CHAPTER XI.
VISITS TO THE CONTINENT.
Politics in Paris in 1877—An Oration by Gambetta—the Balloting—The
Republic Saved—Gambetta's Funeral—A Member of the Reform Club—The
Century Club—A Draught of Turpentine and Soda—The "Press Gang" at the
Reform—James Payn and William Black—George Augustus Sala and Sir John
Robinson—Disraeli's Triumph in 1878—A European Tour.
In the autumn of 1877 I went over to Paris, in order to watch the General Election of that year. It was a fateful moment in the history of France. The Royalists, and the whole of the anti-Republican forces, were bent upon overthrowing the Republic, and they looked upon President Macmahon as their tool. Thiers, the natural leader of the Republican party, had died, after a brief illness, within a few weeks of the election; and Gambetta, who had stepped into his place, was not only under prosecution for his famous "Ou se soumettre ou se démettre" speech, but was still regarded by a large section of moderate men as a wild man, a fou furieux, indeed, who could not be trusted with the fortunes of the party. Every morning the Parisians awoke to wonder whether the expected coup d'état had taken place during the night. The drama had clearly reached an exciting moment, and I thought it well to witness the dénouement for myself.
My kind friend Lord Houghton, on learning my intention, sent me a batch of introductions to many of the leading men in Paris. They included the Comte de Paris himself, M. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire, the bosom friend of M. Thiers, and M. Blowitz, of the Times. I did not see a revolution, because none took place; but I had an excellent opportunity of watching Paris pass through a political crisis, and of witnessing the triumph of the Republic over its numerous and formidable enemies. That year (1877) was indeed the best year in the history of the Republic. It still had the support of the great mass of the public. The middle-class gave it all their aid, and the combination of Thiers and Gambetta had made the Left and Left Centre parties immensely powerful. It was interesting to watch the beginnings of the clerical reaction, beginnings which found their outward expression in the propagation of the cult of the Sacred Heart. All Paris was singing in those days, either in the original or in a parody, the hymn with the refrain, "Heaven save poor France in the name of the Sacred Heart." On the whole, the parodists were in a majority, and their parodies were just as blasphemous as one expects them to be in France.
Through M. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire, a typical French statesman of the philosophical cast, I secured an invitation to the solitary meeting which Gambetta, as candidate for Belleville, was permitted to hold prior to the actual election. He was, as I have said, under remand in the prosecution by which the Government had sought to silence his voice in the Chamber of Deputies. They could not prevent his making this one speech to his constituents, for the law gave him the right to do so, and the meeting was therefore one of great importance. Gambetta spoke in a large circus which was crowded to excess. He was received with great enthusiasm, but before his speech was over he had wound up his audience to a still higher pitch of passionate fervour. He struck me as being, in some respects, the greatest of all the orators I had ever heard. He had that indispensable qualification of the orator, a voice at once clear, powerful, and melodious. His magnificent physique gave weight to the gestures in which he indulged so freely, and which enabled him to conceal the infirmity from which he suffered—blindness of one eye—whilst at the same time allowing him always to keep his living eye fixed on the crowd before him.
I trembled for him when he began his great speech, for, unlike any English orator I ever heard, he did not warm to his subject gradually, taking care to make his audience accompany him step by step, but sprang in a moment to a height of passionate and tempestuous eloquence from which it seemed inevitable that he must quickly fall to an anti-climax. But no anticlimax came. For more than an hour he continued to pour forth a torrent of burning words that seemed to keep the vast multitude before him in a state of excitement and enthusiasm hardly to be exaggerated. Never before and never since have I witnessed such an effect as this produced by an orator, and though he lacked the stately and sonorous delivery of John Bright, and had no pretension to the intellectual persuasiveness of Mr. Gladstone, I have always felt, since hearing that speech, that Gambetta was the greatest orator to whom I ever listened.
It was rumoured that Gambetta was to be arrested on leaving the meeting, and he himself believed this rumour to be true. Yet this did not cause him to moderate his defiance of the Government and the reactionary powers. I remember he closed his great oration with words to the following effect: "I said in the Chamber not long ago, 'Clericalism, that is the enemy.' I predict now that when this election is over, I shall say, 'Clericalism, that is the vanquished.'" I was introduced to him after his speech. He was lying on a couch in a little green room at the back of the stage of the circus, panting, and fanning himself furiously with his pocket-handkerchief, whilst one of his friends administered to him copious draughts of champagne. He talked to me of the probability of his arrest on leaving the building, but seemed absolutely confident as to the future. The Government made no attempt, however, to interfere with him, and but a few weeks later he was the ruling power in France.
The day on which the first ballot was taken was, according to French custom, a Sunday. This was the day on which the quidnuncs had fixed as the probable date of the coup d'état. The Conservatives, on the other hand, pretended to believe that it would witness a fresh Communist rising, of which Belleville was to be the centre. It was a beautiful September day, and the excitement which possessed the whole French people was visibly reflected in the streets of Paris. I spent the whole day in driving from one polling station to another, accompanied by a friend who had resided for many years in the French capital. What struck one was the good order that was everywhere maintained, and the simplicity of the arrangements for voting. There was nothing like the tumult that would have been witnessed in any ordinary general election in England. It was obvious, too, that much less care was taken to preserve the secrecy of the ballot than is customary in this country.
As a newspaper correspondent I was freely admitted into every polling station. It was not until two o'clock in the afternoon that I reached Belleville, the reputed storm-centre. I had been warned that it would be dangerous to venture into that district in the handsome carriage provided for me by my friend. Yet when I climbed the steep hill leading to the polling station where the Maire presided, I found everything perfectly quiet. On entering the ballot-room, however, I was received in a somewhat curious fashion by the Maire. "So you have come at last to poor calumniated Belleville," he said. "You are the first journalist who has been here to-day, and yet for a week past every journal in Paris has declared that we were going to break out into a revolution. If they really believed it, why did they not come and see how we behaved ourselves? I call it infamous." The worthy Maire would hardly be pacified by the thought that I, at least, had not been guilty of staying away. But one could sympathise with his feelings, for in this spot, regarding which the wildest stories were current in the Parisian Press, dulness reigned supreme, and the polling station itself was as solemn and as silent as a Quakers' meeting house.
It was different at night, when the first news of the result of the election poured into Paris from the provinces, and it was seen that Gambetta had been a true prophet, after all, and that Clericalism, and all the other reactionary forces, had indeed been vanquished. Between ten o'clock and midnight the long line of the boulevards was crowded with the gayest multitude of men, women, and children that I ever met. They cheered, they shouted, they sang for joy. The Republic had triumphed, and France was saved. This was the burden of their song. Never did I see a more good-natured crowd; but things would have been different if that historic election had resulted otherwise. Paris was delighted and good-humoured because she had won.
Five years after that great victory for Gambetta and the Republic I found myself again in Paris on a cold January day. All the town was once more in the streets, but there was no gladness on the faces of the people who crowded the Place de la Concorde and the long avenue of the Rue de Rivoli. They had gathered together to witness the funeral of the hero of the fight of 1877. Gambetta, wounded, whether by accident or design none can tell, by his dearest friend, had died at the very zenith of his fame, and all France was prepared to render homage to one of her greatest sons. His body lay in state in the palace of the Chamber of Deputies, and I was fortunate enough to find myself standing at the foot of the coffin at the same moment as Victor Hugo. The great poet had his two grandchildren clinging to his hands, and as he stood there, explaining to the children something of Gambetta's story and achievements, I could not help feeling that there was a fine opening for a historical painter.
Gambetta's funeral was notable above everything else for the profusion of the display of flowers. Every department, every town and hamlet in France, had sent a deputation to swell the solemn procession, and every deputation brought a colossal funeral wreath. It was the first week in January, yet the air was heavy with the perfume of violets, lilies, and white lilac. It was computed at the time that twenty thousand pounds was expended on the flowers borne by the mourners, and I do not think that this calculation was exaggerated. Yet the funeral itself was extremely dull and unimpressive. Those long lines of men in evening dress impressed nobody. It was only when the picked troops went by in their glittering uniforms that any emotion was displayed by the watching crowd. For the rest, all our attention and admiration were given to the colossal wreaths and crowns and chaplets of which there was so barbaric a profusion, and the poor coffin itself passed almost unnoticed.
It was different a week later, when the statesman's real funeral took place. His father, a simple bourgeois of Provence, had agreed to allow this mock funeral to take place in Paris on condition that his son's body was subsequently given to him for burial among his own people at Nice. I was present also at this second funeral. There were no flowers and there was but little display; but behind the coffin in which the body of the ill-starred political leader lay walked his father, bare-headed, his white hair streaming in the breeze; and the women around me cried as he passed, "Ah, le pauvre papa!" and wiped the furtive tear from their eyes. If anything could have inspired me with a greater horror for the pomp of a public funeral, it would have been the contrast presented by this simple but pathetic ceremony at Nice with the gorgeous spectacle of a few days before in Paris.
In the spring of 1878 I became a member of the Reform Club, Mr. Forster and Mr. Childers being my sponsors. Then, as now, there was a black-balling clique in the club, and nobody could be absolutely certain of election; but my personal friends—among whom William Black was foremost—worked hard on my behalf, and secured my election in spite of the fact that I had a considerable number of black-balls. Personal influence, indeed, goes further than anything else in securing admission to a club like the Reform. It is a mistake to trust to the mere eminence of a man's proposer and seconder; unless he has some personal friend who is a popular member of the club, and who will take the trouble to exert himself on the day of the election, the mere eminence of his proposer and seconder will not save him. One of the traditions of the Reform Club relates to George Augustus Sala. When that well-known writer was proposed for election, the taint of Bohemianism still clung to him, and it was very doubtful whether he would pass the ordeal of the ballot. Thackeray, with whom Sala had been associated in the early days of the Cornhill Magazine, believed that election to a club like the Reform would be the salvation of the younger man; and on the day when the ballot took place he remained in the saloon at the head of the steps for four mortal hours, asking every member as he entered to vote for Sala as a personal favour to himself. In this way he defeated the black-balling clique, and secured Sala's admittance to society of a somewhat graver type than that to which he had heretofore been accustomed.
Even in 1878 I was not unversed in London clubs. I had been a member of the Arundel, where the dramatists and journalists of the last generation were wont to assemble; of the Thatched House, which in those days had an admirable chef; of the Savile, the home of cultured authorship; and of the Devonshire, founded after the Liberal defeat in 1874 as a kind of Junior Reform Club. I had, in addition, belonged to several more or less Bohemian clubs, of which the Century, in Pall Mall Place, is perhaps the only one that demands notice. The Century was founded on the model of the Cosmopolitan. The members met twice a week—on Wednesday and Sunday evenings. Tobacco, spirits, and aerated waters were provided out of the club funds. The members sat in a semicircle round the fireplace, and were expected to talk together without waiting for the formality of an introduction. The rules, in short, were the same as at the familiar "Cos.," and for a time the club was very successful. But it seems almost inevitable that clubs of this description should drift, sooner or later, into the hands of a clique. The same men went every night, and you had to listen to the same platitudes, or the same cheap cynicism. Once or twice the dulness of the evening at the Century was enlivened by something like a scene. One night, for example, Henry Fawcett, the blind politician and statesman, came into the club room after an absence of some months. He was warmly welcomed, and at the same time reproached for his prolonged absence. He explained himself. "I like to come here," he said, "but I can't stand Tom Potter. He talks too much." The identical Tom Potter, the well-known honorary secretary of the Cobden Club, was sitting in his favourite corner at the moment, and it need not be said that after Fawcett's remark the conversation of the little party was somewhat constrained.
But Tom Potter did not suffer so much as I did in that little room in Pall Mall Place. One night in 1877 or 1878 I got there late, after dining with Sir George Grove at his house at Sydenham. I was hot and thirsty, and William Black, whom I found there, immediately suggested to me the propriety of a whisky and soda. I accepted the suggestion. As the foaming glass was handed to me, it occurred to me that the Century Club must have been recently painted; but I was too thirsty to stop to make any remark on the subject, and hastily drank off the cool beverage with which I had been supplied. Directly I had done so, I knew that I had been poisoned. Whatever I had swallowed, it certainly was not whisky. I suppose I turned ghastly pale, for I felt a terrible nausea suddenly overcoming me. Black and my other friends in a state of consternation examined the bottle from which I had been served, and discovered that although it bore the label of a well-known brand of whisky, it contained turpentine. I confess I was relieved when I heard this, as I feared it might have been oxalic acid. But turpentine is bad enough as a beverage, and I do not think I ever spent a more uncomfortable four-and-twenty hours than that which followed this misadventure. There was no doctor present, but Black undertook to supply his place. "There is only one thing for you to do, my dear Reid. You must get drunk directly." I declared, with reason, that I had drunk too much already, and crept away to my bed, which happily was close at hand. For at least two days after that incident I smelt like a newly-painted lamp-post, but I have always felt grateful to the careless dog of a servant for not having served me up oxalic acid or vitriol in place of the turpentine. After that affair I do not think I ever went back to the Century Club. It was bad enough to be bored by the irrepressible Club Jorkinses, but to be poisoned also was more than flesh and blood could stand.
The Reform, as I soon discovered, differed in many respects from any of the clubs to which I had previously belonged. In those days, it was really the headquarters of a great political party, and amongst its members were to be counted many of the leading statesmen of the day. It contained, too, not a few men of letters, and many prominent men of affairs. A new member coming into the club saw these distinguished persons at lunch, or dinner, or taking their ease in smoking or reading rooms; but he had little chance of becoming acquainted with them unless he had some friend by whom he could be introduced. Fortunately for me, I already knew many of the politicians in the Reform, whilst Black was eager to introduce me to his own friends in the club. On the very first day on which I dined there as a member I was formally admitted to the little coterie the members of which lunched at the same hour every day at a particular table in the large coffee room. They were known as the "press-gang," and were the objects, I have always imagined, of the mingled hatred and envy of their fellow-members. They were hated because of their exclusiveness, and envied owing to the fact that there was more laughter at that one table than at all the others put together.
It was James Payn who was the chief cause of the laughter. He had himself the loudest laugh of any man I ever met, and he laughed incessantly. Again and again, when his ringing peal sounded through the room and we saw the scandalised faces of our fellow-members, some one amongst us would remind him of the line touching "the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind," but he only laughed the more loudly, and compelled us also to join in his infectious merriment. Looking back upon the years which I was destined to spend in constant association with that most delightful and lovable of men, I sadly realise the fact that since his death I have never laughed as I did in those happy days. The other members of the luncheon-table party at that time were William Black, George Augustus Sala, Sir John Robinson of the Daily News, E. D. J. Wilson of the Times, and J. C. Parkinson. There were others who came and went, but those I have named were the regular frequenters of the table. The real bond of union between us was Payn; but, as was only natural, the ties of friendship which united all became very close. To-day (1904) Parkinson and myself alone remain of the merry party of twenty years ago. Payn, Black, Robinson, and Sala are dead, and Wilson has sought the more august society of the Athenaeum. The luncheon table is still maintained, and we have found one or two recruits to fill the empty chairs; but I think it is with pity, rather than with envy, that we survivors of the original party are now regarded by our fellow-members.
However this may be, I shall always regard it as one of the great privileges of my life that for more than twenty years I was a member of this little society of friends, most of whom had kindred tastes, and who, though they might differ widely in ability, were at least alike in the keenness of their enjoyment of the humorous side of life. Many a time since Payn's death I have been asked to repeat some of his "good things," in order that others might understand the fascination that he had for his friends. I might as well be asked to repeat the song of the skylark. It was not in the mere form of words he used that Payn's power of touching and delighting his companions was to be found. He hated puns and verbal trickery of every kind, but he saw more quickly than any other man I have ever known the humorous side of any question or any incident, and he had a knack of making that humorous side perceptible to others which to my mind was absolutely unique. Day after day through the long years I have sat with him at that noonday meal, breathing an atmosphere of wit that was almost intoxicating. It was a wit that was never cruel, never coarse, never anything but kindly and humane. Even his cynicism was genial and good-natured, like that of Lord Houghton himself.
I have spoken already of William Black. He and I had become bound to each other by ties of warm affection. I had the greatest admiration for his genius, and a profound love for his pure and chivalrous character; but, like myself, he was a listener at the table at which Payn sat. He could say good things occasionally, but, as a rule, his conversation did not approach the excellence of his writing. Payn, on the other hand, was infinitely better in talk than in writing. He has written some essays which will hold their own side by side with some of Elia's, but no essay that he ever wrote had the delightful fascination that, to the very last, attached to his conversation. Sala talked almost as much as Payn, but in a very different fashion. He was an encyclopaedia of out-of-the-way knowledge, and had a story or an illustration for every topic that cropped up at the luncheon table. Sometimes his omniscience was almost overpowering; but I have heard innumerable good stories admirably told by him. Of Parkinson I must not speak, for he is happily still left to the luncheon table and to me. Robinson, from experiences which were as varied as they were abundant, was able to contribute much to our enjoyment at those bright gatherings of old, whilst he shared to the full in the affectionate admiration with which we all regarded Payn.
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 passed 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 ships 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 multitude, 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 passed 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 classes 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 snatch 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 kinship 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, Román, 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 passed 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 passed 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 noble 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 cafés. The only salutation that passed 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 principality 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 attitude 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 café and at almost every street corner.
Brofft's Hotel was at that time the chief place of entertainment in Bucharest. The principal 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 anticipated 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 Ambassador 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 fashion 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 Ambassador 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 editorship 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.