Читать книгу The Life of Captain Sir Richard F. Burton (Vol. 1&2) - Lady Isabel Burton - Страница 35

The Crimea.

The Crimean War is an affair of the last generation; thirty years' distance has given it a certain perspective, and assigned its proper rank and place in the panorama of the nineteenth century. Estimates of its importance, of course, vary; while one man would vindicate its péripéties on the plea of being the first genuine attempt to develop the European Concert, to create an International tribunal for the discouragement of the modern revival of La Force prime le droit, and for the protection of the weak minority, others, like myself, look upon it as an unmitigated evil to England. It showed up all her characteristic unreadiness, all her defects of organization. It proved that she could not then produce a single great sailor or soldier. It washed her dirty linen in public, to the disgust and contempt of Europe; and, lastly, it taught her the wholly novel and unpleasant lesson of "playing second fiddle" (as the phrase is) to France. Considered with regard to her foreign affairs, this disastrous blunder lost us for ever the affection of Russia, our oldest and often our only friend amongst the continentals of Europe. It barred the inevitable growth of the northern Colossus in a southern direction, and encouraged her mighty spread to the south-east, India-wards, at the same time doubling her extent by the absorption of Turcomania.

The causes which led to the war are manifold enough. Some are trivial enough, like the indiscreet revelation of Czar Nicholas' private talk, talk anent the "Sick Man," by the undiplomatic indiscretion of the diplomatist, Sir Hamilton Seymour. Others are vital, especially the weariness caused by a long sleep of peace which made England, at once the most unmilitary and the most fighting of peoples, "spoil for a row." The belief in the wretched Turk's power of recuperation and even of progress had been diffused by such authorities as Lords Palmerston and Stratford de Redcliffe, and, en route to the war, I often heard, to my disgust, British officers exclaim, "If there ever be a justifiable campaign (in support of the unspeakable Turk!) it is this."

Outside England, the main moving cause was our acute ally Louis Napoleon, whose ambition was to figure arm-in-arm in the field with the nation which annihilated his uncle. But he modestly proposed that France should supply the army, England the navy, an arrangement against which, even now, little can be said. Here, however, our jaunty statesman stepped in; Cupidon (Lord Palmerston), the man with the straw in his mouth, the persistent "Chaffer" of wiser men that appreciated the importance of the Fenian movement, the opposer of the Suez Canal,1 the Minister who died one day and was forgotten the next, refused to give up the wreath of glory; and, upon the principle that one Englishman can fight three Frenchmen, sent an utterly inadequate force and enabled the French to "revenge Waterloo." French diplomatists were heavily backed against English; a nervous desire to preserve the entente cordiale made English Generals and Admirals (as at Alma and the bombardment of Sebastopol) put up with the jockeying and bullying measures of French officers. And the alliance ended not an hour too soon.

After French successes and our failures the piou-piou would cry aloud, "Malakoff—yes, yes; Redan—no, no;" whereto Tommy Atkins replied with a growl, "Waterloo, ye beggars!" And the English medal distributed to the troupier was pleasantly known as the "Médaille de Sauvetage." At the end of the disastrous year '56 England had come up smiling, after many a knock-down blow, and was ready to go in and win. But Louis Napoleon had obtained all he wanted, the war was becoming irksome to his fickle lieges; so an untimely peace was patched up, and England was left to pay the piper by the ever-increasing danger to India.

After the disastrous skirmish with the Somali at Berberah, it is no wonder that I returned to England on sick certificate, wounded and sorely discomfited. The Crimean War seemed to me some opportunity of recovering my spirits, and, as soon as my health permitted, I applied myself to the ungrateful task of volunteering. London then was in the liveliest state of excitement about the Crimean bungles, and the ladies pitilessly cut every officer who shirked his duty. So I read my paper about Harar before the Royal Geographical Society, and had the pleasure of being assured by an ancient gentleman, who had never smelt Africa, that when approaching the town Harar I had crossed a large and rapid river. It was in vain for me to reject this information. Every one seemed to think he must be right.2

Having obtained a few letters of introduction, and remembering that I had served under General James Simpson, at Sakhar, in Sind, I farewelled my friends, and my next step was to hurry through France, and to embark at Marseille on board one of the Messageries Impériales, bound for Constantinople. Very imperial was the demeanour of her officers. They took command of the passengers in most absolute style, and soundly wigged an Englishman, a Colonel, for opening a port, and shipping a sea. I was ashamed of my fellow-countryman's tameness, and yet I knew him to be a brave man. The ship's surgeon was Dr. Nicora, who afterwards became a friend of ours at Damascus, where he died attached to the French sanitary establishment; he talked much, and could not conceal his Anglophobia and hatred of the English. The only pleasant Frenchman on board was General MacMahon, then fresh from his Algerian campaign, and newly transferred to the Crimea, where his fortunes began.

It was a spring voyage on summer seas, and in due time we stared at the Golden Horn, and lodged ourselves at Missiri's Hôtel. The owner, who had been a dragoman to Eöthen, presumed upon his reputation, and made his house unpleasant. His wine, called "Tenedos," was atrocious, his cookery third rate, and his prices first rate. He sternly forbade "gambling," as he called card-playing, in his house, private as well as public; and we had periodically to kick downstairs the impudent dragomans who brought us his insolent messages. However, he had some excuse. Society at Missiri's was decidedly mixed; "bahaduring" was the rule, and the extra military swagger of the juveniles, assistant-surgeons, commissariats, and such genus, booted to the crupper, was a caution to veterans.

At Stamboul, I met Fred Wingfield, who was bound to Balaclava, as assistant under the unfortunate Mr. Commissary-General Filder, and had to congratulate myself upon my good fortune. We steamed together over the inhospitable Euxine, which showed me the reason for its sombre name.

The waters are in parts abnormally sweet, and they appear veiled in a dark vapour. Utterly unknown the blues, amethyst and turquoise, of that sea of beauty, the Mediterranean; the same is the case with the smaller Palus Meotis—Azoff. After the normal three days we sighted the Tauric Chersonese, the land of the Cimmerians and Scythians, the colony of the Greek, the conquest of Janghiz and the Khans of Turkey, and finally annexed by Russia after the wars, in which Charles XII. had taught the Slav to fight. We then made Balaclava (Balik-liwa, "Fish town"), with its dwarf fjord, dug out of dove-coloured limestones, and forming a little port stuffed to repletion with every manner of craft.

But it had greatly improved since October 17, 1854, when we first occupied it and formally opened the absurdly so-called siege, in which we were as often the besieged as the besiegers. Under a prodigiously fierce-looking provost-marshal, whose every look meant "cat," some cleanliness and discipline had been introduced amongst the suttlers and scoundrels who populated the townlet. Store-ships no longer crept in, reported cargoes which were worth their weight of gold to miserables, living

"On coffee raw and potted cat,"

and crept out again without breaking bulk. A decent road had been run through Kadikeui (Kazi's village) to camp and to the front, and men no longer sank ankle-deep in dust, or calf-deep in mud. In tact, England was, in the parlance of the "ring," getting her second wind, and was settling down to her work!

The unfortunate Lord Raglan, with his courage antique, his old-fashioned excess of courtesy, and his nervous dread of prejudicing the entente cordiale (!) between England and France, had lately died. He was in one point exactly the man not wanted. At his age and with one arm and many infirmities, he could not come up to the idea of Sir Charles Napier's model officer under the same circumstances, "eternally on horseback, with a sword in his hand, eating, sleeping, and drinking in the saddle."

But with more energy and fitness for command he might have deputed others to take his place. A good ordinary man, placed by the folly of his aristocratic friends in extraordinary circumstances, he was fated, temporarily, to ruin the prestige of England. He began by allowing himself to be ignobly tricked by that shallow intriguer, Maréchal de Saint Arnaud (alias Leroy). At Alma he was persuaded to take the worst and the most perilous position; his delicacy in not disturbing the last hours of his fellow Commander-in-Chief prevented his capturing the northern forts of Sebastopol, which Todleben openly declared were to be stormed by a coup de main; and allowed Louis Napoleon, in the Moniteur, to blame England only for the lâches of the French, after the "last of European battles fought on the old lines," etc. At Inkermann, where the Guards defended themselves, like prehistoric men, with stones, Lord Raglan allowed his whole army to be surprised by the Russians, and to be saved by General Bosquet, with a host of Zouaves, Chasseurs, and Algerian rifles. No wonder that a Russian general declared, "The French saved the English at Inkermann as the Prussians did at Waterloo, and all Europe believed that France would conquer both Russia and England, the first by arms and the second by contrast." The "thin red line" of Balaclava allowed some national chauvinism, but that was all to be said in its favour, except that the gallantry of the men was to be equalled only by the incompetency of their Chiefs.

I passed a week with Wingfield and other friends, in and about Balaclava, in frequent visits to the front and camp. A favourite excursion from the latter was to the Monastery of St. George, classic ground where Iphigenia was saved from sacrifice. There was a noble view from this place, a foreground of goodly garden, a deep ravine clad with glorious trees, a system of cliffs and needles studding a sandy beach, and a lovely stretch of sparkling sea. No wonder that it had been chosen by a hermit, whose little hut of unhewn blocks lay hard by; he was a man upwards of sixty apparently, unknown to any one, and was fed by the black-robed monks. At Kadikeui also I made the acquaintance of good Mrs. Seacole, Jamaican by origin, who did so much for the comfort of invalids, and whom we afterwards met with lively pleasure at Panámá.

The British cavalry officers in the Crimea were still violently excited by reports that Lord Cardigan was about returning to command; and I heard more than one say, "We will not serve under him." And after a long experience of different opinions on the spot, I came to the following conclusion:—The unhappy charge of the "Six Hundred" was directly caused by my old friend, Captain Nolan of the 15th Hussars. An admirable officer and swordsman, bred in the gallant Austrian Cavalry of that day, he held, and advocated through life, the theory that mounted troops were an overmatch for infantry, and wanted only good leading to break squares and so forth. He was burning also to see the Lights outrival the Heavies, who, under General Scarlett, had charged down upon Russians said to be four times their number. Lord Lucan received an order to take a Russian 12-gun battery on the Causeway Heights, from General Liprandi, and he sent a verbal message by Nolan (General Airey's aide-de-camp) to his brother-in-law, Lord Cardigan, there being bad blood between the two.

Nolan, who was no friend to the hero of the Black Bottle, delivered the order disagreeably, and when Lord Cardigan showed some hesitation, roughly cut short the colloquy with, "You have your commands, my Lord," and prepared, as is the custom, to join in the charge. Hardly did it begin, than he was struck by a shot in the breast, and, as he did not fall at once, some asked Lord Cardigan where he was, and the reply came, "I saw him go off howling to the rear." During the fatal charge Lord Cardigan lost his head, and had that moment de peur to which the best soldiers are at times subject. He had been a fire-eater with the "Saw-handles," and the world expected too much of him; again, a man of ordinary pluck, he was placed in extraordinary circumstances, and how few there are who are born physically fearless. I can count those known to me on the fingers of my right hand. Believing that his force was literally mown down, he forgot his duty as a Commanding Officer, and instead of rallying the fugitives, he thought only of sauve qui peut. Galloping wildly to the rear, he rushed up to many a spectator, amongst others to my old Commander, General Beatson, nervously exclaiming, "You saw me at the guns?" and almost without awaiting a reply, rode on. Presently returning to England, he had not the sound sense and good taste to keep himself in the background; but received a kind of "ovation," as they call it, the ladies trying to secure hairs from his charger's tail by way of keepsake. Of course he never showed his face in the Crimea again. The tale of this ill-fated and unprofessional charge has now changed complexion. It is held up as a beau fait d'armes, despite the best bit of military criticism that ever fell from soldier's lips: "c'est beau, mais ce n'est pas la guerre," the words of General Bosquet, who saved the poor remnants of the Lights.

At head-quarters I called upon the Commander-in-Chief, General Simpson, whom years before I had found in charge of Sakhar, Upper Sind, held by all as wellnigh superannuated. He was supposed to be one of Lever's heroes, the gigantic Englishman who, during the occupation of Paris, broke the jaw of the duelling French officer, and spat down his throat. But age had told upon him, mentally as well as bodily, and he became a mere plaything in the hands of the French, especially of General Pélissier, the typical Algerian officer, who well knew when to browbeat and when to cajole. "Jimmy Simpson," as the poor old incapable was called, could do nothing for me, so I wrote officially at once to General Beatson, whom I had met at Boulogne, volunteering for the Irregular Cavalry then known as "Beatson's Horse," and I was delighted when my name appeared in orders. Returning to Constantinople, I called upon the Embassy, then in summer quarters at Therapia, where they had spent an anxious time. The gallant Vukados, Russianized in Boutákoff, a Greek, who, in the nineteenth century, belonged to the heroic days of Thermopylæ and Marathon, and who was actually cheered by his enemies, with the little merchant-brig the Wladimir, alias Arciduca Giovanni, had shown himself a master-breaker-of-blockades, and might readily have taken into his head to pay the Ambassador a visit.

I looked forward to a welcome and found one; a man who had married my aunt, Robert Bagshaw, of Dovercourt, M.P., and quondam Calcutta merchant, who had saved from impending bankruptcy the house of Alexander and Co., to which Lady Stratford belonged.

Nothing quainter than the contrast between that highly respectable middle-class British peer and the extreme wildness of his surroundings. There were but two exceptions to the general rule of eccentricity—one, Lord Napier and Ettrick with his charming wife, and the other, Odo (popularly called "O don't!") Russell, who died as Lord Ampthill, Ambassador to Berlin. It was, by-the-by, no bad idea to appoint this high-bred and average talented English gentleman to the Court of Prince Bismarck, who disliked and despised nothing more thoroughly than the pert little political, the "Foreign Office pet" of modern days.

Foremost on the roll stood Alison, who died Minister at Teheran. He was in character much more a Greek than an Englishman, with a peculiar finesse, not to put too fine a point upon it, which made him highly qualified to deal with a certain type of Orientals. He knew Romaic perfectly, Turkish well, Persian a little, and a smattering of Arabic; so that, most unlike the average order of ignorant secretaries and attachés, he was able to do good work. He seemed to affect eccentricity, went out walking with a rough coat with a stick torn from a tree, whence his cognomen "The Bear with the Ragged Staff," and at his breakfasts visitors were unpleasantly astonished by a weight suddenly mounting their shoulders in the shape of a bear-cub with cold muzzle and ugly claws. He managed to hold his own with his testy and rageous old Chief, and the following legend was told of him:—"Damn your eyes, Mr. Alison, why was not that despatch sent?" "Damn your Excellency's eyes, it went this morning." Miladi also seemed to regard his comical figure with much favour. At Teheran he did little good, having become unhappily addicted to "tossing the elbow," which in an evil hour was reported home by my late friend Edward Eastwick; and he married a wealthy Levantine widow, who predeceased him. On this occasion he behaved uncommonly well, by returning all her large fortune to her family.

Next to him in office, and far higher in public esteem, ranked Percy Smythe, who succeeded his brother as Lord Strangford. Always of the weakest possible constitution, and so purblind that when reading he drew the paper across his nose, he fulfilled my idea of the typical linguist in the highest sense of the word; in fact, I never saw his equal except, perhaps, Professor Palmer, who was murdered by Arábi's orders almost within sight of Suez. Strangford seemed to take in a language through every pore, and to have time for all its niceties and eccentricities: for instance, he could speak Persian like a Shirázi, and also with the hideous drawl of a Hindostani. Yet his health sent him to bed every night immediately after dinner, for which he was more than once taken severely to task by Lady Stratford. He dressed in the seediest of black frock-coats, and was once mightily offended by a Turkish officer, who, overhearing us talking in Persian about "Tasáwaf" (Sufi-ism), joined in the conversation. He treated me with great regard because I was in the gorgeous Bashi-Bazouk uniform, blazing with gold, but looked upon Lord Strangford with such contempt that the latter exclaimed, "Hang the fellow! Can't he see that I am a gentleman?" I then told him that an Eastern judges entirely by dress, and that, as I was gorgeous, I was supposed to be the swell, and that, as his coat was very shabby, he was taken for a poor interpreter, probably my dragoman, and induced him to change for the future.

Some years afterwards, when he came to the title, he married Emily Beaufort, the result of reviewing her book "Syrian Shrines," etc. The choice was a mistake; she was far too like him in body and mind, with a strong dash of Israelitish blood, to be a success matrimonially speaking. Had he taken to wife a comely "crummy" little girl with blue eyes, barley-sugar hair, and the rest to match, he might have lived much longer. But the lady was an overmatch for him. When she was a little tot of twelve I saw her at the head of her father's, the hydrographer's table, laying down the law of professional matters to grey-headed Admirals. The last of the Staff was General Mansfield, an ill-conditioned and aggressive man, who held General Beatson in especial dislike for "prostitution of military rank." I have the most unpleasant remembrance of him; he afterwards became Commander-in-Chief of the Army in India, and his conduct in the "Affair of the Pickles" ought to have caused the recall of "Lord Sandhurst."

The Ambassador, whose name was at that time in every mouth, was as remarkable in appearance as in character and career. When near sixty years of age he had still the clear-cut features and handsome face of his cousin, whom he loved to call the "Great Canning," and under whom, he, like Lord Palmerston, had began official life as private secretary. One of the cleanest and smoothest shaven of old men, he had a complexion white and red as a Westphalia ham, and his silver locks gave him a venerable and pleasing appearance; whilst his chin, that most characteristic feature, showed, in repose, manliness, and his "Kaiser-blue" eye was that of the traditional Madonna, only at excited moments the former tilted up with an expression of reckless obstinacy, and the latter flashed fire like an enraged feline's. The everyday look of the face was diplomatic, an icy impassibility (evidently put on, and made natural by long habit); but it changed to the scowl of a Medusa in fits of rage, and in joyous hours, such as sitting at dinner near the beautiful Lady George Paget—whose like I never saw—it was harmonious and genial as a day in spring.

Such was the personal appearance of the man who, together with the Emperor Nicholas, one equally, if not more remarkable, both in body and in mind, set the whole Western World in a blaze. I heard the origin of the blood-feud minutely told by the late Lord Clanricarde, one of the most charming raconteurs and original conversationalists ever met at a London dinner-table. Mr. Stratford Canning became, in early manhood, Chargé d'affaires at Constantinople, and took a prominent part in the Treaty of Bucharest, which the Czar found, to speak mildly, unpalatable. However, some years after, when the Embassy at St. Petersburg fell vacant, the Emperor refused to receive this personâ ingrata, and aroused susceptibilities which engendered a life-long hatred and a lust for revenge. Lastly, after the affair of 1848, the "Eltchi" persuaded his unhappy tool, the feeble-minded Sultan, Abd Al-Majid, whom he scolded and abused like a naughty schoolboy, now by threats then by promises, to refuse giving up the far-famed Hungarian refugees. This again became well known to all the world, and thus a private and personal pique between two elderly gentlemen of high degree, involved half Europe in hideous war, and was one of the worst disasters ever known to English history, by showing the world how England could truckle to France, and allow her to play the leading part.

Lord Stratford had, as often happens to shrewder men, completely mistaken his vocation. He told me more than once that his inclination was wholly to the life of a littérateur, and he showed himself unfit for taking any, save the humblest, rôle among the third-rates. He had lived his life in the East without learning a word of Turkish, Persian, or Arabic.

He wrote "poetry," and, amid the jeers of his staff, he affixed to a rustic seat near Therapia, where once Lady Stratford had sat, a copy of verses beginning—

"A wife, a mother to her children dear,"

with rhyme "rested here," and reason to match. After his final return home he printed a little volume of antiquated "verse or worse" with all the mediocrity which the gods and the columns disallow, and which would hardly have found admittance to the poet's corner of a country paper. His last performance in this line was a booklet entitled, "Why I am a Christian" (he of all men!), which provoked a shout of laughter amongst his friends. They owned that, mentally, he was a fair modern Achilles—

"Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis acer;"

but of his "Christianity," the popular saying was, "He is a Christian, and he never forgives." His characteristic was vindictiveness; he could not forget (and here he was right), but also he could not forgive (and here he was wrong). One instance: he tried to hunt out of the service Grenville Murray, whose "Roving Englishman" probably owed much of its charm to Dickens's staff in Household Words. Yet Murray, despite all his faults, was a capable man, and a Government more elastic and far-seeing and less "respectable" than that of England, would have greatly profited by his services. Lord Stratford could not endure badinage, he had no sense for and of humour; witness the scene between him and Louis Napoleon's Ambassador, General Baraguay d'Hilliers, recorded by Mr. Consul Skene in his "Personal Reminiscences." He abhorred difference of opinion, and was furious with me for assuring him that "Habash" and "Abyssinia" are by no means equivalent and synonymous terms; he had been enlightening the "Porte" with information that Turkey had never held a foot of ground in "Habash," when the Turk, as my visit to Harar showed, had been an occupant, well hated, as he was well known. And when in a rage he was not pleasant; his eyes flashed fury, his venerable locks seemed to rise like the quills of a fretful porcupine, he would rush round the room like a lean maniac using frightful language—in fact, "langwidge," as the sailor hath it—with his old dressing-gown working hard to keep pace with him, and when the fit was at its worst, he would shake his fist in the offender's face.

The famous Ambassador struck me as a weak, stiff-necked, and violent old man, whose strength physically was in his obstinate chin, together with a "pursed-up mouth and beak in a pet," and morally in an exaggerated "respectability," iron-bound prejudices, and profound self-esteem. He had also a firm respect for rank and the divine right of Kings; witness his rage, when the young naval lieutenant, Prince of Leiningen, was ordered by a superior officer to "swab decks." He lived long enough to repent the last step of his official life. After peace was concluded, a visit to the Crimea greatly disgusted him. With a kind of bastard repentance, he quoted John Bright and the Peace Party in his sorrow at having brought about a Campaign whose horrors contrasted so miserably with its promised advantages.

In the next Russian-Turkish War he remembered that some ten thousand English lives and £80,000,000 had been sacrificed to humble Russia, whose genius and heroism had raised her so high in the opinion of Europe, only to serve the selfish ends of Louis Napoleon, to set up Turkey and the Sultan ("Humpty-dumpty," who refused to be set up), and to humour the grudges of two rancorous old men. So he carefully preached non-intervention to England. He took his seat in the House of Lords, but spoke little, and when he spoke he mostly broke down. Of his literary failures I have already spoken. Yet this was the "Great Eltchi" of Eöthen, a man who gained a prodigious name in Europe, chiefly by living out of it.

After seeing all that was to be seen at Therapia and Constantinople, I embarked on an Austrian Lloyd steamer, and ran down to the Dardanelles, then the head-quarters of the Bashi-Bazouks. The little town shared in the factitious importance of Gallipoli, and other places more or less useful during the war; it had two Pashas, Civil and Military, with a large body of Nizam or Regulars, whilst the hillsides to the north were dotted with the white tents of the Irregulars. General Beatson had secured fair quarters near the old windmills, and there had established himself with his wife and daughters. I at once recognized my old Boulogne friend, although slightly disguised by uniform. He looked like a man of fifty-five, with bluff face and burly figure, and probably grey hair became him better than black. He always rode English chargers of good blood, and altogether his presence was highly effective.

There had been much silly laughing at Constantinople, especially amongst the grinning idiot tribe, about his gold coat, which was said to stand upright by force of embroidery. But here he was perfectly right, and his critics perfectly wrong. He had learnt by many years' service to recognize the importance of show and splendour when dealing with Easterns. And no one had criticised the splendid Skinner or General Jacob of the Sind Horse, for wearing a silver helmet and a diamond-studded sabretache. General Beatson had served thirty-five years in the Bengal army, and was one of the few amongst his contemporaries who had campaigned in Europe during the long peace which followed the long war. In his subaltern days he had volunteered into the Spanish Legion, under the Commander, General Sir de Lacy Evans. After some hard fighting there, and seeing not a few adventures, he had returned to India. When the Crimean War broke out he went to Head-quarters at once, and, for the mere fun of the thing, joined in the Heavy Cavalry charge.

In October, 1854, the Duke of Newcastle, then Minister of War, addressed him officially, directing him to organize a Corps of Bashi-Bazouks, not exceeding in number four thousand, who were to be independent of the Turkish Contingent, consisting of twenty-five thousand Regulars under General Vivian. So, unfortunately for himself, he had made the Dardanelles his Head-quarters, and there he seemed to be settled with his wife and family. Mrs. Beatson was a quiet-looking little woman, who was reputed to rule her spouse with a rod of iron in a velvet case; and the two daughters were charming girls who seemed to have been born on horseback, and who delighted in setting their terriers at timid aides-de-camp, and teaching their skittish little Turkish nags to lash out at them when within kicking distance. General Beatson at once introduced me to his Staff and officers, amongst whom I found some most companionable comrades. There were two ex-Guardsmen, poor Charles Wemyss, who died years after, chronically impecunious, in London, and Major Lennox-Berkeley, who is still living. Of the Home army were Lieut.-Colonel Morgan, ex-cavalry man, and Major Synge. The Indian army had contributed Brigadier-General De Renzi, Brett, Hayman, Money, Grierson, and others. Sankey, whom I had known in Egypt, and whose family I had met at Malta, had been gazetted as lieutenant-colonel. There was also poor Blakeley of the Gun, who afterwards died so unhappily of yellow fever at Chorillos, in Perú.

But there were unfortunately black sheep among the number. Lieut.-Colonel Fardella had only the disadvantage of being a Sicilian, but Lieut.-Colonel Giraud, the head interpreter, was a Smyrniote and a Levantine of the very worst description, and, worse still, there was a Lieut.-Colonel O'Reilly, whose antecedents and subsequents were equally bad. He had begun as a lance-corporal in one of her Majesty's regiments, which he had left under discreditable circumstances. In the Bashi-Bazouks he joined a faction against General Beatson, and when the war was over he openly became a Mussulman, and entered the Turkish service. He left the worst of reputations between Constantinople and Marocco, and Englishmen had the best reason to be ashamed of him. In subsequent years to the Massacre of Damascus, the English Government had chosen out Fuad Pasha, a witty, unscrupulous, and over-clever Turk, and proposed him as permanent Governor-General of the Holy Land, or to govern in a semi-independent position, like that of the Khedive of Egypt.

No choice could be worse, except that of the French, who favoured with even more inaptitude, by way of a rival candidate, their Algerian captive, the Emir Abd el Kadir, one of the most high-minded, religious, and honourable of men, who was utterly unfit to cope with Turkish roguery and Syrian rascaldom. The project fell through, but till his last day Fuad Pasha never lost sight of it, and kept up putting in an appearance, by causing perpetual troubles amongst the Bedawi and the Druzes.

This man O'Reilly was one of his many tools, and at last, when he had brought about against the Turkish Government an absurd revolt of naked Arabs, upon the borders of the Hamah Desert, he was taken prisoner and carried before Rashíd Pasha, then the Governor-General, and in his supplications for pardon he had the meanness to kneel down and kiss the Turk's foot.

But worse still was the position of the affairs which met my eyes at the Dardanelles. Everything had combined to crush our force of Irregulars. First, there was the Greek faction, who naturally hated the English, and adored the Russians, and directed all the national genius to making the foreigners fail. Their example was followed by the Jews, many of them wealthy merchants at the Dardanelles, who in those days, before the Juden-hetze, loved and believed in Russia and had scanty confidence in England. The two Turkish pashas were exceedingly displeased to see an Imperium in Imperio, and did their best to breed disturbance between their Regulars and the English Irregulars. They were stirred up by the German Engineers, who were employed upon the fortifications of the Dardanelles, and who strongly inoculated them with the idea that France and England aimed at nothing less than annexation.

Hence the Pashas not only fomented every disturbance, but they supplied deserters with passports and safe-conducts. The French played the friendly-foelike party; the envy, jealousy, and malice of the Gr-r-r-ande Nation had been stirred to the very depths by the failure of their Algerine General Yousouf in organizing a corps of Irregulars, and they saw with displeasure and disgust that an Englishman was going to succeed. Accordingly Battus, their wretched little French Consul for the Dardanelles, was directed to pack the local Press at Constantinople (which was almost wholly in the French interests) with the falsest and foulest scandals. He had secured the services of the Journal de Constantinople, which General Beatson had with characteristic carelessness neglected to square, and his cunningly concocted scandals found their way not only into the Parisian, but even into the London Press.

But our deadliest enemies were of course those nearest home. Mr. Calvert was at that time Vice-Consul for the Dardanelles, and he openly boasted of its having been made by himself so good a thing that he would not exchange it for a Consulate General. I need not enter into the subsequent career of this man, who, shortly after the Crimean War, found his way into a felon's jail at Malta, for insuring a non-existing ship. He had proposed to General Beatson a contract in the name of a creature of his own, who was a mere man of straw, and it was at once refused, because, although Mr. Vice-Consul Calvert might have gained largely thereby, Her Majesty's Government would have lost in proportion. This was enough to make a bitter enemy of him, and he was a manner of Levantine, virulent and scrupulous as he was sharp-witted. He also had another grievance. In his Consulate he kept a certain Lieutenant Ogilvie, who years after fought most gallantly in the Franco-German War, and was looked upon, after he was killed, as a sort of small national hero.

He and his agents were buying up cattle for the public use, and it was a facetious saying amongst the "Buzoukers," as the Bashi-Bazouk officers were called, that they had not left a single three-legged animal in the country. It is no wonder that the reports of these men had a considerable effect upon Lord Stratford, who was profoundly impressed with the opinions of unhappy Lord Raglan, the Commander, who by weak truckling to the French, a nettle fit only to be grasped, had more than once placed us in an unworthy position. He was angrily opposed to the whole scheme; it was contrary to precedent: Irregulars were unknown at Waterloo, and the idea was offensive, because unknown to the good old stock and pipe-clay school. Moreover, but for a Campaign these men are invaluable to act as eyes and feelers for a regular force. The English soldier, unless he be a poacher—by-the-by, one of the best of them—cannot see by night; his want of practice gives him a kind of "noctilypia," and he suffers much from want of sleep. His Excellency already had his own grievance against General Beatson, being enormously scandalized by a letter from the Irregular officer casually proposing to hang the Military Pasha of the Dardanelles, if he continued to intrigue and report falsely concerning his force. And I must confess the tone of the General's letter was peculiar, showing that he was better known to "Captain Sword" than to "Captain Pen." When he put me in orders as "Chief of the Staff" I overhauled his books and stood aghast to see the style of his official despatches. He was presently persuaded, with some difficulty, to let me mitigate their candour under the plea of copying, but on one occasion after the copy was ready I happened to look into the envelope, and I found—

"P.S.—This is official, but I would have your Lordship to know that I also wear a black coat."

Fancy the effect of a formal challenge to combat, "pistols for two and coffee for one," upon the rancorous old man of Constantinople, whose anger burnt like a red-hot fire, and whose revenge was always at a white heat! I took it out, but my General did not thank me for it.

The result of these scandalous rumours was, that Lord Stratford deemed fit to send down the Dardanelles (for the purpose of reporting the facts of the case) a certain Mr. Skene. I have no intention of entering into the conduct of this official, who had been an officer in the English army, and who proposed to make himself comfortable in the Consulate of Aleppo! He has paid the debt of Nature, and I will not injure his memory. Suffice it to say, that he was known on the spot to be taking notes, that every malignant won his ear, and that he did not cease to gratify the Ambassador's prejudices by reporting the worst.

General Beatson was peppery, like most old Indians, and instead of keeping diplomatically on terms with Mr. Skene, he chose to have a violent personal quarrel with him. Consequently Mr. Skene returned to Constantinople, and his place was presently taken by Brigadier T. G. Neil, who shortly appeared in the same capacity—note-taker. His offensive presence and bullying manner immediately brought on another quarrel, especially when he loudly declared that "he represented Royalty," and that he was a universal unfavourite with Beatson's Horse. He afterwards served in the Indian Mutiny, and there he ended well. He made an enormous reputation at home by recklessly daring to arrest a railway clerk, and he was shot before his incapacity could be discovered.

I was also struck with consternation at the condition of Beatson's Horse, better known on the spot as the "Bashi-Bazouks." The correct term in Turkish is Bāsh Buzuk, equivalent to Tête-pourrie; it succeeded the ancient Dillis, or madmen, who in the good old times represented the Osmanli Irregular Cavalry. It was the habit of those men in early spring, when the fighting season opened, to engage themselves for a term to plunder and loot all they could (and at this process they were first-rate hands), and to return home when winter set in. General Beatson wisely determined that his four thousand sabres should be wholly unconnected with the twenty-five thousand men of the Turkish Contingent. He wished to raise them in Syria, Asia Minor, Bulgaria, and other places, regiment them according to their nationalities, and to officer them, like Sepoy regiments, with Englishmen and Subalterns of their own races.

The idea was excellent, but it was badly carried out, mainly by default of the War Office, which had overmuch to do and could not be at the trouble of sending out officers. So the men, whose camps looked soldier-like enough, were left lying on the hillsides, and Satan found a very fair amount of work for them. This was, however, chiefly confined to duelling, and other such pastimes. The Arnauts or Albanians, who generally fight when they are drunk, had a peculiar style of monomachy. The principals, attended by their seconds and by all their friends, stood close opposite, each holding a cocked pistol in their right hand and a glass of raki, or spirits of wine, in their left. The first who drained his draught had the right to fire, and generally blazed away with fatal effect. It would have been useless to discourage this practice, but I insisted on fair play. Although endless outrages were reported at Constantinople, very few really took place: only one woman was insulted, and robbery with violence was exceptionally rare. In fact, the Tête-pourries contrasted most favourably with the unruly French detachments at Gallipoli, and with the turbulent infirmiers of the Nagara Hospital. With the English invalids at the Abydos establishment no disputes ever arose.

The exaggerated mutinies were mere sky-larking. After a few days' grumbling, a knot of "Rotten Heads" would mount their nags with immense noise and clatter, and, loudly proclaiming that they could stand the dullness of life no longer, would ride away, hoping only to be soon caught. But the worst was, I could see no business doing; there were no morning roll-calls or evening parades, no drilling or disciplining of men, and the General contented himself with riding twice a day through the camp, and listening to many grievances. However, as soon as I was made "Chief of the Staff," I persuaded him that this was not the thing, and induced him to establish all three, and to add thereto a riding school for sundry officers of infantry who were not very firm in the saddle, and also to open a School of Arms for the benefit of all (the last thing a British officer learns is, to use his "silly sword"); and the consequence was, that we soon had a fine body of well-trained sabres, ready to do anything or to go anywhere.

The Maître d'armes was an Italian from Constantinople, and he began characteristically by proposing to call out the little Consul Battus, while another purposed making love to Madame! Alas! it was too late. On September 12th, a gunboat, dressed in all her colours, steamed at full speed down the Dardanelles, and caused an immense excitement in camp. The news flew like wildfire that Sebastopol had been captured. It proved, to say the least, premature, and the details filled every Englishman with disgust. I need not describe the grand storming of the Malakoff, which gave Pélissier his bâton de Maréchal, or the gallant carrying of the Little Redan by Bourbaki. But our failure at the Great Redan was simply an abomination. Poor old Jemmy Simpson was persuaded by Pélissier to play the second part, and to attack from the very same trench as that which sent forth the unsuccessful assault of June 18th. About half the force required was sent, and these were mostly regiments which had before suffered severely, and the bravest of them could only stand up to be shot down, instead of sneaking, as not a few did, in the trenches. Lastly, instead of leading them himself, the Commander-in-Chief sent General Wyndham, whose gasconade about putting on his gloves under fire seems to be the only item of this disgraceful affair which appears known to and remembered by the British public. The result of our attack was simply a sauve qui peut, and (proh pudor!) the Piedmontese General Cialdini was obliged to order up one of his brigades to save the British.

Continentals attributed this systematic paucity of our troops to the most urgent emergencies, either to inconsiderate national parsimony, or to overweening contempt for the enemy. It was nothing of the kind; it resulted from the normal appointment of thoroughly incapable Commanders. The private soldier was perfectly right, who volunteered before Lord Raglan that he and his comrades were perfectly ready to take Sebastopol by storm, under the Command of their own officers, if not interfered with by the Generals.

I now thought that I saw my way to a grand success, and my failure was proportionally absurd. This was nothing less than the relief of Kars, which was doomed to fall by famine, to the Russians. Pélissier and the Frenchmen were long-sighted enough to know the culminating importance of this stronghold as a pierre d'échappe in the way of Russia, and possibly, or rather probably, they had orders from home. However, they managed to keep Omar Pasha and his Turkish troops in the Crimea, where this large force were compelled to lie idle, instead of being sent to attack the Trans-Caucasian provinces, where they might have done good service. So when Omar Pasha, on the 29th of September, gloriously defeated the Russians before the walls of Kars, his victory was useless, and he was compelled to retire. Had the affair been managed in other ways, England might have struck a vital blow at Russia, by driving her once more behind the Caucasus, and by putting off for many a year the threatened advance upon India, which is now one of our cauchemars.

Meanwhile the reports concerning the siege of Kars, whose gallant garrison was allowed to succumb to famine, cholera, and the Russians, were becoming a scandal. It was reported that General Williams, who, with the Hungarian General Metz, was taking a prominent part in the defence, addressed upwards of eighty officials to Lord Stratford without receiving a single reply; in fact, as Mr. Skene's book shows, the great man only turned them into ridicule. However, the "Eltchi" feared ultimate consequences, and wrote to Lieut.-General (afterwards Sir) Robert J. Hussey-Vivian, to consult him concerning despatching on secret errand the Turkish Contingent, consisting, as it may be remembered, of twenty-five thousand Nizam or Regulars, commanded by a sufficiency of British officers.

The answer was that no carriage could be procured. Vivian, who was a natural son of Lord Vivian's, had seen some active service in his youth, but he was best known as an Adjutant-General of the Madras army, a man redolent of pipe-clay and red tape, and servilely subject to the Ambassador. So I felt that the game was in my hands, and proceeded in glorious elation of spirits to submit my project for the relief of Kars to his Excellency. We had already 2640 sabres in perfect readiness to march, and I could have procured any quantities of carriage. The scene which resulted passes description. He shouted at me in a rage, "You are the most impudent man in the Bombay Army, Sir!" But I knew him, and understood him like Alison, and did not mind. It ended with, "Of course you'll dine with us to-day?"

It was not until some months afterwards that I learnt what my unhappy plan proposed to do. Kars was doomed to fall as a make-weight for the capture of half of Sebastopol, and a Captain of Bashi-Bazouks (myself) had madly attempted to arrest the course of haute politique.

The tale of the fall of Kars is pathetic enough. While the British officers dined with General Mouravieff, the gallant Turkish soldiers were ordered to pile arms and march off under escort, and, dashing their muskets to the ground, they cried, "Perish our Wazirs who have even shamed us with this shame." And the disastrous and dishonourable result brought about by our political inaptitude has never ceased to weaken our prestige in Central Asia. Civilized Turks simply declared that an officer of artillery, sent out as Commissioner by England, had unwarrantably interfered with the legitimate command of Kars, where Turkey had a powerful army and an important position; and that by keeping the soldiers behind walls, when he knew the City could not be saved, he had lost both Army and City. The criticism was fair and sound.

General (afterwards Sir) W. F. Williams of Kars was at first in huge indignation, and declared that he would persuade the Government to impeach Lord Stratford. But on the way he was met by an offer of the Command at Woolwich, which apparently made him hold his peace. He was somewhat an exceptional man. For years an instructor of the Turkish Artillery, then English member of the mixed Commission for the topography of the Turko-Persian frontier, and finally Queen's Commissioner with the Turkish army at Kars, he had never learnt a word of Turkish. Of course he was hustled into the House of Commons. Whenever a man makes himself known in England that is apparently his ultimate fate. But he fell flatly, as even Kars did, before the sharp tongue of Bernal Osborne. During some debate on the Chinese question, he had assured the House that he was an expert, because he had had much experience of Turkish matters. "Oh, the fall of Kars!" cried the wit; and the ex-Commissioner was extinguished for ever.

Lord Stratford, I suppose by way of consoling me, made an indirect offer, through Lord Napier and Ettrick, about commissioning me to pay an official visit to Schamyl, whom some call "The Patriot," and others "The Bandit," of the Caucasus. The idea was excellent, but somewhat surprised me. Schamyl had lately been accused, amongst other atrocious actions, of flogging Russian ladies whom he had taken prisoners, and I could not understand how Lord Stratford, who had an unmitigated horror of all Russian cruelties, and who always expressed it in the rawest terms, could ally himself with such a ruffian. Possibly the political advantages in his opinion counterbalanced his demerits, for, had Schamyl been fairly supported, the Russian conquest of the great mountains might have been retarded for years. I consulted on the subject Alison and Percy Smythe, and both were of the same opinion, namely, that although there were difficulties and dangers, involving a long ride through Russian territory, the task might have been accomplished. They relied greatly upon the ardent patriotism of the Circassian women who then filled the harems of Constantinople. I should not have seen a single face, except perhaps that of a slave-girl, but I should have been warmly assisted with all the interest the fair patriots could make. So I began seriously to think of the matter. But the first visit to Lord Stratford put it entirely out of my head. I asked his Excellency what my reply was to be, should Schamyl ask me upon what mission I came. "Oh, say that you are sent to report to me." "But, my lord, Schamyl will expect money, arms, and possibly troops, and what am I to reply if he asks me about it? Otherwise he will infallibly set me down for a spy, and my chance of returning to Constantinople will be uncommonly small."

However, the "Eltchi" could not see it in that light, and the project fell through.

Here also, although somewhat out of place, I may relate my last chance of carrying out a project upon which I was very warm, namely, to assist Circassia and to attack Georgia.

On returning to London I received a hint that Lord Palmerston had still some project of the kind, and was willing that I should be employed on it. So I wrote a number of letters, which I was allowed to publish in the Times, upon the subject of levying a large force of Kurdish Irregular Cavalry, and these being supported by the excellent work of Sir Henry Rawlinson, found favour with the public. But presently came the Franco-Russian peace of 1856. France, who had won all the credit of the mismanaged Campaign because she washed her dirty linen at home, and who had left all the discredit to England, whose practice was the opposite, lost all interest in the war. Louis Napoleon was thoroughly satisfied with what he had done, and Russia, after a most gallant and heroic defence of her territory, wanted time to heal her wounds. Accordingly the Treaty of Paris was entered into, the result being that, fifteen years afterwards, when France was in her sorest straits, Russia, with the consent of England (!), tore up that treaty and threw it in our face.

After this fruitless visit to Constantinople, I returned post haste to the Dardanelles, where I found the Bashi-Bazouks, like the unfortunate Turks at Kars, in a state of siege. On the morning of the 26th of September we were astounded to see the Turkish Regulars drawn out in array against us, Infantry supported by the guns, which were pointed at our camp, and patrols of Cavalry occupying the rear. Three War-steamers commanded the main entrance of the Town, and the enemy's outposts were established within three hundred yards of the 1st Regiment of Beatson's Horse, evidently for the purpose of ensuring a sanguinary affair. The inhabitants had closed their shops, and the British Consulate was deserted. The steamer Redpole was sent off in hottest haste to Constantinople with a report that a trifling squabble between the French infirmiers and the Bashi-Bazouks had ended in deadly conflict, and that the most terrible consequences were likely to ensue.

General Beatson at once issued an order to his men, who were furious at this fresh insult, and requested permission to punish the aggressors by taking the enemy's guns; and by means of his officers he restrained the natural anger of his much-suffering men.

The result was a triumph of discipline, and not a shot was fired that day. About four p.m. the Military Pasha, ashamed of his attitude, marched the Regulars back to their barracks, but he did not fail to complain to Constantinople of General Beatson's order, keeping his men in camp "till the Turkish authorities should have recovered from their panic and housed their guns." But the Redpole had also carried from the English and French Consuls an exaggerated account of the state of affairs, and earnestly requesting a reinforcement. The reply was an order from Lieut.-General Vivian removing General Beatson from command, and directing him to make it over to Major-General Richard Smith, who appeared at the Dardanelles on September 28th, supported by a fresh body of Nizam; and, lest any insult might be omitted, three hundred French soldiers had been landed at the Nagára Hospital to attack us in the rear.

End of Crimea.

General Beatson was at the time suffering from an accident, and was utterly unfitted for business. So Major Berkeley and I collected as many of the officers as we could at head-quarters, and proposed to go in a body to General Smith and lay the case before him. We assured him that all the reports were false, and proposed to show him the condition and the discipline of the Bashi-Bazouks; we also suggested that Brigadier-General Brett might be directed to assume temporary Command of the Force, until fresh orders and instructions should be received from General Vivian. Of course General Smith could not comply with our request, so we both declared that we would send in our resignations. After an insult of the kind, we felt that we could no longer serve with self-respect. It was this proceeding, I suppose, which afterwards gave rise to a report that I had done my best to cause a Mutiny.

On the last day of September General Beatson, with his Chief of Staff and military Secretary, left the Dardanelles for ever. Arrived at Buyukdere, a report was sent to General Vivian, and he presently came on board, where a lengthened communication passed between the Generals. Rumours of a Russian attack had induced a most conciliatory tone. General Vivian appeared satisfied with the explanation, and listened favourably to General Beatson's urgent request for permission to return at once to the Dardanelles. He asked expressly if the "Buzouker" could keep his men in order. The answer was a decided affirmative, which appeared to have considerable weight with him, and he expressed great regret for having, under a false impression, written an unfavourable letter to Lord Panmure, the tone of whose correspondence had been most offensive. He stated, however, that nothing could be done without the order of her Majesty's Ambassador; and, promising to call upon him for instructions, he left the steamer about midday, declaring that he would return in the course of the afternoon. After a few hours appeared, instead of General Vivian, a stiff official letter, directed to General Beatson. The interview with Lord Stratford had completely altered the tone of his official conduct.

On the 12th of October General Beatson reported officially to Lords Panmure and Stratford the efficient state of his force, concerning which General Smith had written most favourably. An equally favourable view was expressed in the public press by that Prince of War Correspondents, William H. Russell, whose name in those days was quoted by every Englishman. General Beatson begged to be sent on service, offering, upon his own responsibility, to take up transports, and to embark his men for Eupatoria, Yinikali, Batum, Balaclava, or—that unhappy Kars. To this no reply was returned.

Nothing now remained to be done, and on the 18th of October we left Therapia en route to England.

Beatson's Trial.

The sequel to this affair was sufficiently remarkable. General Beatson came home and attempted to take civil proceedings against his enemies. Chief amongst them was Mr. Skene—one of the Consuls already referred to—who, from the inception of General Beatson's scheme, had shown himself most bitterly opposed to it, and who had used all his influence to make General Beatson's position untenable.

Afterwards he chose to say that, "when General Smith arrived at the Dardanelles, General Beatson assembled the Commanding Officers of the regiments, and actually endeavoured to persuade them to make a mutiny in the regiments against General Smith, and against the authority of Vivian. Two of these Commanding Officers then left the room, saying they were soldiers, and they could not listen to language which they thought most improper and mutinous. These two were Lieut.-Colonels O'Reilly and Shirley. General Beatson subsequently had a sort of round robin prepared by the Chief Interpreter, and sent round to the different officers, in the hope that they would sign it, refusing to serve under any other General than himself. Both of these mutinous attempts are said to have originated from Captain Burton, who it also appears kept the order from Lord Panmure, placing the Irregular Horse under Lieut.-General Vivian, for three whole weeks unknown to any one but General Beatson, and the order was not promulgated until after General Smith had arrived."

General Beatson went into the witness-box and categorically denied the charges made against him.3 I followed and gave evidence to the same effect, as did also General Watt; but there was a great difficulty in proving the publication of the libel, the War Office, then represented by Mr. Sidney Herbert, refusing to produce certain letters. Mr. Skene was very ably defended by Mr. Bovill (afterwards Lord Chief Justice), Mr. Lush (afterwards a judge), and Mr. Garth, and he brought forward a considerable number of witnesses, including General Vivian himself. Their evidence, however, tended rather to establish the case against him (Skene), so that he was compelled to plead that his libel was a privileged communication. Mr. Baron Bramwell confined himself in his summing-up strictly to the legal aspects of the case, but he allowed his view of Mr. Skene's conduct to be very distinctly understood.

The jury (a special one), after half an hour's deliberation, returned a verdict for the defendant on the technical ground, but added a rider to their verdict, expressive of their disgust at Mr. Skene for having refrained from retracting his charges against General Beatson when he found how utterly without foundation they were. The verdict of the jury was confirmed on appeal, but it was generally felt that General Beatson had fully vindicated his character, and had very successfully exposed the conspiracy against the Irregulars, which had ended so disastrously for him and for his officers. The characters of the plaintiff and the defendant respectively may be estimated from one small circumstance. Beatson began his action just as the Indian Mutiny broke out, and being reasonably refused an extension of leave for the purpose of prosecuting it, went out to India. When the Mutiny was suppressed he obtained six months' leave, without pay, for the purpose of prosecuting his case. Mr. Skene had obtained the appointment of Consul at Aleppo, and could have reached England in a fortnight, but he chose to remain at his Consulate, though there would have been no difficulty in obtaining leave of absence on full pay. Under such circumstances, it was perhaps hardly worth while for his counsel to dwell upon the cruelty of pushing on this case in his absence, a complaint for which the presiding judge somewhat emphatically declared that there was not the smallest foundation.

1. Here, however, "Pam" was in the right. He foresaw that if the Canal was once made, England would cling to Egypt, and never again have a Crimean War. He also appreciated the vast injury which would accrue to our Eastern monopoly. But he never would or could do anything sérieusement, and he would humbug his countrymen with such phrases as a "ditch in the sand." He knew as well as any man that the project was feasible, and yet he persuaded Admiral Spratt and poor Robert Stephenson to join in his little dodge. I lost his favour for ever by advocating the Canal, and by proposing to assist the emigration of Fenian emigrants, at the expense of that fatal humbug, the "Coffin Squadron" on the West Coast of Africa.

2. How often one has to witness this in learned societies!—I. B.

3. Richard was not altogether lucky, as far as promotion went, about his Chiefs. Sir Charles Napier had seen what stuff he was made of, and had utilized and praised him to the utmost, but Napier's patronage was not in those days a recommendation, because he was always fighting some big-wig at home, and high officials who are ruffled up are quite as dangerous as fighting Sikhs or Afghans. He then served under General Beatson, who, like Napier, was always plunging into hot water; but Richard was devoted to his Chiefs, who well deserved his loyalty, and in this instance Richard gave valuable evidence on his old Commander's behalf. He was very amusing in the witness-box; he was so cool and ready, and always worried his cross-examiner into a white heat of rage, playing with him as a cat does a mouse, when the lawyer was doing his best to bewilder him, and make him contradict himself, especially when Richard got him into a network of military terms, the cross-examiner being rather at sea among its technicalities. I can see him now, just as he used to be in the fencing school; he would play with his adversary, just as if he was carving a chicken, and tire him out long before the real play began, so that an ill-tempered man would almost spit himself with rage, if the button had not been on.

It was good to see him under cross-examination. Bovill, subsequently Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, was leading counsel on the other side, and was so ill-advised as to attempt to browbeat Richard. His failure was naturally disastrous. A very simple answer of Richard's quite upset Bovill. "In what regiment did you serve under the plaintiff?" "Eh?" "In what regiment, I say——" "In no regiment." After playing with counsel for a minute or two, Richard let him know that he had served in a "corps." Bovill was still further discomfited in the course of the trial, by a manœuvre of Edwin James, who was managing Beatson's case. James coolly got up while Bovill was speaking for the defence, declared he could not stay and listen to such stuff, and left the court for a while. It is only fair to add that Bovill won the case.—I. B.