitbread, the present owner of Southill, and which I joined in its early days at his instigation. The earnings of the prisoner were handed over by the gaols to the Society, and the Society employed them for his advantage-always, in the case of an artisan, by supplying him with the needful implements of his trade. But relief in which the pauper has no productive share, of which he is but a mere consumer, is of no avail.

One cannot but think that if instead of the selfish principles which govern our trades-unions, and which are driving their industries out of the country, trade-schools could be provided-such, for instance, as the cheap carving schools to be met with in many parts of Germany and the Tyrol-much might be done to help the bread-earners. Why could not schools be organised for the instruction of shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, smiths of all kinds, and the scores of other trades which in former days were learnt by compulsory apprenticeship? Under our present system of education the greater part of what the poor man's children learn is clean forgotten in a few years; and if not, serves mainly to create and foster discontent, which vents itself in a pa.s.sion for ma.s.s-meetings and the fuliginous oratory of our Hyde Parks.

The emigration scheme for poor-law children as advocated by Mrs. Close is the most promising, in its way, yet brought before the public, and is deserving of every support.

In the absence of any such projects as these, the hopelessness of the task, and the depressing effect of the contact with much wretchedness, wore me out. I had a nursery of my own, and was not justified in risking infectious diseases. A saint would have been more heroic, and could besides have promised that sweetest of consolations to suffering millions-the compensation of Eternal Happiness. I could not give them even hope, for I had none to spare. The root-evil I felt to be the overcrowding due to the reckless intercourse of the s.e.xes; and what had Providence to do with a law of Nature, obedience to which entailed unspeakable misery?

CHAPTER XLVI

IN the autumn following the end of the Franco-German war, Dr. Bird and I visited all the princ.i.p.al battlefields. In England the impression was that the bloodiest battle was fought at Gravelotte. The error was due, I believe, to our having no war correspondent on the spot. Compared with that on the plains between St. Marie and St. Privat, Gravelotte was but a cavalry skirmish. We were fortunate enough to meet a German artillery officer at St. Marie who had been in the action, and who kindly explained the distribution of the forces. Large square mounds were scattered about the plain where the German dead were buried, little wooden crosses being stuck into them to denote the regiment they had belonged to. At Gravelotte we saw the dogs unearthing the bodies from the shallow graves.

The officer told us he did not think there was a family in Germany unrepresented in the plains of St. Privat.

It was interesting so soon after the event, to sit quietly in the little summer-house of the Chateau de Bellevue, commanding a view of Sedan, where Bismarck and Moltke and General de Wimpfen held their memorable Council. 'Un terrible homme,' says the story of the 'Debacle,' 'ce general de Moltke, qui gagnait des batailles du fond de son cabinet a coups d'algebre.'

We afterwards made a walking tour through the Tyrol, and down to Venice.

On our way home, while staying at Lucerne, we went up the Rigi. Soon after leaving the Kulm, on our descent to the railway, which was then uncompleted, we lost each other in the mist. I did not get to Vitznau till late at night, but luckily found a steamer just starting for Lucerne. The cabin was crammed with German students, each one smoking his pipe and roaring choruses to alternate singers. All of a sudden, those who were on their legs were knocked off them. The panic was instantaneous, for every one of us knew it was a collision. But the immediate peril was in the rush for the deck. Violent with terror, rough by nature, and full of beer, these wild young savages were formidable to themselves and others. Having arrived late, I had not got further than the cabin door, and was up the companion ladder at a bound. It was pitch dark, and piteous screams came up from the surrounding waters. At first it was impossible to guess what had happened. Were we rammed, or were we rammers? I pulled off my coats ready for a swim. But it soon became apparent that we had run into and sunk another boat.

The next morning the doctor and I went on to England. A week after I took up the 'Ill.u.s.trated News.' There was an account of the accident, with an ill.u.s.tration of the cabin of the sunken boat. The bodies of pa.s.sengers were depicted as the divers had found them.

On the very day the peace was signed I chanced to call on Sir Anthony Rothschild in New Court. He took me across the court to see his brother Lionel, the head of the firm. Sir Anthony bowed before him as though the great man were Plutus himself. He sat at a table alone, not in his own room, but in the immense counting-room, surrounded by a brigade of clerks. This was my first introduction to him. He took no notice of his brother, but received me as Napoleon received the emperors and kings at Erfurt-in other words, as he would have received his slippers from his valet, or as he did receive the telegrams which were handed to him at the rate of about one a minute.

The King of Kings was in difficulties with a little slip of black sticking-plaster. The thought of Gumpelino's Hyacinthos, _alias_ Hirsch, flashed upon me. Behold! the mighty Baron Nathan come to life again; but instead of Hyacinthos paring his mightiness's _Huhneraugen_, he himself, in paring his own nails, had contrived to cut his finger.

'Come to buy Spanish?' he asked, with eyes intent upon the sticking-plaster.

'Oh no,' said I, 'I've no money to gamble with.'

'Hasn't Lord Leicester bought Spanish?'-never looking off the sticking-plaster, nor taking the smallest notice of the telegrams.

'Not that I know of. Are they good things?'

'I don't know; some people think so.'