Three Men in a Boat / Three Men on the Bummel

Jerome K. Jerome
<strong>Three</strong> <strong>Men</strong> <strong>in</strong> a <strong>Boat</strong>
(To say noth<strong>in</strong>g of the Dog)
<strong>Three</strong> <strong>Men</strong> on the Bummel

THREE MEN IN A BOAT
(TO SAY NOTHING OF THE DOG)

PUBLISHER’S ADVERTISEMENT.
IT may not, perhaps, be out of place <strong>in</strong> this new edition of
<strong>Three</strong> <strong>Men</strong> <strong>in</strong> a <strong>Boat</strong> to place before its readers the enormous
hold it has upon the read<strong>in</strong>g public <strong>in</strong> Great Brita<strong>in</strong> and her
colonies. Orig<strong>in</strong>ally published <strong>in</strong> August, 1889, it has been
year after year repr<strong>in</strong>ted, until there has been produced the
large number of 202,000 copies. Add<strong>in</strong>g to this the 5,000 of
the present edition, a total is reached of 207,000 copies. It is
remarkable that dur<strong>in</strong>g this period there has been only one
edition, and this published at the price of 3s. 6d.; the publisher
ventures to believe this is unprecedented. It is not as though, as
is too often the case with an ord<strong>in</strong>ary novel, an enormous sale
took place dur<strong>in</strong>g a few months and then ceased, <strong>in</strong>asmuch as
<strong>in</strong> the present case there has been, and still is, a constant and
steady sale year after year. The present opportunity has been
taken to re-set <strong>in</strong> new type the letterpress, and to re-engrave
(from the orig<strong>in</strong>als) the whole of the draw<strong>in</strong>gs. The publisher
trusts that <strong>Three</strong> <strong>Men</strong> <strong>in</strong> a <strong>Boat</strong>, appeal<strong>in</strong>g as it does so much
to human nature both <strong>in</strong> its pathos and its humour, will still
cont<strong>in</strong>ue its pleasant voyage, and f<strong>in</strong>d new friends <strong>in</strong> every
home <strong>in</strong> the land which gave it birth.
BRISTOL, March, 1909.

AUTHOR’S ADVERTISEMENT.
MY Publisher suggests my add<strong>in</strong>g a few l<strong>in</strong>es to his. To refuse
to do so, under the circumstances, might appear surly. The
world has been very k<strong>in</strong>d to this book. Mr. Arrowsmith speaks
only of its sales <strong>in</strong> Great Brita<strong>in</strong>. In Chicago, I was assured by
an enterpris<strong>in</strong>g pirate now retired, that the sales throughout
the United States had exceeded a million; and although, <strong>in</strong>
consequence of its hav<strong>in</strong>g been published before the Copyright
Convention, this has brought me no material advantage,
the fame and popularity it has won for me among the American
public is an asset not to be despised. It has been translated
<strong>in</strong>to, I th<strong>in</strong>k, every European language except Arabian, also
<strong>in</strong>to some of those of Asia. It has brought me many thousands
of letters from young folk, from old folk; from well folk, from
sick folk; from merry folk, from sad folk. They have come
to me from all parts of the world, from men and women of
all countries. Had these letters been the only result I should
feel glad and proud that I had written the book. I reta<strong>in</strong> a few
blackened pages of one copy sent me by a young colonial officer
from South Africa. They were taken from the knapsack
of a dead comrade found on Spion Kop. So much for testimonials.
It rema<strong>in</strong>s only to expla<strong>in</strong> the merits justify<strong>in</strong>g such an
extraord<strong>in</strong>ary success. I am quite unable to do so. I have written
books that have appeared to me more clever, books that
have appeared to me more humorous. But it is as the author of
<strong>Three</strong> <strong>Men</strong> <strong>in</strong> a <strong>Boat</strong> (to say noth<strong>in</strong>g of the Dog) that the public
persists <strong>in</strong> remember<strong>in</strong>g me. Certa<strong>in</strong> writers used to suggest
that it was the vulgarity of the book, its entire absence of humour,
that accounted for its success with the people; but one
feels by this time that such suggestion does not solve the rid-

dle. Bad art may succeed for a time and with a limited public;
it does not go on extend<strong>in</strong>g its circle throughout twenty years.
I have come to the conclusion that, be the explanation what it
may, I can take credit to myself for hav<strong>in</strong>g written this book.
That is, if I did write it. For really I hardly remember do<strong>in</strong>g so.
I remember only feel<strong>in</strong>g very young and absurdly pleased with
myself for reasons that concern only myself. It was summer
time, and London is so beautiful <strong>in</strong> summer. It lay beneath
my w<strong>in</strong>dow a fairy city veiled <strong>in</strong> golden mist, for I worked
<strong>in</strong> a room high up above the chimney-pots; and at night the
lights shone far beneath me, so that I looked down as <strong>in</strong>to an
Aladd<strong>in</strong>’s cave of jewels. It was dur<strong>in</strong>g those summer months I
wrote this book; it seemed the only th<strong>in</strong>g to do.

PREFACE.
The chief beauty of this book lies not, so much <strong>in</strong> its literary
style, or <strong>in</strong> the extent and usefulness of the <strong>in</strong>formation it conveys,
as <strong>in</strong> its simple truthfulness. Its pages form the record of
events that really happened. All that has been done is to colour
them; and, for this, no extra charge has been made. George
and Harris and Montmorency are not Poetic ideals, but th<strong>in</strong>gs
of flesh and blood — especially George, who weighs about
twelve stone. Other works may excel this <strong>in</strong> depth of thought
and knowledge of human nature: other books may rival it <strong>in</strong>
orig<strong>in</strong>ality and size; but, for hopeless and <strong>in</strong>curable veracity,
noth<strong>in</strong>g yet discovered can surpass it. This, more than all its
other charms, will, it is felt, make the volume precious <strong>in</strong> the
eye of the earnest reader; and will lend additional weight to
the lesson that the story teaches.
LONDON, August, 1889

CHAPTER I.
<strong>Three</strong> Invalids. — Suffer<strong>in</strong>gs of George and Harris. — A victim to
one hundred and seven fatal maladies. — Useful prescriptions. —
Cure for liver compla<strong>in</strong>t <strong>in</strong> children. — We agree that we are overworked,
and need rest. — A week on the roll<strong>in</strong>g deep? — George
suggests the river. — Montmorency lodges an objection. — Orig<strong>in</strong>al
motion carried by majority of three to one.
THERE were four of us — George, and William Samuel Harris,
and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> my room,
smok<strong>in</strong>g, and talk<strong>in</strong>g about how bad we were — bad from a
medical po<strong>in</strong>t of view I mean, of course.
We were all feel<strong>in</strong>g seedy, and we were gett<strong>in</strong>g quite nervous
about it. Harris said he felt such extraord<strong>in</strong>ary fits of gidd<strong>in</strong>ess
come over him at times, that he hardly knew what he was do<strong>in</strong>g;
and then George said that he had fits of gidd<strong>in</strong>ess too, and
hardly knew what he was do<strong>in</strong>g. With me, it was my liver that
was out of order. I knew it was my liver that was out of order,
because I had just been read<strong>in</strong>g a patent liver-pill circular, <strong>in</strong>
which were detailed the various symptoms by which a man
could tell when his liver was out of order. I had them all.
It is a most extraord<strong>in</strong>ary th<strong>in</strong>g, but I never read a patent
medic<strong>in</strong>e advertisement without be<strong>in</strong>g impelled to the conclusion
that I am suffer<strong>in</strong>g from the particular disease there<strong>in</strong>
dealt with <strong>in</strong> its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems <strong>in</strong>
every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I
have ever felt.
I remember go<strong>in</strong>g to the British Museum one day to read
up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a
touch — hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and
read all I came to read; and then, <strong>in</strong> an unth<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g moment, I
idly turned the leaves, and began to <strong>in</strong>dolently study diseases,
generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged
<strong>in</strong>to — some fearful, devastat<strong>in</strong>g scourge, I know — and, before
I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it
was borne <strong>in</strong> upon me that I had fairly got it.
I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, <strong>in</strong> the list-

— 10 —
lessness of despair, I aga<strong>in</strong> turned over the pages. I came to
typhoid fever — read the symptoms — discovered that I had
typhoid fever, must have had it for months without know<strong>in</strong>g
it — wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s
Dance — found, as I expected, that I had that too, — began to
get <strong>in</strong>terested <strong>in</strong> my case, and determ<strong>in</strong>ed to sift it to the bottom,
and so started alphabetically — read up ague, and learnt
that I was sicken<strong>in</strong>g for it, and that the acute stage would
commence <strong>in</strong> about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was
relieved to f<strong>in</strong>d, I had only <strong>in</strong> a modified form, and, so far as
that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with
severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been
born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six
letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was
housemaid’s knee.
I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to
be a sort of slight. Why hadn’t I got housemaid’s knee? Why
this <strong>in</strong>vidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasp<strong>in</strong>g
feel<strong>in</strong>gs prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known
malady <strong>in</strong> the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determ<strong>in</strong>ed
to do without housemaid’s knee. Gout, <strong>in</strong> its most malignant
stage, it would appear, had seized me without my be<strong>in</strong>g
aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffer<strong>in</strong>g with
from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so
I concluded there was noth<strong>in</strong>g else the matter with me.
I sat and pondered. I thought what an <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g case I
must be from a medical po<strong>in</strong>t of view, what an acquisition I
should be to a class! Students would have no need to “walk the
hospitals,” if they had me. I was a hospital <strong>in</strong> myself. All they
need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their
diploma.
Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to exam<strong>in</strong>e
myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all.
Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my
watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to
the m<strong>in</strong>ute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart.

— 11 —
It had stopped beat<strong>in</strong>g. I have s<strong>in</strong>ce been <strong>in</strong>duced to come to
the op<strong>in</strong>ion that it must have been there all the time, and must
have been beat<strong>in</strong>g, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself
all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and
I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But
I could not feel or hear anyth<strong>in</strong>g. I tried to look at my tongue.
I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and
tried to exam<strong>in</strong>e it with the other. I could only see the tip, and
the only th<strong>in</strong>g that I could ga<strong>in</strong> from that was to feel more
certa<strong>in</strong> than before that I had scarlet fever.
I had walked <strong>in</strong>to that read<strong>in</strong>g-room a happy, healthy man. I
crawled out a decrepit wreck.
I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of m<strong>in</strong>e, and
feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the
weather, all for noth<strong>in</strong>g, when I fancy I’m ill; so I thought I
would do him a good turn by go<strong>in</strong>g to him now. “What a doctor
wants,” I said, “is practice. He shall have me. He will get
more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your
ord<strong>in</strong>ary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases
each.” So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:
“Well, what’s the matter with you?”
I said:
“I will not take up your time, dear boy, with tell<strong>in</strong>g you what
is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away
before I had f<strong>in</strong>ished. But I will tell you what is not the matter
with me. I have not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got
housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact rema<strong>in</strong>s that I
have not got it. Everyth<strong>in</strong>g else, however, I have got.”
And I told him how I came to discover it all.
Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold
of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn’t
expect<strong>in</strong>g it — a cowardly th<strong>in</strong>g to do, I call it — and immediately
afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that,
he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and
gave it me, and I put it <strong>in</strong> my pocket and went out.

— 12 —
I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist’s, and
handed it <strong>in</strong>. The man read it, and then handed it back.
He said he didn’t keep it.
I said:
“You are a chemist?”
He said:
“I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores and family
hotel comb<strong>in</strong>ed, I might be able to oblige you. Be<strong>in</strong>g only a
chemist hampers me.”
I read the prescription. It ran:
“1 lb. beefsteak, with
1 pt. bitter beer
every 6 hours.
1 ten-mile walk every morn<strong>in</strong>g.
1 bed at 11 sharp every night.
And don’t stuff up your head with
th<strong>in</strong>gs you don’t understand.”
I followed the directions, with the happy result — speak<strong>in</strong>g
for myself — that my life was preserved, and is still go<strong>in</strong>g on.
In the present <strong>in</strong>stance, go<strong>in</strong>g back to the liver-pill circular,
I had the symptoms, beyond all mistake, the chief among them
be<strong>in</strong>g “a general dis<strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ation to work of any k<strong>in</strong>d.”
What I suffer <strong>in</strong> that way no tongue can tell. From my earliest
<strong>in</strong>fancy I have been a martyr to it. As a boy, the disease
hardly ever left me for a day. They did not know, then, that it
was my liver. Medical science was <strong>in</strong> a far less advanced state
than now, and they used to put it down to laz<strong>in</strong>ess.
“Why, you skulk<strong>in</strong>g little devil, you,” they would say, “get up
and do someth<strong>in</strong>g for your liv<strong>in</strong>g, can’t you?” — not know<strong>in</strong>g,
of course, that I was ill.
And they didn’t give me pills; they gave me clumps on the
side of the head. And, strange as it may appear, those clumps
on the head often cured me — for the time be<strong>in</strong>g. I have known
one clump on the head have more effect upon my liver, and

— 13 —
make me feel more anxious to go straight away then and there,
and do what was wanted to be done, without further loss of
time, than a whole box of pills does now.
You know, it often is so — those simple, old-fashioned remedies
are sometimes more efficacious than all the dispensary
stuff.
We sat there for half-an-hour, describ<strong>in</strong>g to each other our
maladies. I expla<strong>in</strong>ed to George and William Harris how I felt
when I got up <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, and William Harris told us how
he felt when he went to bed; and George stood on the hearthrug,
and gave us a clever and powerful piece of act<strong>in</strong>g, illustrative
of how he felt <strong>in</strong> the night.
George fancies he is ill; but there’s never anyth<strong>in</strong>g really the
matter with him, you know.
At this po<strong>in</strong>t, Mrs. Poppets knocked at the door to know if
we were ready for supper. We smiled sadly at one another, and
said we supposed we had better try to swallow a bit. Harris
said a little someth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> one’s stomach often kept the disease
<strong>in</strong> check; and Mrs. Poppets brought the tray <strong>in</strong>, and we drew
up to the table, and toyed with a little steak and onions, and
some rhubarb tart.
I must have been very weak at the time; because I know,
after the first half-hour or so, I seemed to take no <strong>in</strong>terest
whatever <strong>in</strong> my food — an unusual th<strong>in</strong>g for me — and I didn’t
want any cheese.
This duty done, we refilled our glasses, lit our pipes, and
resumed the discussion upon our state of health. What it was
that was actually the matter with us, we none of us could be
sure of; but the unanimous op<strong>in</strong>ion was that it — whatever it
was — had been brought on by overwork.
“What we want is rest,” said Harris.
“Rest and a complete change,” said George. “The overstra<strong>in</strong>
upon our bra<strong>in</strong>s has produced a general depression throughout
the system. Change of scene, and absence of the necessity
for thought, will restore the mental equilibrium.”
George has a cous<strong>in</strong>, who is usually described <strong>in</strong> the charge-

— 14 —
sheet as a medical student, so that he naturally has a somewhat
family-physicianary way of putt<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>gs.
I agreed with George, and suggested that we should seek out
some retired and old-world spot, far from the madd<strong>in</strong>g crowd,
and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes — some
half-forgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach
of the noisy world — some qua<strong>in</strong>t-perched eyrie on the cliffs
of Time, from whence the surg<strong>in</strong>g waves of the n<strong>in</strong>eteenth
century would sound far-off and fa<strong>in</strong>t.
Harris said he thought it would be humpy. He said he knew
the sort of place I meant; where everybody went to bed at eight
o’clock, and you couldn’t get a Referee for love or money, and
had to walk ten miles to get your baccy.
“No,” said Harris, “if you want rest and change, you can’t
beat a sea trip.”
I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does you good
when you are go<strong>in</strong>g to have a couple of months of it, but, for a
week, it is wicked.
You start on Monday with the idea implanted <strong>in</strong> your bosom
that you are go<strong>in</strong>g to enjoy yourself. You wave an airy adieu to
the boys on shore, light your biggest pipe, and swagger about
the deck as if you were Capta<strong>in</strong> Cook, Sir Francis Drake, and
Christopher Columbus all rolled <strong>in</strong>to one. On Tuesday, you
wish you hadn’t come. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday,
you wish you were dead. On Saturday, you are able to swallow
a little beef tea, and to sit up on deck, and answer with a
wan, sweet smile when k<strong>in</strong>d-hearted people ask you how you
feel now. On Sunday, you beg<strong>in</strong> to walk about aga<strong>in</strong>, and take
solid food. And on Monday morn<strong>in</strong>g, as, with your bag and
umbrella <strong>in</strong> your hand, you stand by the gunwale, wait<strong>in</strong>g to
step ashore, you beg<strong>in</strong> to thoroughly like it.
I remember my brother-<strong>in</strong>-law go<strong>in</strong>g for a short sea trip
once, for the benefit of his health. He took a return berth from
London to Liverpool; and when he got to Liverpool, the only
th<strong>in</strong>g he was anxious about was to sell that return ticket.
It was offered round the town at a tremendous reduction, so

— 15 —
I am told; and was eventually sold for eighteenpence to a bilious-look<strong>in</strong>g
youth who had just been advised by his medical
men to go to the sea-side, and take exercise.
“Sea-side!” said my brother-<strong>in</strong>-law, press<strong>in</strong>g the ticket affectionately
<strong>in</strong>to his hand; “why, you’ll have enough to last you
a lifetime; and as for exercise! why, you’ll get more exercise,
sitt<strong>in</strong>g down on that ship, than you would turn<strong>in</strong>g somersaults
on dry land.”
He himself — my brother-<strong>in</strong>-law — came back by tra<strong>in</strong>. He
said the North-Western Railway was healthy enough for him.
Another fellow I knew went for a week’s voyage round the
coast, and, before they started, the steward came to him to ask
whether he would pay for each meal as he had it, or arrange
beforehand for the whole series.
The steward recommended the latter course, as it would
come so much cheaper. He said they would do him for the
whole week at two pounds five. He said for breakfast there
would be fish, followed by a grill. Lunch was at one, and consisted
of four courses. D<strong>in</strong>ner at six — soup, fish, entree, jo<strong>in</strong>t,
poultry, salad, sweets, cheese, and dessert. And a light meat
supper at ten.
My friend thought he would close on the two-pound-five
job (he is a hearty eater), and did so.
Lunch came just as they were off Sheerness. He didn’t feel
so hungry as he thought he should, and so contented himself
with a bit of boiled beef, and some strawberries and cream. He
pondered a good deal dur<strong>in</strong>g the afternoon, and at one time it
seemed to him that he had been eat<strong>in</strong>g noth<strong>in</strong>g but boiled beef
for weeks, and at other times it seemed that he must have been
liv<strong>in</strong>g on strawberries and cream for years.
Neither the beef nor the strawberries and cream seemed
happy, either — seemed discontented like.
At six, they came and told him d<strong>in</strong>ner was ready. The announcement
aroused no enthusiasm with<strong>in</strong> him, but he felt
that there was some of that two-pound-five to be worked off,
and he held on to ropes and th<strong>in</strong>gs and went down. A pleas-

— 16 —
ant odour of onions and hot ham, m<strong>in</strong>gled with fried fish and
greens, greeted him at the bottom of the ladder; and then the
steward came up with an oily smile, and said:
“What can I get you, sir?”
“Get me out of this,” was the feeble reply.
And they ran him up quick, and propped him up, over to
leeward, and left him.
For the next four days he lived a simple and blameless life
on th<strong>in</strong> capta<strong>in</strong>’s biscuits (I mean that the biscuits were th<strong>in</strong>,
not the capta<strong>in</strong>) and soda-water; but, towards Saturday, he got
uppish, and went <strong>in</strong> for weak tea and dry toast, and on Monday
he was gorg<strong>in</strong>g himself on chicken broth. He left the ship
on Tuesday, and as it steamed away from the land<strong>in</strong>g-stage he
gazed after it regretfully.
“There she goes,” he said, “there she goes, with two pounds’
worth of food on board that belongs to me, and that I haven’t
had.”
He said that if they had given him another day he thought
he could have put it straight.
So I set my face aga<strong>in</strong>st the sea trip. Not, as I expla<strong>in</strong>ed, upon
my own account. I was never queer. But I was afraid for George.
George said he should be all right, and would rather like it, but
he would advise Harris and me not to th<strong>in</strong>k of it, as he felt sure
we should both be ill. Harris said that, to himself, it was always
a mystery how people managed to get sick at sea — said he
thought people must do it on purpose, from affectation — said
he had often wished to be, but had never been able.
Then he told us anecdotes of how he had gone across the
Channel when it was so rough that the passengers had to be
tied <strong>in</strong>to their berths, and he and the capta<strong>in</strong> were the only
two liv<strong>in</strong>g souls on board who were not ill. Sometimes it was
he and the second mate who were not ill; but it was generally
he and one other man. If not he and another man, then it was
he by himself.
It is a curious fact, but nobody ever is sea-sick — on land. At
sea, you come across plenty of people very bad <strong>in</strong>deed, whole

— 17 —
boat-loads of them; but I never met a man yet, on land, who
had ever known at all what it was to be sea-sick. Where the
thousands upon thousands of bad sailors that swarm <strong>in</strong> every
ship hide themselves when they are on land is a mystery.
If most men were like a fellow I saw on the Yarmouth boat
one day, I could account for the seem<strong>in</strong>g enigma easily enough.
It was just off Southend Pier, I recollect, and he was lean<strong>in</strong>g out
through one of the port-holes <strong>in</strong> a very dangerous position. I
went up to him to try and save him.
“Hi! come further <strong>in</strong>,” I said, shak<strong>in</strong>g him by the shoulder.
“You’ll be overboard.”
“Oh my! I wish I was,” was the only answer I could get; and
there I had to leave him.
<strong>Three</strong> weeks afterwards, I met him <strong>in</strong> the coffee-room of
a Bath hotel, talk<strong>in</strong>g about his voyages, and expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g, with
enthusiasm, how he loved the sea.
“Good sailor!” he replied <strong>in</strong> answer to a mild young man’s
envious query; “well, I did feel a little queer once, I confess. It
was off Cape Horn. The vessel was wrecked the next morn<strong>in</strong>g.”
I said:
“Weren’t you a little shaky by Southend Pier one day, and
wanted to be thrown overboard?”
“Southend Pier!” he replied, with a puzzled expression.
“Yes; go<strong>in</strong>g down to Yarmouth, last Friday three weeks.”
“Oh, ah — yes,” he answered, brighten<strong>in</strong>g up; “I remember
now. I did have a headache that afternoon. It was the pickles,
you know. They were the most disgraceful pickles I ever tasted
<strong>in</strong> a respectable boat. Did you have any?”
For myself, I have discovered an excellent preventive aga<strong>in</strong>st
sea-sickness, <strong>in</strong> balanc<strong>in</strong>g myself. You stand <strong>in</strong> the centre of
the deck, and, as the ship heaves and pitches, you move your
body about, so as to keep it always straight. When the front of
the ship rises, you lean forward, till the deck almost touches
your nose; and when its back end gets up, you lean backwards.

— 18 —
This is all very well for an hour or two; but you can’t balance
yourself for a week.
George said:
“Let’s go up the river.”
He said we should have fresh air, exercise and quiet; the
constant change of scene would occupy our m<strong>in</strong>ds (<strong>in</strong>clud<strong>in</strong>g
what there was of Harris’s); and the hard work would give us a
good appetite, and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn’t th<strong>in</strong>k George ought to do anyth<strong>in</strong>g that
would have a tendency to make him sleepier than he always
was, as it might be dangerous.
He said he didn’t very well understand how George was go<strong>in</strong>g
to sleep any more than he did now, see<strong>in</strong>g that there were
only twenty-four hours <strong>in</strong> each day, summer and w<strong>in</strong>ter alike;
but thought that if he did sleep any more, he might just as well
be dead, and so save his board and lodg<strong>in</strong>g.
Harris said, however, that the river would suit him to a “T.”
I don’t know what a “T” is (except a sixpenny one, which <strong>in</strong>cludes
bread-and-butter and cake ad lib., and is cheap at the
price, if you haven’t had any d<strong>in</strong>ner). It seems to suit everybody,
however, which is greatly to its credit.
It suited me to a “T” too, and Harris and I both said it was
a good idea of George’s; and we said it <strong>in</strong> a tone that seemed
to somehow imply that we were surprised that George should
have come out so sensible.
The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was
Montmorency. He never did care for the river, did Montmorency.
“It’s all very well for you fellows,” he says; “you like it, but I
don’t. There’s noth<strong>in</strong>g for me to do. Scenery is not <strong>in</strong> my l<strong>in</strong>e,
and I don’t smoke. If I see a rat, you won’t stop; and if I go to
sleep, you get fool<strong>in</strong>g about with the boat, and slop me overboard.
If you ask me, I call the whole th<strong>in</strong>g bally foolishness.”
We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried.

— 19 —
CHAPTER II.
Plans discussed. — Pleasures of “camp<strong>in</strong>g-out,” on f<strong>in</strong>e nights. —
Ditto, wet nights. — Compromise decided on. — Montmorency, first
impressions of. — Fears lest he is too good for this world, fears subsequently
dismissed as groundless. — Meet<strong>in</strong>g adjourns.
WE pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.
We arranged to start on the follow<strong>in</strong>g Saturday from K<strong>in</strong>gston.
Harris and I would go down <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, and take
the boat up to Chertsey, and George, who would not be able
to get away from the City till the afternoon (George goes to
sleep at a bank from ten to four each day, except Saturdays,
when they wake him up and put him outside at two), would
meet us there.
Should we “camp out” or sleep at <strong>in</strong>ns?
George and I were for camp<strong>in</strong>g out. We said it would be so
wild and free, so patriarchal like.
Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the
hearts of the cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrow<strong>in</strong>g children,
the birds have ceased their song, and only the moorhen’s pla<strong>in</strong>tive
cry and the harsh croak of the corncrake stirs the awed
hush around the couch of waters, where the dy<strong>in</strong>g day breathes
out her last.
From the dim woods on either bank, Night’s ghostly army,
the grey shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away
the l<strong>in</strong>ger<strong>in</strong>g rear-guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless,
unseen feet, above the wav<strong>in</strong>g river-grass, and through the
sigh<strong>in</strong>g rushes; and Night, upon her sombre throne, folds her
black w<strong>in</strong>gs above the darken<strong>in</strong>g world, and, from her phantom
palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns <strong>in</strong> stillness.
Then we run our little boat <strong>in</strong>to some quiet nook, and the
tent is pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then
the big pipes are filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes
round <strong>in</strong> musical undertone; while, <strong>in</strong> the pauses of our talk,
the river, play<strong>in</strong>g round the boat, prattles strange old tales and
secrets, s<strong>in</strong>gs low the old child’s song that it has sung so many

— 20 —
thousand years — will s<strong>in</strong>g so many thousand years to come,
before its voice grows harsh and old — a song that we, who
have learnt to love its chang<strong>in</strong>g face, who have so often nestled
on its yield<strong>in</strong>g bosom, th<strong>in</strong>k, somehow, we understand, though
we could not tell you <strong>in</strong> mere words the story that we listen
to.
And we sit there, by its marg<strong>in</strong>, while the moon, who loves
it too, stoops down to kiss it with a sister’s kiss, and throws
her silver arms around it cl<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>gly; and we watch it as it
flows, ever s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g, ever whisper<strong>in</strong>g, out to meet its k<strong>in</strong>g,
the sea — till our voices die away <strong>in</strong> silence, and the pipes go
out — till we, common-place, everyday young men enough, feel
strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not care
or want to speak — till we laugh, and, ris<strong>in</strong>g, knock the ashes
from our burnt-out pipes, and say “Good-night,” and, lulled
by the lapp<strong>in</strong>g water and the rustl<strong>in</strong>g trees, we fall asleep beneath
the great, still stars, and dream that the world is young
aga<strong>in</strong> — young and sweet as she used to be ere the centuries of
fret and care had furrowed her fair face, ere her children’s s<strong>in</strong>s
and follies had made old her lov<strong>in</strong>g heart — sweet as she was
<strong>in</strong> those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed
us, her children, upon her own deep breast — ere the wiles of
pa<strong>in</strong>ted civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and
the poisoned sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of
the simple life we led with her, and the simple, stately home
where mank<strong>in</strong>d was born so many thousands years ago.
Harris said:
“How about when it ra<strong>in</strong>ed?”
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about
Harris — no wild yearn<strong>in</strong>g for the unatta<strong>in</strong>able. Harris never
“weeps, he knows not why.” If Harris’s eyes fill with tears, you
can bet it is because Harris has been eat<strong>in</strong>g raw onions, or has
put too much Worcester over his chop.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris,
and say:
“Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g

— 21 —
deep below the wav<strong>in</strong>g waters; or sad spirits, chant<strong>in</strong>g dirges
for white corpses, held by seaweed?” Harris would take you by
the arm, and say:
“I know what it is, old man; you’ve got a chill. Now, you
come along with me. I know a place round the corner here,
where you can get a drop of the f<strong>in</strong>est Scotch whisky you ever
tasted — put you right <strong>in</strong> less than no time.”
Harris always does know a place round the corner where
you can get someth<strong>in</strong>g brilliant <strong>in</strong> the dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g l<strong>in</strong>e. I believe
that if you met Harris up <strong>in</strong> Paradise (suppos<strong>in</strong>g such a th<strong>in</strong>g
likely), he would immediately greet you with:
“So glad you’ve come, old fellow; I’ve found a nice place
round the corner here, where you can get some really firstclass
nectar.”
In the present <strong>in</strong>stance, however, as regarded the camp<strong>in</strong>g
out, his practical view of the matter came as a very timely h<strong>in</strong>t.
Camp<strong>in</strong>g out <strong>in</strong> ra<strong>in</strong>y weather is not pleasant.
It is even<strong>in</strong>g. You are wet through, and there is a good two
<strong>in</strong>ches of water <strong>in</strong> the boat, and all the th<strong>in</strong>gs are damp. You
f<strong>in</strong>d a place on the banks that is not quite so puddly as other
places you have seen, and you land and lug out the tent, and
two of you proceed to fix it.
It is soaked and heavy, and it flops about, and tumbles down
on you, and cl<strong>in</strong>gs round your head and makes you mad. The
ra<strong>in</strong> is pour<strong>in</strong>g steadily down all the time. It is difficult enough
to fix a tent <strong>in</strong> dry weather: <strong>in</strong> wet, the task becomes herculean.
Instead of help<strong>in</strong>g you, it seems to you that the other man is
simply play<strong>in</strong>g the fool. Just as you get your side beautifully
fixed, he gives it a hoist from his end, and spoils it all.
“Here! what are you up to?” you call out.
“What are you up to?” he retorts; “leggo, can’t you?”
“Don’t pull it; you’ve got it all wrong, you stupid ass!” you
shout.
“No, I haven’t,” he yells back; “let go your side!”
“I tell you you’ve got it all wrong!” you roar, wish<strong>in</strong>g that

— 22 —
you could get at him; and you give your ropes a lug that pulls
all his pegs out.
“Ah, the bally idiot!” you hear him mutter to himself; and
then comes a savage haul, and away goes your side. You lay
down the mallet and start to go round and tell him what you
th<strong>in</strong>k about the whole bus<strong>in</strong>ess, and, at the same time, he starts
round <strong>in</strong> the same direction to come and expla<strong>in</strong> his views to
you. And you follow each other round and round, swear<strong>in</strong>g at
one another, until the tent tumbles down <strong>in</strong> a heap, and leaves
you look<strong>in</strong>g at each other across its ru<strong>in</strong>s, when you both <strong>in</strong>dignantly
exclaim, <strong>in</strong> the same breath:
“There you are! what did I tell you?”
Meanwhile the third man, who has been bal<strong>in</strong>g out the boat,
and who has spilled the water down his sleeve, and has been
curs<strong>in</strong>g away to himself steadily for the last ten m<strong>in</strong>utes, wants
to know what the thunder<strong>in</strong>g blazes you’re play<strong>in</strong>g at, and why
the blarmed tent isn’t up yet.
At last, somehow or other, it does get up, and you land the
th<strong>in</strong>gs. It is hopeless attempt<strong>in</strong>g to make a wood fire, so you
light the methylated spirit stove, and crowd round that.
Ra<strong>in</strong>water is the chief article of diet at supper. The bread is
two-thirds ra<strong>in</strong>water, the beefsteak-pie is exceed<strong>in</strong>gly rich <strong>in</strong>
it, and the jam, and the butter, and the salt, and the coffee have
all comb<strong>in</strong>ed with it to make soup.
After supper, you f<strong>in</strong>d your tobacco is damp, and you cannot
smoke. Luckily you have a bottle of the stuff that cheers and
<strong>in</strong>ebriates, if taken <strong>in</strong> proper quantity, and this restores to you
sufficient <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> life to <strong>in</strong>duce you to go to bed.
There you dream that an elephant has suddenly sat down
on your chest, and that the volcano has exploded and thrown
you down to the bottom of the sea — the elephant still sleep<strong>in</strong>g
peacefully on your bosom. You wake up and grasp the idea that
someth<strong>in</strong>g terrible really has happened. Your first impression
is that the end of the world has come; and then you th<strong>in</strong>k that
this cannot be, and that it is thieves and murderers, or else fire,
and this op<strong>in</strong>ion you express <strong>in</strong> the usual method. No help

— 23 —
comes, however, and all you know is that thousands of people
are kick<strong>in</strong>g you, and you are be<strong>in</strong>g smothered.
Somebody else seems <strong>in</strong> trouble, too. You can hear his fa<strong>in</strong>t
cries com<strong>in</strong>g from underneath your bed. Determ<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g, at all
events, to sell your life dearly, you struggle frantically, hitt<strong>in</strong>g
out right and left with arms and legs, and yell<strong>in</strong>g lustily the
while, and at last someth<strong>in</strong>g gives way, and you f<strong>in</strong>d your head
<strong>in</strong> the fresh air. Two feet off, you dimly observe a half-dressed
ruffian, wait<strong>in</strong>g to kill you, and you are prepar<strong>in</strong>g for a lifeand-death
struggle with him, when it beg<strong>in</strong>s to dawn upon
you that it’s Jim.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he says, recognis<strong>in</strong>g you at the same
moment.
“Yes,” you answer, rubb<strong>in</strong>g your eyes; “what’s happened?”
“Bally tent’s blown down, I th<strong>in</strong>k,” he says.
“Where’s Bill?”
Then you both raise up your voices and shout for “Bill!” and
the ground beneath you heaves and rocks, and the muffled
voice that you heard before replies from out the ru<strong>in</strong>:
“Get off my head, can’t you?”
And Bill struggles out, a muddy, trampled wreck, and <strong>in</strong> an
unnecessarily aggressive mood — he be<strong>in</strong>g under the evident
belief that the whole th<strong>in</strong>g has been done on purpose.
In the morn<strong>in</strong>g you are all three speechless, ow<strong>in</strong>g to hav<strong>in</strong>g
caught severe colds <strong>in</strong> the night; you also feel very quarrelsome,
and you swear at each other <strong>in</strong> hoarse whispers dur<strong>in</strong>g
the whole of breakfast time.
We therefore decided that we would sleep out on f<strong>in</strong>e nights;
and hotel it, and <strong>in</strong>n it, and pub. it, like respectable folks, when
it was wet, or when we felt <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed for a change.
Montmorency hailed this compromise with much approval.
He does not revel <strong>in</strong> romantic solitude. Give him
someth<strong>in</strong>g noisy; and if a trifle low, so much the jollier. To
look at Montmorency you would imag<strong>in</strong>e that he was an
angel sent upon the earth, for some reason withheld from
mank<strong>in</strong>d, <strong>in</strong> the shape of a small fox-terrier. There is a sort

— 24 —
of Oh-what-a-wicked-world-this-is-and-how-I-wish-I-coulddo-someth<strong>in</strong>g-to-make-it-better-and-nobler
expression about
Montmorency that has been known to br<strong>in</strong>g the tears <strong>in</strong>to the
eyes of pious old ladies and gentlemen.
When first he came to live at my expense, I never thought I
should be able to get him to stop long. I used to sit down and
look at him, as he sat on the rug and looked up at me, and
th<strong>in</strong>k: “Oh, that dog will never live. He will be snatched up to
the bright skies <strong>in</strong> a chariot, that is what will happen to him.”
But, when I had paid for about a dozen chickens that he
had killed; and had dragged him, growl<strong>in</strong>g and kick<strong>in</strong>g, by the
scruff of his neck, out of a hundred and fourteen street fights;
and had had a dead cat brought round for my <strong>in</strong>spection by an
irate female, who called me a murderer; and had been summoned
by the man next door but one for hav<strong>in</strong>g a ferocious
dog at large, that had kept him p<strong>in</strong>ned up <strong>in</strong> his own tool-shed,
afraid to venture his nose outside the door for over two hours
on a cold night; and had learned that the gardener, unknown
to myself, had won thirty shill<strong>in</strong>gs by back<strong>in</strong>g him to kill rats
aga<strong>in</strong>st time, then I began to th<strong>in</strong>k that maybe they’d let him
rema<strong>in</strong> on earth for a bit longer, after all.
To hang about a stable, and collect a gang of the most disreputable
dogs to be found <strong>in</strong> the town, and lead them out to
march round the slums to fight other disreputable dogs, is
Montmorency’s idea of “life;” and so, as I before observed, he
gave to the suggestion of <strong>in</strong>ns, and pubs., and hotels his most
emphatic approbation.
Hav<strong>in</strong>g thus settled the sleep<strong>in</strong>g arrangements to the satisfaction
of all four of us, the only th<strong>in</strong>g left to discuss was what
we should take with us; and this we had begun to argue, when
Harris said he’d had enough oratory for one night, and proposed
that we should go out and have a smile, say<strong>in</strong>g that he
had found a place, round by the square, where you could really
get a drop of Irish worth dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g.
George said he felt thirsty (I never knew George when he
didn’t); and, as I had a presentiment that a little whisky, warm,

— 25 —
with a slice of lemon, would do my compla<strong>in</strong>t good, the debate
was, by common assent, adjourned to the follow<strong>in</strong>g night; and
the assembly put on its hats and went out.

— 26 —
CHAPTER III.
Arrangements settled. — Harris’s method of do<strong>in</strong>g work. — How the
elderly family-man puts up a picture. — George makes a sensible,
remark. — Delights of early morn<strong>in</strong>g bath<strong>in</strong>g. — Provisions for gett<strong>in</strong>g
upset.
SO, on the follow<strong>in</strong>g even<strong>in</strong>g, we aga<strong>in</strong> assembled, to discuss
and arrange our plans. Harris said:
“Now, the first th<strong>in</strong>g to settle is what to take with us. Now,
you get a bit of paper and write down, J., and you get the grocery
catalogue, George, and somebody give me a bit of pencil,
and then I’ll make out a list.”
That’s Harris all over — so ready to take the burden of everyth<strong>in</strong>g
himself, and put it on the backs of other people.
He always rem<strong>in</strong>ds me of my poor Uncle Podger. You never
saw such a commotion up and down a house, <strong>in</strong> all your life, as
when my Uncle Podger undertook to do a job. A picture would
have come home from the frame-maker’s, and be stand<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>
the d<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g-room, wait<strong>in</strong>g to be put up; and Aunt Podger would
ask what was to be done with it, and Uncle Podger would say:
“Oh, you leave that to me. Don’t you, any of you, worry
yourselves about that. I’ll do all that.”
And then he would take off his coat, and beg<strong>in</strong>. He would
send the girl out for sixpen’orth of nails, and then one of the
boys after her to tell her what size to get; and, from that, he
would gradually work down, and start the whole house.
“Now you go and get me my hammer, Will,” he would shout;
“and you br<strong>in</strong>g me the rule, Tom; and I shall want the step-ladder,
and I had better have a kitchen-chair, too; and, Jim! you
run round to Mr. Goggles, and tell him, ‘Pa’s k<strong>in</strong>d regards, and
hopes his leg’s better; and will he lend him his spirit-level?’
And don’t you go, Maria, because I shall want somebody to
hold me the light; and when the girl comes back, she must
go out aga<strong>in</strong> for a bit of picture-cord; and Tom! — where’s
Tom? — Tom, you come here; I shall want you to hand me up
the picture.”

— 27 —
And then he would lift up the picture, and drop it, and it
would come out of the frame, and he would try to save the glass,
and cut himself; and then he would spr<strong>in</strong>g round the room,
look<strong>in</strong>g for his handkerchief. He could not f<strong>in</strong>d his handkerchief,
because it was <strong>in</strong> the pocket of the coat he had taken off,
and he did not know where he had put the coat, and all the
house had to leave off look<strong>in</strong>g for his tools, and start look<strong>in</strong>g
for his coat; while he would dance round and h<strong>in</strong>der them.
“Doesn’t anybody <strong>in</strong> the whole house know where my coat
is? I never came across such a set <strong>in</strong> all my life — upon my
word I didn’t. Six of you! — and you can’t f<strong>in</strong>d a coat that I put
down not five m<strong>in</strong>utes ago! Well, of all the —”
Then he’d get up, and f<strong>in</strong>d that he had been sitt<strong>in</strong>g on it, and
would call out:
“Oh, you can give it up! I’ve found it myself now. Might just
as well ask the cat to f<strong>in</strong>d anyth<strong>in</strong>g as expect you people to
f<strong>in</strong>d it.”
And, when half an hour had been spent <strong>in</strong> ty<strong>in</strong>g up his f<strong>in</strong>ger,
and a new glass had been got, and the tools, and the ladder,
and the chair, and the candle had been brought, he would have
another go, the whole family, <strong>in</strong>clud<strong>in</strong>g the girl and the charwoman,
stand<strong>in</strong>g round <strong>in</strong> a semi-circle, ready to help. Two
people would have to hold the chair, and a third would help
him up on it, and hold him there, and a fourth would hand
him a nail, and a fifth would pass him up the hammer, and he
would take hold of the nail, and drop it.
“There!” he would say, <strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>jured tone, “now the nail’s
gone.”
And we would all have to go down on our knees and grovel
for it, while he would stand on the chair, and grunt, and want
to know if he was to be kept there all the even<strong>in</strong>g.
The nail would be found at last, but by that time he would
have lost the hammer.
“Where’s the hammer? What did I do with the hammer?
Great heavens! Seven of you, gap<strong>in</strong>g round there, and you
don’t know what I did with the hammer!”

— 28 —
We would f<strong>in</strong>d the hammer for him, and then he would have
lost sight of the mark he had made on the wall, where the nail
was to go <strong>in</strong>, and each of us had to get up on the chair, beside
him, and see if we could f<strong>in</strong>d it; and we would each discover
it <strong>in</strong> a different place, and he would call us all fools, one after
another, and tell us to get down. And he would take the rule,
and re-measure, and f<strong>in</strong>d that he wanted half thirty-one and
three-eighths <strong>in</strong>ches from the corner, and would try to do it <strong>in</strong>
his head, and go mad.
And we would all try to do it <strong>in</strong> our heads, and all arrive
at different results, and sneer at one another. And <strong>in</strong> the general
row, the orig<strong>in</strong>al number would be forgotten, and Uncle
Podger would have to measure it aga<strong>in</strong>.
He would use a bit of str<strong>in</strong>g this time, and at the critical moment,
when the old fool was lean<strong>in</strong>g over the chair at an angle
of forty-five, and try<strong>in</strong>g to reach a po<strong>in</strong>t three <strong>in</strong>ches beyond
what was possible for him to reach, the str<strong>in</strong>g would slip, and
down he would slide on to the piano, a really f<strong>in</strong>e musical effect
be<strong>in</strong>g produced by the suddenness with which his head
and body struck all the notes at the same time.
And Aunt Maria would say that she would not allow the
children to stand round and hear such language.
At last, Uncle Podger would get the spot fixed aga<strong>in</strong>, and
put the po<strong>in</strong>t of the nail on it with his left hand, and take the
hammer <strong>in</strong> his right hand. And, with the first blow, he would
smash his thumb, and drop the hammer, with a yell, on somebody’s
toes.
Aunt Maria would mildly observe that, next time Uncle
Podger was go<strong>in</strong>g to hammer a nail <strong>in</strong>to the wall, she hoped
he’d let her know <strong>in</strong> time, so that she could make arrangements
to go and spend a week with her mother while it was be<strong>in</strong>g
done.
“Oh! you women, you make such a fuss over everyth<strong>in</strong>g,”
Uncle Podger would reply, pick<strong>in</strong>g himself up. “Why, I like do<strong>in</strong>g
a little job of this sort.”
And then he would have another try, and, at the second

— 29 —
blow, the nail would go clean through the plaster, and half the
hammer after it, and Uncle Podger be precipitated aga<strong>in</strong>st the
wall with force nearly sufficient to flatten his nose.
Then we had to f<strong>in</strong>d the rule and the str<strong>in</strong>g aga<strong>in</strong>, and a
new hole was made; and, about midnight, the picture would
be up — very crooked and <strong>in</strong>secure, the wall for yards round
look<strong>in</strong>g as if it had been smoothed down with a rake, and everybody
dead beat and wretched — except Uncle Podger.
“There you are,” he would say, stepp<strong>in</strong>g heavily off the chair
on to the charwoman’s corns, and survey<strong>in</strong>g the mess he had
made with evident pride. “Why, some people would have had a
man <strong>in</strong> to do a little th<strong>in</strong>g like that!”
Harris will be just that sort of man when he grows up, I
know, and I told him so. I said I could not permit him to take
so much labour upon himself. I said:
“No; you get the paper, and the pencil, and the catalogue,
and George write down, and I’ll do the work.”
The first list we made out had to be discarded. It was clear
that the upper reaches of the Thames would not allow of the
navigation of a boat sufficiently large to take the th<strong>in</strong>gs we had
set down as <strong>in</strong>dispensable; so we tore the list up, and looked
at one another!
George said:
“You know we are on a wrong track altogether. We must not
th<strong>in</strong>k of the th<strong>in</strong>gs we could do with, but only of the th<strong>in</strong>gs
that we can’t do without.”
George comes out really quite sensible at times. You’d be
surprised. I call that downright wisdom, not merely as regards
the present case, but with reference to our trip up the river of
life, generally. How many people, on that voyage, load up the
boat till it is ever <strong>in</strong> danger of swamp<strong>in</strong>g with a store of foolish
th<strong>in</strong>gs which they th<strong>in</strong>k essential to the pleasure and comfort
of the trip, but which are really only useless lumber.
How they pile the poor little craft mast-high with f<strong>in</strong>e
clothes and big houses; with useless servants, and a host of
swell friends that do not care twopence for them, and that

— 30 —
they do not care three ha’pence for; with expensive enterta<strong>in</strong>ments
that nobody enjoys, with formalities and fashions, with
pretence and ostentation, and with — oh, heaviest, maddest
lumber of all! — the dread of what will my neighbour th<strong>in</strong>k,
with luxuries that only cloy, with pleasures that bore, with
empty show that, like the crim<strong>in</strong>al’s iron crown of yore, makes
to bleed and swoon the ach<strong>in</strong>g head that wears it!
It is lumber, man — all lumber! Throw it overboard. It makes
the boat so heavy to pull, you nearly fa<strong>in</strong>t at the oars. It makes
it so cumbersome and dangerous to manage, you never know
a moment’s freedom from anxiety and care, never ga<strong>in</strong> a moment’s
rest for dreamy laz<strong>in</strong>ess — no time to watch the w<strong>in</strong>dy
shadows skimm<strong>in</strong>g lightly o’er the shallows, or the glitter<strong>in</strong>g
sunbeams flitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> and out among the ripples, or the great
trees by the marg<strong>in</strong> look<strong>in</strong>g down at their own image, or the
woods all green and golden, or the lilies white and yellow, or
the sombre-wav<strong>in</strong>g rushes, or the sedges, or the orchis, or the
blue forget-me-nots.
Throw the lumber over, man! Let your boat of life be light,
packed with only what you need — a homely home and simple
pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone
to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or
two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than
enough to dr<strong>in</strong>k; for thirst is a dangerous th<strong>in</strong>g.
You will f<strong>in</strong>d the boat easier to pull then, and it will not be so
liable to upset, and it will not matter so much if it does upset;
good, pla<strong>in</strong> merchandise will stand water. You will have time to
th<strong>in</strong>k as well as to work. Time to dr<strong>in</strong>k <strong>in</strong> life’s sunsh<strong>in</strong>e — time
to listen to the Æolian music that the w<strong>in</strong>d of God draws from
the human heart-str<strong>in</strong>gs around us — time to —
I beg your pardon, really. I quite forgot.
Well, we left the list to George, and he began it.
“We won’t take a tent,” suggested George; “we will have a
boat with a cover. It is ever so much simpler, and more comfortable.”
It seemed a good thought, and we adopted it. I do not know

— 31 —
whether you have ever seen the th<strong>in</strong>g I mean. You fix iron
hoops up over the boat, and stretch a huge canvas over them,
and fasten it down all round, from stem to stern, and it converts
the boat <strong>in</strong>to a sort of little house, and it is beautifully
cosy, though a trifle stuffy; but there, everyth<strong>in</strong>g has its drawbacks,
as the man said when his mother-<strong>in</strong>-law died, and they
came down upon him for the funeral expenses.
George said that <strong>in</strong> that case we must take a rug each, a
lamp, some soap, a brush and comb (between us), a toothbrush
(each), a bas<strong>in</strong>, some tooth-powder, some shav<strong>in</strong>g tackle
(sounds like a French exercise, doesn’t it?), and a couple of bigtowels
for bath<strong>in</strong>g. I notice that people always make gigantic
arrangements for bath<strong>in</strong>g when they are go<strong>in</strong>g anywhere near
the water, but that they don’t bathe much when they are there.
It is the same when you go to the sea-side. I always determ<strong>in</strong>e
— when th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g over the matter <strong>in</strong> London — that I’ll
get up early every morn<strong>in</strong>g, and go and have a dip before
breakfast, and I religiously pack up a pair of drawers and a
bath towel. I always get red bath<strong>in</strong>g drawers. I rather fancy
myself <strong>in</strong> red drawers. They suit my complexion so. But when I
get to the sea I don’t feel somehow that I want that early morn<strong>in</strong>g
bathe nearly so much as I did when I was <strong>in</strong> town.
On the contrary, I feel more that I want to stop <strong>in</strong> bed till
the last moment, and then come down and have my breakfast.
Once or twice virtue has triumphed, and I have got out at six
and half-dressed myself, and have taken my drawers and towel,
and stumbled dismally off. But I haven’t enjoyed it. They seem
to keep a specially cutt<strong>in</strong>g east w<strong>in</strong>d, wait<strong>in</strong>g for me, when I go
to bathe <strong>in</strong> the early morn<strong>in</strong>g; and they pick out all the threecornered
stones, and put them on the top, and they sharpen up
the rocks and cover the po<strong>in</strong>ts over with a bit of sand so that I
can’t see them, and they take the sea and put it two miles out,
so that I have to huddle myself up <strong>in</strong> my arms and hop, shiver<strong>in</strong>g,
through six <strong>in</strong>ches of water. And when I do get to the sea,
it is rough and quite <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g.
One huge wave catches me up and chucks me <strong>in</strong> a sitt<strong>in</strong>g

— 32 —
posture, as hard as ever it can, down on to a rock which has
been put there for me. And, before I’ve said “Oh! Ugh!” and
found out what has gone, the wave comes back and carries me
out to mid-ocean. I beg<strong>in</strong> to strike out frantically for the shore,
and wonder if I shall ever see home and friends aga<strong>in</strong>, and
wish I’d been k<strong>in</strong>der to my little sister when a boy (when I was
a boy, I mean). Just when I have given up all hope, a wave retires
and leaves me sprawl<strong>in</strong>g like a star-fish on the sand, and I
get up and look back and f<strong>in</strong>d that I’ve been swimm<strong>in</strong>g for my
life <strong>in</strong> two feet of water. I hop back and dress, and crawl home,
where I have to pretend I liked it.
In the present <strong>in</strong>stance, we all talked as if we were go<strong>in</strong>g to
have a long swim every morn<strong>in</strong>g.
George said it was so pleasant to wake up <strong>in</strong> the boat <strong>in</strong> the
fresh morn<strong>in</strong>g, and plunge <strong>in</strong>to the limpid river. Harris said
there was noth<strong>in</strong>g like a swim before breakfast to give you
an appetite. He said it always gave him an appetite. George
said that if it was go<strong>in</strong>g to make Harris eat more than Harris
ord<strong>in</strong>arily ate, then he should protest aga<strong>in</strong>st Harris hav<strong>in</strong>g a
bath at all.
He said there would be quite enough hard work <strong>in</strong> tow<strong>in</strong>g
sufficient food for Harris up aga<strong>in</strong>st stream, as it was.
I urged upon George, however, how much pleasanter it
would be to have Harris clean and fresh about the boat, even if
we did have to take a few more hundredweight of provisions;
and he got to see it <strong>in</strong> my light, and withdrew his opposition
to Harris’s bath.
Agreed, f<strong>in</strong>ally, that we should take three bath towels, so as
not to keep each other wait<strong>in</strong>g.
For clothes, George said two suits of flannel would be sufficient,
as we could wash them ourselves, <strong>in</strong> the river, when they
got dirty. We asked him if he had ever tried wash<strong>in</strong>g flannels
<strong>in</strong> the river, and he replied: “No, not exactly himself like; but
he knew some fellows who had, and it was easy enough;” and
Harris and I were weak enough to fancy he knew what he was
talk<strong>in</strong>g about, and that three respectable young men, without

— 33 —
position or <strong>in</strong>fluence, and with no experience <strong>in</strong> wash<strong>in</strong>g,
could really clean their own shirts and trousers <strong>in</strong> the river
Thames with a bit of soap.
We were to learn <strong>in</strong> the days to come, when it was too late,
that George was a miserable impostor, who could evidently
have known noth<strong>in</strong>g whatever about the matter. If you had
seen these clothes after — but, as the shill<strong>in</strong>g shockers say, we
anticipate.
George impressed upon us to take a change of under-th<strong>in</strong>gs
and plenty of socks, <strong>in</strong> case we got upset and wanted a change;
also plenty of handkerchiefs, as they would do to wipe th<strong>in</strong>gs,
and a pair of leather boots as well as our boat<strong>in</strong>g shoes, as we
should want them if we got upset.

— 34 —
CHAPTER IV.
The food question. — Objections to paraff<strong>in</strong>e oil as an atmosphere.
— Advantages of cheese as a travell<strong>in</strong>g companion. — A married
woman deserts her home. — Further provision for gett<strong>in</strong>g upset.
— I pack. — Cussedness of tooth-brushes. — George and Harris
pack. — Awful behaviour of Montmorency. — We retire to rest.
THEN we discussed the food question. George said:
“Beg<strong>in</strong> with breakfast.” (George is so practical.) “Now for
breakfast we shall want a fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan” — (Harris said it was
<strong>in</strong>digestible; but we merely urged him not to be an ass, and
George went on) — “a tea-pot and a kettle, and a methylated
spirit stove.”
“No oil,” said George, with a significant look; and Harris
and I agreed.
We had taken up an oil-stove once, but “never aga<strong>in</strong>.” It had
been like liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> an oil-shop that week. It oozed. I never saw
such a th<strong>in</strong>g as paraff<strong>in</strong>e oil is to ooze. We kept it <strong>in</strong> the nose
of the boat, and, from there, it oozed down to the rudder, impregnat<strong>in</strong>g
the whole boat and everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> it on its way, and
it oozed over the river, and saturated the scenery and spoilt the
atmosphere. Sometimes a westerly oily w<strong>in</strong>d blew, and at other
times an easterly oily w<strong>in</strong>d, and sometimes it blew a northerly
oily w<strong>in</strong>d, and maybe a southerly oily w<strong>in</strong>d; but whether it
came from the Arctic snows, or was raised <strong>in</strong> the waste of the
desert sands, it came alike to us laden with the fragrance of
paraff<strong>in</strong>e oil.
And that oil oozed up and ru<strong>in</strong>ed the sunset; and as for the
moonbeams, they positively reeked of paraff<strong>in</strong>e.
We tried to get away from it at Marlow. We left the boat
by the bridge, and took a walk through the town to escape it,
but it followed us. The whole town was full of oil. We passed
through the church-yard, and it seemed as if the people had
been buried <strong>in</strong> oil. The High Street stunk of oil; we wondered
how people could live <strong>in</strong> it. And we walked miles upon miles
out Birm<strong>in</strong>gham way; but it was no use, the country was
steeped <strong>in</strong> oil.

— 35 —
At the end of that trip we met together at midnight <strong>in</strong> a
lonely field, under a blasted oak, and took an awful oath (we
had been swear<strong>in</strong>g for a whole week about the th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> an ord<strong>in</strong>ary,
middle-class way, but this was a swell affair) — an awful
oath never to take paraff<strong>in</strong>e oil with us <strong>in</strong> a boat aga<strong>in</strong> — except,
of course, <strong>in</strong> case of sickness.
Therefore, <strong>in</strong> the present <strong>in</strong>stance, we conf<strong>in</strong>ed ourselves to
methylated spirit. Even that is bad enough. You get methylated
pie and methylated cake. But methylated spirit is more
wholesome when taken <strong>in</strong>to the system <strong>in</strong> large quantities
than paraff<strong>in</strong>e oil.
For other breakfast th<strong>in</strong>gs, George suggested eggs and bacon,
which were easy to cook, cold meat, tea, bread and butter,
and jam. For lunch, he said, we could have biscuits, cold meat,
bread and butter, and jam — but no cheese. Cheese, like oil,
makes too much of itself. It wants the whole boat to itself. It
goes through the hamper, and gives a cheesy flavour to everyth<strong>in</strong>g
else there. You can’t tell whether you are eat<strong>in</strong>g apple-pie
or German sausage, or strawberries and cream. It all seems
cheese. There is too much odour about cheese.
I remember a friend of m<strong>in</strong>e, buy<strong>in</strong>g a couple of cheeses at
Liverpool. Splendid cheeses they were, ripe and mellow, and
with a two hundred horse-power scent about them that might
have been warranted to carry three miles, and knock a man
over at two hundred yards. I was <strong>in</strong> Liverpool at the time, and
my friend said that if I didn’t m<strong>in</strong>d he would get me to take
them back with me to London, as he should not be com<strong>in</strong>g
up for a day or two himself, and he did not th<strong>in</strong>k the cheeses
ought to be kept much longer.
“Oh, with pleasure, dear boy,” I replied, “with pleasure.”
I called for the cheeses, and took them away <strong>in</strong> a cab. It was
a ramshackle affair, dragged along by a knock-kneed, brokenw<strong>in</strong>ded
somnambulist, which his owner, <strong>in</strong> a moment of enthusiasm,
dur<strong>in</strong>g conversation, referred to as a horse. I put the
cheeses on the top, and we started off at a shamble that would
have done credit to the swiftest steam-roller ever built, and all

— 36 —
went merry as a funeral bell, until we turned the corner. There,
the w<strong>in</strong>d carried a whiff from the cheeses full on to our steed.
It woke him up, and, with a snort of terror, he dashed off at
three miles an hour. The w<strong>in</strong>d still blew <strong>in</strong> his direction, and
before we reached the end of the street he was lay<strong>in</strong>g himself
out at the rate of nearly four miles an hour, leav<strong>in</strong>g the cripples
and stout old ladies simply nowhere.
It took two porters as well as the driver to hold him <strong>in</strong> at
the station; and I do not th<strong>in</strong>k they would have done it, even
then, had not one of the men had the presence of m<strong>in</strong>d to put a
handkerchief over his nose, and to light a bit of brown paper.
I took my ticket, and marched proudly up the platform, with
my cheeses, the people fall<strong>in</strong>g back respectfully on either side.
The tra<strong>in</strong> was crowded, and I had to get <strong>in</strong>to a carriage where
there were already seven other people. One crusty old gentleman
objected, but I got <strong>in</strong>, notwithstand<strong>in</strong>g; and, putt<strong>in</strong>g my
cheeses upon the rack, squeezed down with a pleasant smile,
and said it was a warm day.
A few moments passed, and then the old gentleman began
to fidget.
“Very close <strong>in</strong> here,” he said.
“Quite oppressive,” said the man next him.
And then they both began sniff<strong>in</strong>g, and, at the third sniff,
they caught it right on the chest, and rose up without another
word and went out. And then a stout lady got up, and said it
was disgraceful that a respectable married woman should be
harried about <strong>in</strong> this way, and gathered up a bag and eight
parcels and went. The rema<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g four passengers sat on for a
while, until a solemn-look<strong>in</strong>g man <strong>in</strong> the corner, who, from his
dress and general appearance, seemed to belong to the undertaker
class, said it put him <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d of dead baby; and the other
three passengers tried to get out of the door at the same time,
and hurt themselves.
I smiled at the black gentleman, and said I thought we
were go<strong>in</strong>g to have the carriage to ourselves; and he laughed
pleasantly, and said that some people made such a fuss over a

— 37 —
little th<strong>in</strong>g. But even he grew strangely depressed after we had
started, and so, when we reached Crewe, I asked him to come
and have a dr<strong>in</strong>k. He accepted, and we forced our way <strong>in</strong>to the
buffet, where we yelled, and stamped, and waved our umbrellas
for a quarter of an hour; and then a young lady came, and
asked us if we wanted anyth<strong>in</strong>g.
“What’s yours?” I said, turn<strong>in</strong>g to my friend.
“I’ll have half-a-crown’s worth of brandy, neat, if you please,
miss,” he responded.
And he went off quietly after he had drunk it and got <strong>in</strong>to
another carriage, which I thought mean.
From Crewe I had the compartment to myself, though the
tra<strong>in</strong> was crowded. As we drew up at the different stations, the
people, see<strong>in</strong>g my empty carriage, would rush for it. “Here y’
are, Maria; come along, plenty of room.” “All right, Tom; we’ll
get <strong>in</strong> here,” they would shout. And they would run along, carry<strong>in</strong>g
heavy bags, and fight round the door to get <strong>in</strong> first. And
one would open the door and mount the steps, and stagger
back <strong>in</strong>to the arms of the man beh<strong>in</strong>d him; and they would
all come and have a sniff, and then droop off and squeeze <strong>in</strong>to
other carriages, or pay the difference and go first.
From Euston, I took the cheeses down to my friend’s house.
When his wife came <strong>in</strong>to the room she smelt round for an <strong>in</strong>stant.
Then she said:
“What is it? Tell me the worst.”
I said:
“It’s cheeses. Tom bought them <strong>in</strong> Liverpool, and asked me
to br<strong>in</strong>g them up with me.”
And I added that I hoped she understood that it had noth<strong>in</strong>g
to do with me; and she said that she was sure of that, but
that she would speak to Tom about it when he came back.
My friend was deta<strong>in</strong>ed <strong>in</strong> Liverpool longer than he expected;
and, three days later, as he hadn’t returned home, his wife
called on me. She said:
“What did Tom say about those cheeses?”

— 38 —
I replied that he had directed they were to be kept <strong>in</strong> a moist
place, and that nobody was to touch them.
She said:
“Nobody’s likely to touch them. Had he smelt them?”
I thought he had, and added that he seemed greatly attached
to them.
“You th<strong>in</strong>k he would be upset,” she queried, “if I gave a man
a sovereign to take them away and bury them?”
I answered that I thought he would never smile aga<strong>in</strong>.
An idea struck her. She said:
“Do you m<strong>in</strong>d keep<strong>in</strong>g them for him? Let me send them
round to you.”
“Madam,” I replied, “for myself I like the smell of cheese,
and the journey the other day with them from Liverpool I shall
ever look back upon as a happy end<strong>in</strong>g to a pleasant holiday.
But, <strong>in</strong> this world, we must consider others. The lady under
whose roof I have the honour of resid<strong>in</strong>g is a widow, and, for
all I know, possibly an orphan too. She has a strong, I may say
an eloquent, objection to be<strong>in</strong>g what she terms ‘put upon.’ The
presence of your husband’s cheeses <strong>in</strong> her house she would, I
<strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ctively feel, regard as a ‘put upon’; and it shall never be
said that I put upon the widow and the orphan.”
“Very well, then,” said my friend’s wife, ris<strong>in</strong>g, “all I have to
say is, that I shall take the children and go to an hotel until
those cheeses are eaten. I decl<strong>in</strong>e to live any longer <strong>in</strong> the same
house with them.”
She kept her word, leav<strong>in</strong>g the place <strong>in</strong> charge of the charwoman,
who, when asked if she could stand the smell, replied,
“What smell?” and who, when taken close to the cheeses and
told to sniff hard, said she could detect a fa<strong>in</strong>t odour of melons.
It was argued from this that little <strong>in</strong>jury could result to the
woman from the atmosphere, and she was left.
The hotel bill came to fifteen gu<strong>in</strong>eas; and my friend, after
reckon<strong>in</strong>g everyth<strong>in</strong>g up, found that the cheeses had cost him
eight-and-sixpence a pound. He said he dearly loved a bit of
cheese, but it was beyond his means; so he determ<strong>in</strong>ed to get

— 39 —
rid of them. He threw them <strong>in</strong>to the canal; but had to fish them
out aga<strong>in</strong>, as the bargemen compla<strong>in</strong>ed. They said it made
them feel quite fa<strong>in</strong>t. And, after that, he took them one dark
night and left them <strong>in</strong> the parish mortuary. But the coroner
discovered them, and made a fearful fuss.
He said it was a plot to deprive him of his liv<strong>in</strong>g by wak<strong>in</strong>g
up the corpses.
My friend got rid of them, at last, by tak<strong>in</strong>g them down to
a sea-side town, and bury<strong>in</strong>g them on the beach. It ga<strong>in</strong>ed the
place quite a reputation. Visitors said they had never noticed
before how strong the air was, and weak-chested and consumptive
people used to throng there for years afterwards.
Fond as I am of cheese, therefore, I hold that George was
right <strong>in</strong> decl<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g to take any.
“We shan’t want any tea,” said George (Harris’s face fell at
this); “but we’ll have a good round, square, slap-up meal at
seven — d<strong>in</strong>ner, tea, and supper comb<strong>in</strong>ed.”
Harris grew more cheerful. George suggested meat and fruit
pies, cold meat, tomatoes, fruit, and green stuff. For dr<strong>in</strong>k, we
took some wonderful sticky concoction of Harris’s, which you
mixed with water and called lemonade, plenty of tea, and a
bottle of whisky, <strong>in</strong> case, as George said, we got upset.
It seemed to me that George harped too much on the gett<strong>in</strong>g-upset
idea. It seemed to me the wrong spirit to go about
the trip <strong>in</strong>.
But I’m glad we took the whisky.
We didn’t take beer or w<strong>in</strong>e. They are a mistake up the river.
They make you feel sleepy and heavy. A glass <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g
when you are do<strong>in</strong>g a mouch round the town and look<strong>in</strong>g at
the girls is all right enough; but don’t dr<strong>in</strong>k when the sun is
blaz<strong>in</strong>g down on your head, and you’ve got hard work to do.
We made a list of the th<strong>in</strong>gs to be taken, and a pretty lengthy
one it was, before we parted that even<strong>in</strong>g. The next day, which
was Friday, we got them all together, and met <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g to
pack. We got a big Gladstone for the clothes, and a couple of
hampers for the victuals and the cook<strong>in</strong>g utensils. We moved

— 40 —
the table up aga<strong>in</strong>st the w<strong>in</strong>dow, piled everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a heap <strong>in</strong>
the middle of the floor, and sat round and looked at it.
I said I’d pack.
I rather pride myself on my pack<strong>in</strong>g. Pack<strong>in</strong>g is one of those
many th<strong>in</strong>gs that I feel I know more about than any other
person liv<strong>in</strong>g. (It surprises me myself, sometimes, how many
of these subjects there are.) I impressed the fact upon George
and Harris, and told them that they had better leave the whole
matter entirely to me. They fell <strong>in</strong>to the suggestion with a
read<strong>in</strong>ess that had someth<strong>in</strong>g uncanny about it. George put
on a pipe and spread himself over the easy-chair, and Harris
cocked his legs on the table and lit a cigar.
This was hardly what I <strong>in</strong>tended. What I had meant, of
course, was, that I should boss the job, and that Harris and
George should potter about under my directions, I push<strong>in</strong>g
them aside every now and then with, “Oh, you — !” “Here, let
me do it.” “There you are, simple enough!” — really teach<strong>in</strong>g
them, as you might say. Their tak<strong>in</strong>g it <strong>in</strong> the way they did irritated
me. There is noth<strong>in</strong>g does irritate me more than see<strong>in</strong>g
other people sitt<strong>in</strong>g about do<strong>in</strong>g noth<strong>in</strong>g when I’m work<strong>in</strong>g.
I lived with a man once who used to make me mad that
way. He would loll on the sofa and watch me do<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>gs by
the hour together, follow<strong>in</strong>g me round the room with his eyes,
wherever I went. He said it did him real good to look on at me,
mess<strong>in</strong>g about. He said it made him feel that life was not an
idle dream to be gaped and yawned through, but a noble task,
full of duty and stern work. He said he often wondered now
how he could have gone on before he met me, never hav<strong>in</strong>g
anybody to look at while they worked.
Now, I’m not like that. I can’t sit still and see another man
slav<strong>in</strong>g and work<strong>in</strong>g. I want to get up and super<strong>in</strong>tend, and
walk round with my hands <strong>in</strong> my pockets, and tell him what to
do. It is my energetic nature. I can’t help it.
However, I did not say anyth<strong>in</strong>g, but started the pack<strong>in</strong>g. It
seemed a longer job than I had thought it was go<strong>in</strong>g to be; but
I got the bag f<strong>in</strong>ished at last, and I sat on it and strapped it.

— 41 —
“A<strong>in</strong>’t you go<strong>in</strong>g to put the boots <strong>in</strong>?” said Harris.
And I looked round, and found I had forgotten them. That’s
just like Harris. He couldn’t have said a word until I’d got the
bag shut and strapped, of course. And George laughed — one of
those irritat<strong>in</strong>g, senseless, chuckle-headed, crack-jawed laughs
of his. They do make me so wild.
I opened the bag and packed the boots <strong>in</strong>; and then, just as
I was go<strong>in</strong>g to close it, a horrible idea occurred to me. Had I
packed my tooth-brush? I don’t know how it is, but I never do
know whether I’ve packed my tooth-brush.
My tooth-brush is a th<strong>in</strong>g that haunts me when I’m travell<strong>in</strong>g,
and makes my life a misery. I dream that I haven’t packed
it, and wake up <strong>in</strong> a cold perspiration, and get out of bed and
hunt for it. And, <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, I pack it before I have used
it, and have to unpack aga<strong>in</strong> to get it, and it is always the last
th<strong>in</strong>g I turn out of the bag; and then I repack and forget it, and
have to rush upstairs for it at the last moment and carry it to
the railway station, wrapped up <strong>in</strong> my pocket-handkerchief.
Of course I had to turn every mortal th<strong>in</strong>g out now, and,
of course, I could not f<strong>in</strong>d it. I rummaged the th<strong>in</strong>gs up <strong>in</strong>to
much the same state that they must have been before the
world was created, and when chaos reigned. Of course, I found
George’s and Harris’s eighteen times over, but I couldn’t f<strong>in</strong>d
my own. I put the th<strong>in</strong>gs back one by one, and held everyth<strong>in</strong>g
up and shook it. Then I found it <strong>in</strong>side a boot. I repacked once
more.
When I had f<strong>in</strong>ished, George asked if the soap was <strong>in</strong>. I said
I didn’t care a hang whether the soap was <strong>in</strong> or whether it
wasn’t; and I slammed the bag to and strapped it, and found
that I had packed my tobacco-pouch <strong>in</strong> it, and had to re-open
it. It got shut up f<strong>in</strong>ally at 10.5 p.m., and then there rema<strong>in</strong>ed
the hampers to do. Harris said that we should be want<strong>in</strong>g to
start <strong>in</strong> less than twelve hours’ time, and thought that he and
George had better do the rest; and I agreed and sat down, and
they had a go.
They began <strong>in</strong> a light-hearted spirit, evidently <strong>in</strong>tend<strong>in</strong>g

— 42 —
to show me how to do it. I made no comment; I only waited.
When George is hanged, Harris will be the worst packer <strong>in</strong> this
world; and I looked at the piles of plates and cups, and kettles,
and bottles and jars, and pies, and stoves, and cakes, and tomatoes,
&c., and felt that the th<strong>in</strong>g would soon become excit<strong>in</strong>g.
It did. They started with break<strong>in</strong>g a cup. That was the first
th<strong>in</strong>g they did. They did that just to show you what they could
do, and to get you <strong>in</strong>terested.
Then Harris packed the strawberry jam on top of a tomato
and squashed it, and they had to pick out the tomato with a
teaspoon.
And then it was George’s turn, and he trod on the butter. I
didn’t say anyth<strong>in</strong>g, but I came over and sat on the edge of the
table and watched them. It irritated them more than anyth<strong>in</strong>g
I could have said. I felt that. It made them nervous and excited,
and they stepped on th<strong>in</strong>gs, and put th<strong>in</strong>gs beh<strong>in</strong>d them, and
then couldn’t f<strong>in</strong>d them when they wanted them; and they
packed the pies at the bottom, and put heavy th<strong>in</strong>gs on top,
and smashed the pies <strong>in</strong>.
They upset salt over everyth<strong>in</strong>g, and as for the butter! I
never saw two men do more with one-and-twopence worth of
butter <strong>in</strong> my whole life than they did. After George had got it
off his slipper, they tried to put it <strong>in</strong> the kettle. It wouldn’t go
<strong>in</strong>, and what was <strong>in</strong> wouldn’t come out. They did scrape it out
at last, and put it down on a chair, and Harris sat on it, and it
stuck to him, and they went look<strong>in</strong>g for it all over the room.
“I’ll take my oath I put it down on that chair,” said George,
star<strong>in</strong>g at the empty seat.
“I saw you do it myself, not a m<strong>in</strong>ute ago,” said Harris.
Then they started round the room aga<strong>in</strong> look<strong>in</strong>g for it; and
then they met aga<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> the centre, and stared at one another.
“Most extraord<strong>in</strong>ary th<strong>in</strong>g I ever heard of,” said George.
“So mysterious!” said Harris.
Then George got round at the back of Harris and saw it.
“Why, here it is all the time,” he exclaimed, <strong>in</strong>dignantly.
“Where?” cried Harris, sp<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g round.

— 43 —
“Stand still, can’t you!” roared George, fly<strong>in</strong>g after him.
And they got it off, and packed it <strong>in</strong> the teapot.
Montmorency was <strong>in</strong> it all, of course. Montmorency’s ambition
<strong>in</strong> life, is to get <strong>in</strong> the way and be sworn at. If he can
squirm <strong>in</strong> anywhere where he particularly is not wanted, and
be a perfect nuisance, and make people mad, and have th<strong>in</strong>gs
thrown at his head, then he feels his day has not been wasted.
To get somebody to stumble over him, and curse him steadily
for an hour, is his highest aim and object; and, when he has
succeeded <strong>in</strong> accomplish<strong>in</strong>g this, his conceit becomes quite
unbearable.
He came and sat down on th<strong>in</strong>gs, just when they were
wanted to be packed; and he laboured under the fixed belief
that, whenever Harris or George reached out their hand for
anyth<strong>in</strong>g, it was his cold, damp nose that they wanted. He put
his leg <strong>in</strong>to the jam, and he worried the teaspoons, and he
pretended that the lemons were rats, and got <strong>in</strong>to the hamper
and killed three of them before Harris could land him with the
fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan.
Harris said I encouraged him. I didn’t encourage him. A dog
like that don’t want any encouragement. It’s the natural, orig<strong>in</strong>al
s<strong>in</strong> that is born <strong>in</strong> him that makes him do th<strong>in</strong>gs like that.
The pack<strong>in</strong>g was done at 12.50; and Harris sat on the big
hamper, and said he hoped noth<strong>in</strong>g would be found broken.
George said that if anyth<strong>in</strong>g was broken it was broken, which
reflection seemed to comfort him. He also said he was ready
for bed.
We were all ready for bed. Harris was to sleep with us that
night, and we went upstairs.
We tossed for beds, and Harris had to sleep with me. He
said:
“Do you prefer the <strong>in</strong>side or the outside, J.?”
I said I generally preferred to sleep <strong>in</strong>side a bed.
Harris said it was old.
George said:
“What time shall I wake you fellows?”

— 44 —
Harris said:
“Seven.”
I said:
“No — six,” because I wanted to write some letters.
Harris and I had a bit of a row over it, but at last split the
difference, and said half-past six.
“Wake us at 6.30, George,” we said.
George made no answer, and we found, on go<strong>in</strong>g over, that
he had been asleep for some time; so we placed the bath where
he could tumble <strong>in</strong>to it on gett<strong>in</strong>g out <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, and
went to bed ourselves.

— 45 —
CHAPTER V.
Mrs. P. arouses us. — George, the sluggard. — The “weather forecast”
sw<strong>in</strong>dle. — Our luggage. — Depravity of the small boy. — The
people gather round us. — We drive off <strong>in</strong> great style, and arrive at
Waterloo. — Innocence of South Western officials concern<strong>in</strong>g such
worldly th<strong>in</strong>gs as tra<strong>in</strong>s. — We are afloat, afloat <strong>in</strong> an open boat.
IT was Mrs. Poppets that woke me up next morn<strong>in</strong>g.
She said:
“Do you know that it’s nearly n<strong>in</strong>e o’clock, sir?”
“N<strong>in</strong>e o’ what?” I cried, start<strong>in</strong>g up.
“N<strong>in</strong>e o’clock,” she replied, through the keyhole. “I thought
you was a-oversleep<strong>in</strong>g yourselves.”
I woke Harris, and told him. He said:
“I thought you wanted to get up at six?”
“So I did,” I answered; “why didn’t you wake me?”
“How could I wake you, when you didn’t wake me?” he
retorted. “Now we shan’t get on the water till after twelve. I
wonder you take the trouble to get up at all.”
“Um,” I replied, “lucky for you that I do. If I hadn’t woke you,
you’d have la<strong>in</strong> there for the whole fortnight.”
We snarled at one another <strong>in</strong> this stra<strong>in</strong> for the next few
m<strong>in</strong>utes, when we were <strong>in</strong>terrupted by a defiant snore from
George.
It rem<strong>in</strong>ded us, for the first time s<strong>in</strong>ce our be<strong>in</strong>g called, of
his existence.
There he lay — the man who had wanted to know what time
he should wake us — on his back, with his mouth wide open,
and his knees stuck up.
I don’t know why it should be, I am sure; but the sight of
another man asleep <strong>in</strong> bed when I am up, maddens me. It
seems to me so shock<strong>in</strong>g to see the precious hours of a man’s
life — the priceless moments that will never come back to him
aga<strong>in</strong> — be<strong>in</strong>g wasted <strong>in</strong> mere brutish sleep.
There was George, throw<strong>in</strong>g away <strong>in</strong> hideous sloth the <strong>in</strong>estimable
gift of time; his valuable life, every second of which he
would have to account for hereafter, pass<strong>in</strong>g away from him,

— 46 —
unused. He might have been up stuff<strong>in</strong>g himself with eggs and
bacon, irritat<strong>in</strong>g the dog, or flirt<strong>in</strong>g with the slavey, <strong>in</strong>stead of
sprawl<strong>in</strong>g there, sunk <strong>in</strong> soul-clogg<strong>in</strong>g oblivion.
It was a terrible thought. Harris and I appeared to be struck
by it at the same <strong>in</strong>stant. We determ<strong>in</strong>ed to save him, and, <strong>in</strong>
this noble resolve, our own dispute was forgotten. We flew
across and slung the clothes off him, and Harris landed him
one with a slipper, and I shouted <strong>in</strong> his ear, and he awoke.
“Wassermarrer?” he observed, sitt<strong>in</strong>g up.
“Get up, you fat-headed chunk!” roared Harris. “It’s quarter
to ten.”
“What!” he shrieked, jump<strong>in</strong>g out of bed <strong>in</strong>to the bath;
“Who the thunder put this th<strong>in</strong>g here?”
We told him he must have been a fool not to see the bath.
We f<strong>in</strong>ished dress<strong>in</strong>g, and, when it came to the extras, we
remembered that we had packed the tooth-brushes and the
brush and comb (that tooth-brush of m<strong>in</strong>e will be the death
of me, I know), and we had to go downstairs, and fish them
out of the bag. And when we had done that George wanted the
shav<strong>in</strong>g tackle. We told him that he would have to go without
shav<strong>in</strong>g that morn<strong>in</strong>g, as we weren’t go<strong>in</strong>g to unpack that bag
aga<strong>in</strong> for him, nor for anyone like him.
He said:
“Don’t be absurd. How can I go <strong>in</strong>to the City like this?”
It was certa<strong>in</strong>ly rather rough on the City, but what cared we
for human suffer<strong>in</strong>g? As Harris said, <strong>in</strong> his common, vulgar
way, the City would have to lump it.
We went downstairs to breakfast. Montmorency had <strong>in</strong>vited
two other dogs to come and see him off, and they were whil<strong>in</strong>g
away the time by fight<strong>in</strong>g on the doorstep. We calmed them
with an umbrella, and sat down to chops and cold beef.
Harris said:
“The great th<strong>in</strong>g is to make a good breakfast,” and he started
with a couple of chops, say<strong>in</strong>g that he would take these while
they were hot, as the beef could wait.
George got hold of the paper, and read us out the boat<strong>in</strong>g

— 47 —
fatalities, and the weather forecast, which latter prophesied
“ra<strong>in</strong>, cold, wet to f<strong>in</strong>e” (whatever more than usually ghastly
th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> weather that may be), “occasional local thunderstorms,
east w<strong>in</strong>d, with general depression over the Midland
Counties (London and Channel). Bar. fall<strong>in</strong>g.”
I do th<strong>in</strong>k that, of all the silly, irritat<strong>in</strong>g tomfoolishness by
which we are plagued, this “weather-forecast” fraud is about
the most aggravat<strong>in</strong>g. It “forecasts” precisely what happened
yesterday or a the day before, and precisely the opposite of
what is go<strong>in</strong>g to happen to-day.
I remember a holiday of m<strong>in</strong>e be<strong>in</strong>g completely ru<strong>in</strong>ed one
late autumn by our pay<strong>in</strong>g attention to the weather report of
the local newspaper. “Heavy showers, with thunderstorms,
may be expected to-day,” it would say on Monday, and so we
would give up our picnic, and stop <strong>in</strong>doors all day, wait<strong>in</strong>g
for the ra<strong>in</strong>. — And people would pass the house, go<strong>in</strong>g off <strong>in</strong>
wagonettes and coaches as jolly and merry as could be, the sun
sh<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g out, and not a cloud to be seen.
“Ah!” we said, as we stood look<strong>in</strong>g out at them through the
w<strong>in</strong>dow, “won’t they come home soaked!”
And we chuckled to th<strong>in</strong>k how wet they were go<strong>in</strong>g to get,
and came back and stirred the fire, and got our books, and arranged
our specimens of seaweed and cockle shells. By twelve
o’clock, with the sun pour<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to the room, the heat became
quite oppressive, and we wondered when those heavy showers
and occasional thunderstorms were go<strong>in</strong>g to beg<strong>in</strong>.
“Ah! they’ll come <strong>in</strong> the afternoon, you’ll f<strong>in</strong>d,” we said to
each other. “Oh, won’t those people get wet. What a lark!”
At one o’clock, the landlady would come <strong>in</strong> to ask if we
weren’t go<strong>in</strong>g out, as it seemed such a lovely day.
“No, no,” we replied, with a know<strong>in</strong>g chuckle, “not we. We
don’t mean to get wet — no, no.”
And when the afternoon was nearly gone, and still there was
no sign of ra<strong>in</strong>, we tried to cheer ourselves up with the idea
that it would come down all at once, just as the people had
started for home, and were out of the reach of any shelter, and

— 48 —
that they would thus get more drenched than ever. But not a
drop ever fell, and it f<strong>in</strong>ished a grand day, and a lovely night
after it.
The next morn<strong>in</strong>g we would read that it was go<strong>in</strong>g to be a
“warm, f<strong>in</strong>e to set-fair day; much heat;” and we would dress
ourselves <strong>in</strong> flimsy th<strong>in</strong>gs, and go out, and, half-an-hour after
we had started, it would commence to ra<strong>in</strong> hard, and a bitterly
cold w<strong>in</strong>d would spr<strong>in</strong>g up, and both would keep on steadily
for the whole day, and we would come home with colds and
rheumatism all over us, and go to bed.
The weather is a th<strong>in</strong>g that is beyond me altogether. I never
can understand it. The barometer is useless: it is as mislead<strong>in</strong>g
as the newspaper forecast.
There was one hang<strong>in</strong>g up <strong>in</strong> a hotel at Oxford at which I
was stay<strong>in</strong>g last spr<strong>in</strong>g, and, when I got there, it was po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g
to “set fair.” It was simply pour<strong>in</strong>g with ra<strong>in</strong> outside, and had
been all day; and I couldn’t quite make matters out. I tapped
the barometer, and it jumped up and po<strong>in</strong>ted to “very dry.” The
Boots stopped as he was pass<strong>in</strong>g, and said he expected it meant
to-morrow. I fancied that maybe it was th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of the week
before last, but Boots said, No, he thought not.
I tapped it aga<strong>in</strong> the next morn<strong>in</strong>g, and it went up still higher,
and the ra<strong>in</strong> came down faster than ever. On Wednesday I
went and hit it aga<strong>in</strong>, and the po<strong>in</strong>ter went round towards “set
fair,” “very dry,” and “much heat,” until it was stopped by the
peg, and couldn’t go any further. It tried its best, but the <strong>in</strong>strument
was built so that it couldn’t prophesy f<strong>in</strong>e weather any
harder than it did without break<strong>in</strong>g itself. It evidently wanted
to go on, and prognosticate drought, and water fam<strong>in</strong>e, and
sunstroke, and simooms, and such th<strong>in</strong>gs, but the peg prevented
it, and it had to be content with po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g to the mere
commonplace “very dry.”
Meanwhile, the ra<strong>in</strong> came down <strong>in</strong> a steady torrent, and the
lower part of the town was under water, ow<strong>in</strong>g to the river hav<strong>in</strong>g
overflowed.
Boots said it was evident that we were go<strong>in</strong>g to have a pro-

— 49 —
longed spell of grand weather some time, and read out a poem
which was pr<strong>in</strong>ted over the top of the oracle, about
“Long foretold, long last;
Short notice, soon past.”
The f<strong>in</strong>e weather never came that summer. I expect that mach<strong>in</strong>e
must have been referr<strong>in</strong>g to the follow<strong>in</strong>g spr<strong>in</strong>g.
Then there are those new style of barometers, the long
straight ones. I never can make head or tail of those. There is
one side for 10 a.m. yesterday, and one side for 10 a.m. to-day;
but you can’t always get there as early as ten, you know. It rises
or falls for ra<strong>in</strong> and f<strong>in</strong>e, with much or less w<strong>in</strong>d, and one end
is “Nly” and the other “Ely” (what’s Ely got to do with it?), and
if you tap it, it doesn’t tell you anyth<strong>in</strong>g. And you’ve got to correct
it to sea-level, and reduce it to Fahrenheit, and even then I
don’t know the answer.
But who wants to be foretold the weather? It is bad enough
when it comes, without our hav<strong>in</strong>g the misery of know<strong>in</strong>g
about it beforehand. The prophet we like is the old man who,
on the particularly gloomy-look<strong>in</strong>g morn<strong>in</strong>g of some day
when we particularly want it to be f<strong>in</strong>e, looks round the horizon
with a particularly know<strong>in</strong>g eye, and says:
“Oh no, sir, I th<strong>in</strong>k it will clear up all right. It will break all
right enough, sir.”
“Ah, he knows”, we say, as we wish him good-morn<strong>in</strong>g, and
start off; “wonderful how these old fellows can tell!”
And we feel an affection for that man which is not at all
lessened by the circumstances of its not clear<strong>in</strong>g up, but cont<strong>in</strong>u<strong>in</strong>g
to ra<strong>in</strong> steadily all day.
“Ah, well,” we feel, “he did his best.”
For the man that prophesies us bad weather, on the contrary,
we enterta<strong>in</strong> only bitter and revengeful thoughts.
“Go<strong>in</strong>g to clear up, d’ye th<strong>in</strong>k?” we shout, cheerily, as we
pass.

— 50 —
“Well, no, sir; I’m afraid it’s settled down for the day,” he
replies, shak<strong>in</strong>g his head.
“Stupid old fool!” we mutter, “what’s he know about it?”
And, if his portent proves correct, we come back feel<strong>in</strong>g still
more angry aga<strong>in</strong>st him, and with a vague notion that, somehow
or other, he has had someth<strong>in</strong>g to do with it.
It was too bright and sunny on this especial morn<strong>in</strong>g for
George’s blood-curdl<strong>in</strong>g read<strong>in</strong>gs about “Bar. fall<strong>in</strong>g,” “atmospheric
disturbance, pass<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> an oblique l<strong>in</strong>e over Southern
Europe,” and “pressure <strong>in</strong>creas<strong>in</strong>g,” to very much upset us: and
so, f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g that he could not make us wretched, and was only
wast<strong>in</strong>g his time, he sneaked the cigarette that I had carefully
rolled up for myself, and went.
Then Harris and I, hav<strong>in</strong>g f<strong>in</strong>ished up the few th<strong>in</strong>gs left on
the table, carted out our luggage on to the doorstep, and waited
for a cab.
There seemed a good deal of luggage, when we put it all
together. There was the Gladstone and the small hand-bag,
and the two hampers, and a large roll of rugs, and some four
or five overcoats and mac<strong>in</strong>toshes, and a few umbrellas, and
then there was a melon by itself <strong>in</strong> a bag, because it was too
bulky to go <strong>in</strong> anywhere, and a couple of pounds of grapes <strong>in</strong>
another bag, and a Japanese paper umbrella, and a fry<strong>in</strong>g pan,
which, be<strong>in</strong>g too long to pack, we had wrapped round with
brown paper.
It did look a lot, and Harris and I began to feel rather
ashamed of it, though why we should be, I can’t see. No cab
came by, but the street boys did, and got <strong>in</strong>terested <strong>in</strong> the show,
apparently, and stopped.
Biggs’s boy was the first to come round. Biggs is our greengrocer,
and his chief talent lies <strong>in</strong> secur<strong>in</strong>g the services of the
most abandoned and unpr<strong>in</strong>cipled errand-boys that civilisation
has as yet produced. If anyth<strong>in</strong>g more than usually villa<strong>in</strong>ous
<strong>in</strong> the boy-l<strong>in</strong>e crops up <strong>in</strong> our neighbourhood, we know
that it is Biggs’s latest. I was told that, at the time of the Great
Coram Street murder, it was promptly concluded by our street

— 51 —
that Biggs’s boy (for that period) was at the bottom of it, and
had he not been able, <strong>in</strong> reply to the severe cross-exam<strong>in</strong>ation
to which he was subjected by No. 19, when he called there for
orders the morn<strong>in</strong>g after the crime (assisted by No. 21, who
happened to be on the step at the time), to prove a complete alibi,
it would have gone hard with him. I didn’t know Biggs’s boy
at that time, but, from what I have seen of them s<strong>in</strong>ce, I should
not have attached much importance to that alibi myself.
Biggs’s boy, as I have said, came round the corner. He was evidently
<strong>in</strong> a great hurry when he first dawned upon the vision,
but, on catch<strong>in</strong>g sight of Harris and me, and Montmorency,
and the th<strong>in</strong>gs, he eased up and stared. Harris and I frowned
at him. This might have wounded a more sensitive nature, but
Biggs’s boys are not, as a rule, touchy. He came to a dead stop,
a yard from our step, and, lean<strong>in</strong>g up aga<strong>in</strong>st the rail<strong>in</strong>gs, and
select<strong>in</strong>g a straw to chew, fixed us with his eye. He evidently
meant to see this th<strong>in</strong>g out.
In another moment, the grocer’s boy passed on the opposite
side of the street. Biggs’s boy hailed him:
“Hi! ground floor o’ 42’s a-mov<strong>in</strong>g.”
The grocer’s boy came across, and took up a position on
the other side of the step. Then the young gentleman from the
boot-shop stopped, and jo<strong>in</strong>ed Biggs’s boy; while the emptycan
super<strong>in</strong>tendent from “The Blue Posts” took up an <strong>in</strong>dependent
position on the curb.
“They a<strong>in</strong>’t a-go<strong>in</strong>g to starve, are they?” said the gentleman
from the boot-shop.
“Ah! you’d want to take a th<strong>in</strong>g or two with you,” retorted
“The Blue Posts,” “if you was a-go<strong>in</strong>g to cross the Atlantic <strong>in</strong>
a small boat.”
“They a<strong>in</strong>’t a-go<strong>in</strong>g to cross the Atlantic,” struck <strong>in</strong> Biggs’s
boy; “they’re a-go<strong>in</strong>g to f<strong>in</strong>d Stanley.”
By this time, quite a small crowd had collected, and people
were ask<strong>in</strong>g each other what was the matter. One party (the
young and giddy portion of the crowd) held that it was a wedd<strong>in</strong>g,
and po<strong>in</strong>ted out Harris as the bridegroom; while the

— 52 —
elder and more thoughtful among the populace <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to the
idea that it was a funeral, and that I was probably the corpse’s
brother.
At last, an empty cab turned up (it is a street where, as a
rule, and when they are not wanted, empty cabs pass at the rate
of three a m<strong>in</strong>ute, and hang about, and get <strong>in</strong> your way), and
pack<strong>in</strong>g ourselves and our belong<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong>to it, and shoot<strong>in</strong>g out
a couple of Montmorency’s friends, who had evidently sworn
never to forsake him, we drove away amidst the cheers of the
crowd, Biggs’s boy shy<strong>in</strong>g a carrot after us for luck.
We got to Waterloo at eleven, and asked where the elevenfive
started from. Of course nobody knew; nobody at Waterloo
ever does know where a tra<strong>in</strong> is go<strong>in</strong>g to start from, or
where a tra<strong>in</strong> when it does start is go<strong>in</strong>g to, or anyth<strong>in</strong>g about
it. The porter who took our th<strong>in</strong>gs thought it would go from
number two platform, while another porter, with whom he
discussed the question, had heard a rumour that it would go
from number one. The station-master, on the other hand, was
conv<strong>in</strong>ced it would start from the local.
To put an end to the matter, we went upstairs, and asked
the traffic super<strong>in</strong>tendent, and he told us that he had just met
a man, who said he had seen it at number three platform. We
went to number three platform, but the authorities there said
that they rather thought that tra<strong>in</strong> was the Southampton express,
or else the W<strong>in</strong>dsor loop. But they were sure it wasn’t
the K<strong>in</strong>gston tra<strong>in</strong>, though why they were sure it wasn’t they
couldn’t say.
Then our porter said he thought that must be it on the highlevel
platform; said he thought he knew the tra<strong>in</strong>. So we went to
the high-level platform, and saw the eng<strong>in</strong>e-driver, and asked
him if he was go<strong>in</strong>g to K<strong>in</strong>gston. He said he couldn’t say for
certa<strong>in</strong> of course, but that he rather thought he was. Anyhow,
if he wasn’t the 11.5 for K<strong>in</strong>gston, he said he was pretty confident
he was the 9.32 for Virg<strong>in</strong>ia Water, or the 10 a.m. express
for the Isle of Wight, or somewhere <strong>in</strong> that direction, and we

— 53 —
should all know when we got there. We slipped half-a-crown
<strong>in</strong>to his hand, and begged him to be the 11.5 for K<strong>in</strong>gston.
“Nobody will ever know, on this l<strong>in</strong>e,” we said, “what you
are, or where you’re go<strong>in</strong>g. You know the way, you slip off quietly
and go to K<strong>in</strong>gston.”
“Well, I don’t know, gents,” replied the noble fellow, “but
I suppose some tra<strong>in</strong>’s got to go to K<strong>in</strong>gston; and I’ll do it.
Gimme the half-crown.”
Thus we got to K<strong>in</strong>gston by the London and South-Western
Railway.
We learnt, afterwards, that the tra<strong>in</strong> we had come by was really
the Exeter mail, and that they had spent hours at Waterloo,
look<strong>in</strong>g for it, and nobody knew what had become of it.
Our boat was wait<strong>in</strong>g for us at K<strong>in</strong>gston just below bridge,
and to it we wended our way, and round it we stored our luggage,
and <strong>in</strong>to it we stepped.
“Are you all right, sir?” said the man.
“Right it is,” we answered; and with Harris at the sculls and
I at the tiller-l<strong>in</strong>es, and Montmorency, unhappy and deeply
suspicious, <strong>in</strong> the prow, out we shot on to the waters which, for
a fortnight, were to be our home.

— 54 —
CHAPTER VI.
K<strong>in</strong>gston. — Instructive remarks on early English history. — Instructive
observations on carved oak and life <strong>in</strong> general. — Sad
case of stivv<strong>in</strong>gs, junior. — Mus<strong>in</strong>gs on antiquity. — I forget that
I am steer<strong>in</strong>g. — Interest<strong>in</strong>g result. — Hampton Court Maze. —
Harris as a guide.
IT was a glorious morn<strong>in</strong>g, late spr<strong>in</strong>g or early summer, as you
care to take it, when the da<strong>in</strong>ty sheen of grass and leaf is blush<strong>in</strong>g
to a deeper green; and the year seems like a fair young
maid, trembl<strong>in</strong>g with strange, waken<strong>in</strong>g pulses on the br<strong>in</strong>k of
womanhood.
The qua<strong>in</strong>t back streets of K<strong>in</strong>gston, where they came down
to the water’s edge, looked quite picturesque <strong>in</strong> the flash<strong>in</strong>g
sunlight, the gl<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g river with its drift<strong>in</strong>g barges, the wooded
towpath, the trim-kept villas on the other side, Harris, <strong>in</strong> a
red and orange blazer, grunt<strong>in</strong>g away at the sculls, the distant
glimpses of the grey old palace of the Tudors, all made a sunny
picture, so bright but calm, so full of life, and yet so peaceful,
that, early <strong>in</strong> the day though it was, I felt myself be<strong>in</strong>g dreamily
lulled off <strong>in</strong>to a mus<strong>in</strong>g fit.
I mused on K<strong>in</strong>gston, or “Kyn<strong>in</strong>gestun,” as it was once
called <strong>in</strong> the days when Saxon “k<strong>in</strong>ges” were crowned there.
Great Caesar crossed the river there, and the Roman legions
camped upon its slop<strong>in</strong>g uplands. Caesar, like, <strong>in</strong> later years,
Elizabeth, seems to have stopped everywhere: only he was
more respectable than good Queen Bess; he didn’t put up at
the public-houses.
She was nuts on public-houses, was England’s Virg<strong>in</strong>
Queen. There’s scarcely a pub. of any attractions with<strong>in</strong> ten
miles of London that she does not seem to have looked <strong>in</strong> at,
or stopped at, or slept at, some time or other. I wonder now,
suppos<strong>in</strong>g Harris, say, turned over a new leaf, and became a
great and good man, and got to be Prime M<strong>in</strong>ister, and died,
if they would put up signs over the public-houses that he had
patronised: “Harris had a glass of bitter <strong>in</strong> this house;” “Harris

— 55 —
had two of Scotch cold here <strong>in</strong> the summer of ’88;” “Harris was
chucked from here <strong>in</strong> December, 1886.”
No, there would be too many of them! It would be the
houses that he had never entered that would become famous.
“Only house <strong>in</strong> South London that Harris never had a dr<strong>in</strong>k
<strong>in</strong>!” The people would flock to it to see what could have been
the matter with it.
How poor weak-m<strong>in</strong>ded K<strong>in</strong>g Edwy must have hated Kyn<strong>in</strong>gestun!
The coronation feast had been too much for him.
Maybe boar’s head stuffed with sugar-plums did not agree with
him (it wouldn’t with me, I know), and he had had enough of
sack and mead; so he slipped from the noisy revel to steal a
quiet moonlight hour with his beloved Elgiva.
Perhaps, from the casement, stand<strong>in</strong>g hand-<strong>in</strong>-hand, they
were watch<strong>in</strong>g the calm moonlight on the river, while from the
distant halls the boisterous revelry floated <strong>in</strong> broken bursts of
fa<strong>in</strong>t-heard d<strong>in</strong> and tumult.
Then brutal Odo and St. Dunstan force their rude way <strong>in</strong>to
the quiet room, and hurl coarse <strong>in</strong>sults at the sweet-faced
Queen, and drag poor Edwy back to the loud clamour of the
drunken brawl.
Years later, to the crash of battle-music, Saxon k<strong>in</strong>gs and
Saxon revelry were buried side by side, and K<strong>in</strong>gston’s greatness
passed away for a time, to rise once more when Hampton
Court became the palace of the Tudors and the Stuarts, and
the royal barges stra<strong>in</strong>ed at their moor<strong>in</strong>gs on the river’s bank,
and bright-cloaked gallants swaggered down the water-steps
to cry: “What Ferry, ho! Gadzooks, gramercy.”
Many of the old houses, round about, speak very pla<strong>in</strong>ly of
those days when K<strong>in</strong>gston was a royal borough, and nobles
and courtiers lived there, near their K<strong>in</strong>g, and the long road to
the palace gates was gay all day with clank<strong>in</strong>g steel and pranc<strong>in</strong>g
palfreys, and rustl<strong>in</strong>g silks and velvets, and fair faces. The
large and spacious houses, with their oriel, latticed w<strong>in</strong>dows,
their huge fireplaces, and their gabled roofs, breathe of the
days of hose and doublet, of pearl-embroidered stomachers,

— 56 —
and complicated oaths. They were upraised <strong>in</strong> the days “when
men knew how to build.” The hard red bricks have only grown
more firmly set with time, and their oak stairs do not creak
and grunt when you try to go down them quietly.
Speak<strong>in</strong>g of oak staircases rem<strong>in</strong>ds me that there is a magnificent
carved oak staircase <strong>in</strong> one of the houses <strong>in</strong> K<strong>in</strong>gston.
It is a shop now, <strong>in</strong> the market-place, but it was evidently once
the mansion of some great personage. A friend of m<strong>in</strong>e, who
lives at K<strong>in</strong>gston, went <strong>in</strong> there to buy a hat one day, and, <strong>in</strong> a
thoughtless moment, put his hand <strong>in</strong> his pocket and paid for
it then and there.
The shopman (he knows my friend) was naturally a little
staggered at first; but, quickly recover<strong>in</strong>g himself, and feel<strong>in</strong>g
that someth<strong>in</strong>g ought to be done to encourage this sort
of th<strong>in</strong>g, asked our hero if he would like to see some f<strong>in</strong>e old
carved oak. My friend said he would, and the shopman, thereupon,
took him through the shop, and up the staircase of the
house. The balusters were a superb piece of workmanship, and
the wall all the way up was oak-panelled, with carv<strong>in</strong>g that
would have done credit to a palace.
From the stairs, they went <strong>in</strong>to the draw<strong>in</strong>g-room, which
was a large, bright room, decorated with a somewhat startl<strong>in</strong>g
though cheerful paper of a blue ground. There was noth<strong>in</strong>g,
however, remarkable about the apartment, and my friend wondered
why he had been brought there. The proprietor went up
to the paper, and tapped it. It gave forth a wooden sound.
“Oak,” he expla<strong>in</strong>ed. “All carved oak, right up to the ceil<strong>in</strong>g,
just the same as you saw on the staircase.”
“But, great Cæsar! man,” expostulated my friend; “you don’t
mean to say you have covered over carved oak with blue wallpaper?”
“Yes,” was the reply: “it was expensive work. Had to matchboard
it all over first, of course. But the room looks cheerful
now. It was awful gloomy before.”
I can’t say I altogether blame the man (which is doubtless a
great relief to his m<strong>in</strong>d). From his po<strong>in</strong>t of view, which would

— 57 —
be that of the average householder, desir<strong>in</strong>g to take life as
lightly as possible, and not that of the old-curiosity-shop maniac,
there is reason on his side. Carved oak is very pleasant
to look at, and to have a little of, but it is no doubt somewhat
depress<strong>in</strong>g to live <strong>in</strong>, for those whose fancy does not lie that
way. It would be like liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a church.
No, what was sad <strong>in</strong> his case was that he, who didn’t care for
carved oak, should have his draw<strong>in</strong>g-room panelled with it,
while people who do care for it have to pay enormous prices
to get it. It seems to be the rule of this world. Each person has
what he doesn’t want, and other people have what he does
want.
Married men have wives, and don’t seem to want them; and
young s<strong>in</strong>gle fellows cry out that they can’t get them. Poor
people who can hardly keep themselves have eight hearty
children. Rich old couples, with no one to leave their money
to, die childless.
Then there are girls with lovers. The girls that have lovers
never want them. They say they would rather be without them,
that they bother them, and why don’t they go and make love
to Miss Smith and Miss Brown, who are pla<strong>in</strong> and elderly, and
haven’t got any lovers? They themselves don’t want lovers.
They never mean to marry.
It does not do to dwell on these th<strong>in</strong>gs; it makes one so sad.
There was a boy at our school, we used to call him Sandford
and Merton. His real name was Stivv<strong>in</strong>gs. He was the most
extraord<strong>in</strong>ary lad I ever came across. I believe he really liked
study. He used to get <strong>in</strong>to awful rows for sitt<strong>in</strong>g up <strong>in</strong> bed and
read<strong>in</strong>g Greek; and as for French irregular verbs there was
simply no keep<strong>in</strong>g him away from them. He was full of weird
and unnatural notions about be<strong>in</strong>g a credit to his parents and
an honour to the school; and he yearned to w<strong>in</strong> prizes, and
grow up and be a clever man, and had all those sorts of weakm<strong>in</strong>ded
ideas. I never knew such a strange creature, yet harmless,
m<strong>in</strong>d you, as the babe unborn.
Well, that boy used to get ill about twice a week, so that he

— 58 —
couldn’t go to school. There never was such a boy to get ill
as that Sandford and Merton. If there was any known disease
go<strong>in</strong>g with<strong>in</strong> ten miles of him, he had it, and had it badly. He
would take bronchitis <strong>in</strong> the dog-days, and have hay-fever at
Christmas. After a six weeks’ period of drought, he would be
stricken down with rheumatic fever; and he would go out <strong>in</strong> a
November fog and come home with a sunstroke.
They put him under laugh<strong>in</strong>g-gas one year, poor lad, and
drew all his teeth, and gave him a false set, because he suffered
so terribly with toothache; and then it turned to neuralgia and
ear-ache. He was never without a cold, except once for n<strong>in</strong>e
weeks while he had scarlet fever; and he always had chilbla<strong>in</strong>s.
Dur<strong>in</strong>g the great cholera scare of 1871, our neighbourhood
was s<strong>in</strong>gularly free from it. There was only one reputed case <strong>in</strong>
the whole parish: that case was young Stivv<strong>in</strong>gs.
He had to stop <strong>in</strong> bed when he was ill, and eat chicken and
custards and hot-house grapes; and he would lie there and sob,
because they wouldn’t let him do Lat<strong>in</strong> exercises, and took his
German grammar away from him.
And we other boys, who would have sacrificed ten terms of
our school-life for the sake of be<strong>in</strong>g ill for a day, and had no
desire whatever to give our parents any excuse for be<strong>in</strong>g stuckup
about us, couldn’t catch so much as a stiff neck. We fooled
about <strong>in</strong> draughts, and it did us good, and freshened us up; and
we took th<strong>in</strong>gs to make us sick, and they made us fat, and gave
us an appetite. Noth<strong>in</strong>g we could th<strong>in</strong>k of seemed to make us
ill until the holidays began. Then, on the break<strong>in</strong>g-up day, we
caught colds, and whoop<strong>in</strong>g cough, and all k<strong>in</strong>ds of disorders,
which lasted till the term recommenced; when, <strong>in</strong> spite of
everyth<strong>in</strong>g we could manoeuvre to the contrary, we would get
suddenly well aga<strong>in</strong>, and be better than ever.
Such is life; and we are but as grass that is cut down, and put
<strong>in</strong>to the oven and baked.
To go back to the carved-oak question, they must have had
very fair notions of the artistic and the beautiful, our greatgreat-grandfathers.
Why, all our art treasures of to-day are

— 59 —
only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years
ago. I wonder if there is real <strong>in</strong>tr<strong>in</strong>sic beauty <strong>in</strong> the old soupplates,
beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now,
or if it is only the halo of age glow<strong>in</strong>g around them that gives
them their charms <strong>in</strong> our eyes. The “old blue” that we hang
about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day
household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the p<strong>in</strong>k shepherds
and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now
for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand,
were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the
eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when
he cried.
Will it be the same <strong>in</strong> the future? Will the prized treasures
of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will
rows of our willow-pattern d<strong>in</strong>ner-plates be ranged above
the chimneypieces of the great <strong>in</strong> the years 2000 and odd?
Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold
flower <strong>in</strong>side species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now
break <strong>in</strong> sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended,
and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the
house?
That ch<strong>in</strong>a dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished
lodg<strong>in</strong>gs. It is a white dog. Its eyes are blue. Its nose is
a delicate red, with black spots. Its head is pa<strong>in</strong>fully erect, its
expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not
admire it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates
me. Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady
herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by
the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her.
But <strong>in</strong> 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog
will be dug up from somewhere or other, m<strong>in</strong>us its legs, and
with its tail broken, and will be sold for old ch<strong>in</strong>a, and put <strong>in</strong>
a glass cab<strong>in</strong>et. And people will pass it round, and admire it.
They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on
the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of the tail
that is lost no doubt was.

— 60 —
We, <strong>in</strong> this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are
too familiar with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are
not awed by their lovel<strong>in</strong>ess because they are common to our
eyes. So it is with that ch<strong>in</strong>a dog. In 2288 people will gush over
it. The mak<strong>in</strong>g of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our
descendants will wonder how we did it, and say how clever
we were. We shall be referred to lov<strong>in</strong>gly as “those grand old
artists that flourished <strong>in</strong> the n<strong>in</strong>eteenth century, and produced
those ch<strong>in</strong>a dogs.”
The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will
be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost
priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day
roadside <strong>in</strong>n will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and
sold for their weight <strong>in</strong> gold, and rich people will use them
for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the
“Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that
may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as
ancient English curios.
At this po<strong>in</strong>t Harris threw away the sculls, got up and left
his seat, and sat on his back, and stuck his legs <strong>in</strong> the air.
Montmorency howled, and turned a somersault, and the top
hamper jumped up, and all the th<strong>in</strong>gs came out.
I was somewhat surprised, but I did not lose my temper. I
said, pleasantly enough:
“Hulloa! what’s that for?”
“What’s that for? Why —”
No, on second thoughts, I will not repeat what Harris said.
I may have been to blame, I admit it; but noth<strong>in</strong>g excuses violence
of language and coarseness of expression, especially <strong>in</strong>
a man who has been carefully brought up, as I know Harris
has been. I was th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of other th<strong>in</strong>gs, and forgot, as any
one might easily understand, that I was steer<strong>in</strong>g, and the consequence
was that we had got mixed up a good deal with the
tow-path. It was difficult to say, for the moment, which was us
and which was the Middlesex bank of the river; but we found
out after a while, and separated ourselves.

— 61 —
Harris, however, said he had done enough for a bit, and
proposed that I should take a turn; so, as we were <strong>in</strong>, I got
out and took the tow-l<strong>in</strong>e, and ran the boat on past Hampton
Court. What a dear old wall that is that runs along by the river
there! I never pass it without feel<strong>in</strong>g better for the sight of it.
Such a mellow, bright, sweet old wall; what a charm<strong>in</strong>g picture
it would make, with the lichen creep<strong>in</strong>g here, and the moss
grow<strong>in</strong>g there, a shy young v<strong>in</strong>e peep<strong>in</strong>g over the top at this
spot, to see what is go<strong>in</strong>g on upon the busy river, and the sober
old ivy cluster<strong>in</strong>g a little farther down! There are fifty shades
and t<strong>in</strong>ts and hues <strong>in</strong> every ten yards of that old wall. If I could
only draw, and knew how to pa<strong>in</strong>t, I could make a lovely sketch
of that old wall, I’m sure. I’ve often thought I should like to live
at Hampton Court. It looks so peaceful and so quiet, and it is
such a dear old place to ramble round <strong>in</strong> the early morn<strong>in</strong>g
before many people are about.
But, there, I don’t suppose I should really care for it when
it came to actual practice. It would be so ghastly dull and depress<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g, when your lamp cast uncanny shadows
on the panelled walls, and the echo of distant feet rang
through the cold stone corridors, and now drew nearer, and
now died away, and all was death-like silence, save the beat<strong>in</strong>g
of one’s own heart.
We are creatures of the sun, we men and women. We love
light and life. That is why we crowd <strong>in</strong>to the towns and cities,
and the country grows more and more deserted every year. In
the sunlight — <strong>in</strong> the daytime, when Nature is alive and busy all
around us, we like the open hill-sides and the deep woods well
enough: but <strong>in</strong> the night, when our Mother Earth has gone to
sleep, and left us wak<strong>in</strong>g, oh! the world seems so lonesome,
and we get frightened, like children <strong>in</strong> a silent house. Then
we sit and sob, and long for the gas-lit streets, and the sound
of human voices, and the answer<strong>in</strong>g throb of human life. We
feel so helpless and so little <strong>in</strong> the great stillness, when the
dark trees rustle <strong>in</strong> the night-w<strong>in</strong>d. There are so many ghosts
about, and their silent sighs make us feel so sad. Let us gather

— 62 —
together <strong>in</strong> the great cities, and light huge bonfires of a million
gas-jets, and shout and s<strong>in</strong>g together, and feel brave.
Harris asked me if I’d ever been <strong>in</strong> the maze at Hampton
Court. He said he went <strong>in</strong> once to show somebody else the
way. He had studied it up <strong>in</strong> a map, and it was so simple that it
seemed foolish — hardly worth the twopence charged for admission.
Harris said he thought that map must have been got
up as a practical joke, because it wasn’t a bit like the real th<strong>in</strong>g,
and only mislead<strong>in</strong>g. It was a country cous<strong>in</strong> that Harris took
<strong>in</strong>. He said:
“We’ll just go <strong>in</strong> here, so that you can say you’ve been, but it’s
very simple. It’s absurd to call it a maze. You keep on tak<strong>in</strong>g the
first turn<strong>in</strong>g to the right. We’ll just walk round for ten m<strong>in</strong>utes,
and then go and get some lunch.”
They met some people soon after they had got <strong>in</strong>side, who
said they had been there for three-quarters of an hour, and
had had about enough of it. Harris told them they could follow
him, if they liked; he was just go<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>, and then should turn
round and come out aga<strong>in</strong>. They said it was very k<strong>in</strong>d of him,
and fell beh<strong>in</strong>d, and followed.
They picked up various other people who wanted to get
it over, as they went along, until they had absorbed all the
persons <strong>in</strong> the maze. People who had given up all hopes of
ever gett<strong>in</strong>g either <strong>in</strong> or out, or of ever see<strong>in</strong>g their home and
friends aga<strong>in</strong>, plucked up courage at the sight of Harris and his
party, and jo<strong>in</strong>ed the procession, bless<strong>in</strong>g him. Harris said he
should judge there must have been twenty people, follow<strong>in</strong>g
him, <strong>in</strong> all; and one woman with a baby, who had been there
all the morn<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong>sisted on tak<strong>in</strong>g his arm, for fear of los<strong>in</strong>g
him.
Harris kept on turn<strong>in</strong>g to the right, but it seemed a long way,
and his cous<strong>in</strong> said he supposed it was a very big maze.
“Oh, one of the largest <strong>in</strong> Europe,” said Harris.
“Yes, it must be,” replied the cous<strong>in</strong>, “because we’ve walked a
good two miles already.”
Harris began to th<strong>in</strong>k it rather strange himself, but he held

— 63 —
on until, at last, they passed the half of a penny bun on the
ground that Harris’s cous<strong>in</strong> swore he had noticed there seven
m<strong>in</strong>utes ago. Harris said: “Oh, impossible!” but the woman
with the baby said, “Not at all,” as she herself had taken it from
the child, and thrown it down there, just before she met Harris.
She also added that she wished she never had met Harris, and
expressed an op<strong>in</strong>ion that he was an impostor. That made Harris
mad, and he produced his map, and expla<strong>in</strong>ed his theory.
“The map may be all right enough,” said one of the party, “if
you know whereabouts <strong>in</strong> it we are now.”
Harris didn’t know, and suggested that the best th<strong>in</strong>g to do
would be to go back to the entrance, and beg<strong>in</strong> aga<strong>in</strong>. For the
beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g aga<strong>in</strong> part of it there was not much enthusiasm;
but with regard to the advisability of go<strong>in</strong>g back to the entrance
there was complete unanimity, and so they turned, and
trailed after Harris aga<strong>in</strong>, <strong>in</strong> the opposite direction. About ten
m<strong>in</strong>utes more passed, and then they found themselves <strong>in</strong> the
centre.
Harris thought at first of pretend<strong>in</strong>g that that was what he
had been aim<strong>in</strong>g at; but the crowd looked dangerous, and he
decided to treat it as an accident.
Anyhow, they had got someth<strong>in</strong>g to start from then. They
did know where they were, and the map was once more consulted,
and the th<strong>in</strong>g seemed simpler than ever, and off they
started for the third time.
And three m<strong>in</strong>utes later they were back <strong>in</strong> the centre aga<strong>in</strong>.
After that, they simply couldn’t get anywhere else. Whatever
way they turned brought them back to the middle. It became
so regular at length, that some of the people stopped there,
and waited for the others to take a walk round, and come back
to them. Harris drew out his map aga<strong>in</strong>, after a while, but the
sight of it only <strong>in</strong>furiated the mob, and they told him to go and
curl his hair with it. Harris said that he couldn’t help feel<strong>in</strong>g
that, to a certa<strong>in</strong> extent, he had become unpopular.
They all got crazy at last, and sang out for the keeper, and
the man came and climbed up the ladder outside, and shouted

— 64 —
out directions to them. But all their heads were, by this time,
<strong>in</strong> such a confused whirl that they were <strong>in</strong>capable of grasp<strong>in</strong>g
anyth<strong>in</strong>g, and so the man told them to stop where they
were, and he would come to them. They huddled together, and
waited; and he climbed down, and came <strong>in</strong>.
He was a young keeper, as luck would have it, and new to
the bus<strong>in</strong>ess; and when he got <strong>in</strong>, he couldn’t f<strong>in</strong>d them, and
he wandered about, try<strong>in</strong>g to get to them, and then he got lost.
They caught sight of him, every now and then, rush<strong>in</strong>g about
the other side of the hedge, and he would see them, and rush to
get to them, and they would wait there for about five m<strong>in</strong>utes,
and then he would reappear aga<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> exactly the same spot,
and ask them where they had been.
They had to wait till one of the old keepers came back from
his d<strong>in</strong>ner before they got out.
Harris said he thought it was a very f<strong>in</strong>e maze, so far as he
was a judge; and we agreed that we would try to get George to
go <strong>in</strong>to it, on our way back.

— 65 —
CHAPTER VII.
The river <strong>in</strong> its Sunday garb. — Dress on the river. — A chance for
the men. — Absence of taste <strong>in</strong> Harris. — George’s blazer. — A day
with the fashion-plate young lady. — Mrs. Thomas’s tomb. — The
man who loves not graves and coff<strong>in</strong>s and skulls. — Harris mad. —
His views on George and banks and lemonade. — He performs
tricks.
IT was while pass<strong>in</strong>g through Moulsey Lock that Harris told
me about his maze experience. It took us some time to pass
through, as we were the only boat, and it is a big lock. I don’t
th<strong>in</strong>k I ever remember to have seen Moulsey Lock, before, with
only one boat <strong>in</strong> it. It is, I suppose, Boulter’s not even excepted,
the busiest lock on the river.
I have stood and watched it, sometimes, when you could not
see any water at all, but only a brilliant tangle of bright blazers,
and gay caps, and saucy hats, and many-coloured parasols,
and silken rugs, and cloaks, and stream<strong>in</strong>g ribbons, and da<strong>in</strong>ty
whites; when look<strong>in</strong>g down <strong>in</strong>to the lock from the quay, you
might fancy it was a huge box <strong>in</strong>to which flowers of every hue
and shade had been thrown pell-mell, and lay piled up <strong>in</strong> a
ra<strong>in</strong>bow heap, that covered every corner.
On a f<strong>in</strong>e Sunday it presents this appearance nearly all day
long, while, up the stream, and down the stream, lie, wait<strong>in</strong>g
their turn, outside the gates, long l<strong>in</strong>es of still more boats; and
boats are draw<strong>in</strong>g near and pass<strong>in</strong>g away, so that the sunny
river, from the Palace up to Hampton Church, is dotted and
decked with yellow, and blue, and orange, and white, and red,
and p<strong>in</strong>k. All the <strong>in</strong>habitants of Hampton and Moulsey dress
themselves up <strong>in</strong> boat<strong>in</strong>g costume, and come and mouch
round the lock with their dogs, and flirt, and smoke, and watch
the boats; and, altogether, what with the caps and jackets of
the men, the pretty coloured dresses of the women, the excited
dogs, the mov<strong>in</strong>g boats, the white sails, the pleasant landscape,
and the sparkl<strong>in</strong>g water, it is one of the gayest sights I know of
near this dull old London town.
The river affords a good opportunity for dress. For once <strong>in</strong> a

— 66 —
way, we men are able to show our taste <strong>in</strong> colours, and I th<strong>in</strong>k
we come out very natty, if you ask me. I always like a little red
<strong>in</strong> my th<strong>in</strong>gs — red and black. You know my hair is a sort of
golden brown, rather a pretty shade I’ve been told, and a dark
red matches it beautifully; and then I always th<strong>in</strong>k a light-blue
necktie goes so well with it, and a pair of those Russian-leather
shoes and a red silk handkerchief round the waist — a handkerchief
looks so much better than a belt.
Harris always keeps to shades or mixtures of orange or yellow,
but I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k he is at all wise <strong>in</strong> this. His complexion
is too dark for yellows. Yellows don’t suit him: there can be no
question about it. I want him to take to blue as a background,
with white or cream for relief; but, there! the less taste a person
has <strong>in</strong> dress, the more obst<strong>in</strong>ate he always seems to be. It
is a great pity, because he will never be a success as it is, while
there are one or two colours <strong>in</strong> which he might not really look
so bad, with his hat on.
George has bought some new th<strong>in</strong>gs for this trip, and I’m
rather vexed about them. The blazer is loud. I should not
like George to know that I thought so, but there really is no
other word for it. He brought it home and showed it to us on
Thursday even<strong>in</strong>g. We asked him what colour he called it, and
he said he didn’t know. He didn’t th<strong>in</strong>k there was a name for
the colour. The man had told him it was an Oriental design.
George put it on, and asked us what we thought of it. Harris
said that, as an object to hang over a flower-bed <strong>in</strong> early spr<strong>in</strong>g
to frighten the birds away, he should respect it; but that, considered
as an article of dress for any human be<strong>in</strong>g, except a
Margate nigger, it made him ill. George got quite huffy; but, as
Harris said, if he didn’t want his op<strong>in</strong>ion, why did he ask for it?
What troubles Harris and myself, with regard to it, is that we
are afraid it will attract attention to the boat.
Girls, also, don’t look half bad <strong>in</strong> a boat, if prettily dressed.
Noth<strong>in</strong>g is more fetch<strong>in</strong>g, to my th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g, than a tasteful boat<strong>in</strong>g
costume. But a “boat<strong>in</strong>g costume,” it would be as well if all
ladies would understand, ought to be a costume that can be

— 67 —
worn <strong>in</strong> a boat, and not merely under a glass-case. It utterly
spoils an excursion if you have folk <strong>in</strong> the boat who are th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g
all the time a good deal more of their dress than of the trip.
It was my misfortune once to go for a water picnic with two
ladies of this k<strong>in</strong>d. We did have a lively time!
They were both beautifully got up — all lace and silky stuff,
and flowers, and ribbons, and da<strong>in</strong>ty shoes, and light gloves.
But they were dressed for a photographic studio, not for a river
picnic. They were the “boat<strong>in</strong>g costumes” of a French fashionplate.
It was ridiculous, fool<strong>in</strong>g about <strong>in</strong> them anywhere near
real earth, air, and water.
The first th<strong>in</strong>g was that they thought the boat was not clean.
We dusted all the seats for them, and then assured them that it
was, but they didn’t believe us. One of them rubbed the cushion
with the foref<strong>in</strong>ger of her glove, and showed the result to
the other, and they both sighed, and sat down, with the air of
early Christian martyrs try<strong>in</strong>g to make themselves comfortable
up aga<strong>in</strong>st the stake. You are liable to occasionally splash
a little when scull<strong>in</strong>g, and it appeared that a drop of water
ru<strong>in</strong>ed those costumes. The mark never came out, and a sta<strong>in</strong>
was left on the dress for ever.
I was stroke. I did my best. I feathered some two feet high,
and I paused at the end of each stroke to let the blades drip
before return<strong>in</strong>g them, and I picked out a smooth bit of water
to drop them <strong>in</strong>to aga<strong>in</strong> each time. (Bow said, after a while,
that he did not feel himself a sufficiently accomplished oarsman
to pull with me, but that he would sit still, if I would allow
him, and study my stroke. He said it <strong>in</strong>terested him.) But,
notwithstand<strong>in</strong>g all this, and try as I would, I could not help an
occasional flicker of water from go<strong>in</strong>g over those dresses.
The girls did not compla<strong>in</strong>, but they huddled up close together,
and set their lips firm, and every time a drop touched
them, they visibly shrank and shuddered. It was a noble sight
to see them suffer<strong>in</strong>g thus <strong>in</strong> silence, but it unnerved me altogether.
I am too sensitive. I got wild and fitful <strong>in</strong> my row<strong>in</strong>g,
and splashed more and more, the harder I tried not to.

— 68 —
I gave it up at last; I said I’d row bow. Bow thought the arrangement
would be better too, and we changed places. The
ladies gave an <strong>in</strong>voluntary sigh of relief when they saw me go,
and quite brightened up for a moment. Poor girls! they had
better have put up with me. The man they had got now was a
jolly, light-hearted, thick-headed sort of a chap, with about as
much sensitiveness <strong>in</strong> him as there might be <strong>in</strong> a Newfoundland
puppy. You might look daggers at him for an hour and he
would not notice it, and it would not trouble him if he did. He
set a good, rollick<strong>in</strong>g, dash<strong>in</strong>g stroke that sent the spray play<strong>in</strong>g
all over the boat like a founta<strong>in</strong>, and made the whole crowd
sit up straight <strong>in</strong> no time. When he spread more than p<strong>in</strong>t of
water over one of those dresses, he would give a pleasant little
laugh, and say:
“I beg your pardon, I’m sure;” and offer them his handkerchief
to wipe it off with.
“Oh, it’s of no consequence,” the poor girls would murmur
<strong>in</strong> reply, and covertly draw rugs and coats over themselves, and
try and protect themselves with their lace parasols.
At lunch they had a very bad time of it. People wanted them
to sit on the grass, and the grass was dusty; and the tree-trunks,
aga<strong>in</strong>st which they were <strong>in</strong>vited to lean, did not appear to have
been brushed for weeks; so they spread their handkerchiefs on
the ground and sat on those, bolt upright. Somebody, <strong>in</strong> walk<strong>in</strong>g
about with a plate of beef-steak pie, tripped up over a root,
and sent the pie fly<strong>in</strong>g. None of it went over them, fortunately,
but the accident suggested a fresh danger to them, and agitated
them; and, whenever anybody moved about, after that, with
anyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his hand that could fall and make a mess, they
watched that person with grow<strong>in</strong>g anxiety until he sat down
aga<strong>in</strong>.
“Now then, you girls,” said our friend Bow to them, cheerily,
after it was all over, “come along, you’ve got to wash up!”
They didn’t understand him at first. When they grasped the
idea, they said they feared they did not know how to wash up.
“Oh, I’ll soon show you,” he cried; “it’s rare fun! You lie

— 69 —
down on your — I mean you lean over the bank, you know, and
sloush the th<strong>in</strong>gs about <strong>in</strong> the water.”
The elder sister said that she was afraid that they hadn’t got
on dresses suited to the work.
“Oh, they’ll be all right,” said he light-heartedly; “tuck ’em
up.”
And he made them do it, too. He told them that that sort
of th<strong>in</strong>g was half the fun of a picnic. They said it was very
<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g.
Now I come to th<strong>in</strong>k it over, was that young man as denseheaded
as we thought? or was he — no, impossible! there was
such a simple, child-like expression about him!
Harris wanted to get out at Hampton Church, to go and see
Mrs. Thomas’s tomb.
“Who is Mrs. Thomas?” I asked.
“How should I know?” replied Harris. “She’s a lady that’s got
a funny tomb, and I want to see it.”
I objected. I don’t know whether it is that I am built wrong,
but I never did seem to hanker after tombstones myself. I
know that the proper th<strong>in</strong>g to do, when you get to a village or
town, is to rush off to the churchyard, and enjoy the graves;
but it is a recreation that I always deny myself. I take no <strong>in</strong>terest
<strong>in</strong> creep<strong>in</strong>g round dim and chilly churches beh<strong>in</strong>d wheezy
old men, and read<strong>in</strong>g epitaphs. Not even the sight of a bit of
cracked brass let <strong>in</strong>to a stone affords me what I call real happ<strong>in</strong>ess.
I shock respectable sextons by the imperturbability I am
able to assume before excit<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>scriptions, and by my lack of
enthusiasm for the local family history, while my ill-concealed
anxiety to get outside wounds their feel<strong>in</strong>gs.
One golden morn<strong>in</strong>g of a sunny day, I leant aga<strong>in</strong>st the low
stone wall that guarded a little village church, and I smoked,
and drank <strong>in</strong> deep, calm gladness from the sweet, restful
scene — the grey old church with its cluster<strong>in</strong>g ivy and its
qua<strong>in</strong>t carved wooden porch, the white lane w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g down the
hill between tall rows of elms, the thatched-roof cottages peep-

— 70 —
<strong>in</strong>g above their trim-kept hedges, the silver river <strong>in</strong> the hollow,
the wooded hills beyond!
It was a lovely landscape. It was idyllic, poetical, and it <strong>in</strong>spired
me. I felt good and noble. I felt I didn’t want to be s<strong>in</strong>ful
and wicked any more. I would come and live here, and never
do any more wrong, and lead a blameless, beautiful life, and
have silver hair when I got old, and all that sort of th<strong>in</strong>g.
In that moment I forgave all my friends and relations for
their wickedness and cussedness, and I blessed them. They did
not know that I blessed them. They went their abandoned way
all unconscious of what I, far away <strong>in</strong> that peaceful village, was
do<strong>in</strong>g for them; but I did it, and I wished that I could let them
know that I had done it, because I wanted to make them happy.
I was go<strong>in</strong>g on th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g away all these grand, tender thoughts,
when my reverie was broken <strong>in</strong> upon by a shrill pip<strong>in</strong>g voice
cry<strong>in</strong>g out:
“All right, sur, I’m a-com<strong>in</strong>g, I’m a-com<strong>in</strong>g. It’s all right, sur;
don’t you be <strong>in</strong> a hurry.”
I looked up, and saw an old bald-headed man hobbl<strong>in</strong>g
across the churchyard towards me, carry<strong>in</strong>g a huge bunch of
keys <strong>in</strong> his hand that shook and j<strong>in</strong>gled at every step.
I motioned him away with silent dignity, but he still advanced,
screech<strong>in</strong>g out the while:
“I’m a-com<strong>in</strong>g, sur, I’m a-com<strong>in</strong>g. I’m a little lame. I a<strong>in</strong>’t as
spry as I used to be. This way, sur.”
“Go away, you miserable old man,” I said.
“I’ve come as soon as I could, sur,” he replied. “My missis
never see you till just this m<strong>in</strong>ute. You follow me, sur.”
“Go away,” I repeated; “leave me before I get over the wall,
and slay you.”
He seemed surprised.
“Don’t you want to see the tombs?” he said.
“No,” I answered, “I don’t. I want to stop here, lean<strong>in</strong>g up
aga<strong>in</strong>st this gritty old wall. Go away, and don’t disturb me. I am
chock full of beautiful and noble thoughts, and I want to stop
like it, because it feels nice and good. Don’t you come fool<strong>in</strong>g

— 71 —
about, mak<strong>in</strong>g me mad, chivy<strong>in</strong>g away all my better feel<strong>in</strong>gs
with this silly tombstone nonsense of yours. Go away, and get
somebody to bury you cheap, and I’ll pay half the expense.”
He was bewildered for a moment. He rubbed his eyes, and
looked hard at me. I seemed human enough on the outside: he
couldn’t make it out.
He said:
“Yuise a stranger <strong>in</strong> these parts? You don’t live here?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t. You wouldn’t if I did.”
“Well then,” he said, “you want to see the tombs — graves —
folks been buried, you know — coff<strong>in</strong>s!”
“You are an untruther,” I replied, gett<strong>in</strong>g roused; “I do not
want to see tombs — not your tombs. Why should I? We have
graves of our own, our family has. Why my uncle Podger has
a tomb <strong>in</strong> Kensal Green Cemetery, that is the pride of all that
country-side; and my grandfather’s vault at Bow is capable of
accommodat<strong>in</strong>g eight visitors, while my great-aunt Susan has
a brick grave <strong>in</strong> F<strong>in</strong>chley Churchyard, with a headstone with
a coffee-pot sort of th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> bas-relief upon it, and a six-<strong>in</strong>ch
best white stone cop<strong>in</strong>g all the way round, that cost pounds.
When I want graves, it is to those places that I go and revel. I
do not want other folk’s. When you yourself are buried, I will
come and see yours. That is all I can do for you.”
He burst <strong>in</strong>to tears. He said that one of the tombs had a bit
of stone upon the top of it that had been said by some to be
probably part of the rema<strong>in</strong>s of the figure of a man, and that
another had some words, carved upon it, that nobody had ever
been able to decipher.
I still rema<strong>in</strong>ed obdurate, and, <strong>in</strong> broken-hearted tones, he
said:
“Well, won’t you come and see the memorial w<strong>in</strong>dow?”
I would not even see that, so he fired his last shot. He drew
near, and whispered hoarsely:
“I’ve got a couple of skulls down <strong>in</strong> the crypt,” he said;
“come and see those. Oh, do come and see the skulls! You are

— 72 —
a young man out for a holiday, and you want to enjoy yourself.
Come and see the skulls!”
Then I turned and fled, and as I sped I heard him call<strong>in</strong>g to
me:
“Oh, come and see the skulls; come back and see the
skulls!”
Harris, however, revels <strong>in</strong> tombs, and graves, and epitaphs,
and monumental <strong>in</strong>scriptions, and the thought of not see<strong>in</strong>g
Mrs. Thomas’s grave made him crazy. He said he had looked
forward to see<strong>in</strong>g Mrs. Thomas’s grave from the first moment
that the trip was proposed — said he wouldn’t have jo<strong>in</strong>ed if it
hadn’t been for the idea of see<strong>in</strong>g Mrs. Thomas’s tomb.
I rem<strong>in</strong>ded him of George, and how we had to get the boat
up to Shepperton by five o’clock to meet him, and then he went
for George. Why was George to fool about all day, and leave us
to lug this lumber<strong>in</strong>g old top-heavy barge up and down the
river by ourselves to meet him? Why couldn’t George come
and do some work? Why couldn’t he have got the day off, and
come down with us? Bank be blowed! What good was he at
the bank?
“I never see him do<strong>in</strong>g any work there,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Harris,
“whenever I go <strong>in</strong>. He sits beh<strong>in</strong>d a bit of glass all day, try<strong>in</strong>g to
look as if he was do<strong>in</strong>g someth<strong>in</strong>g. What’s the good of a man
beh<strong>in</strong>d a bit of glass? I have to work for my liv<strong>in</strong>g. Why can’t he
work. What use is he there, and what’s the good of their banks?
They take your money, and then, when you draw a cheque,
they send it back smeared all over with ‘No effects,’ ‘Refer to
drawer.’ What’s the good of that? That’s the sort of trick they
served me twice last week. I’m not go<strong>in</strong>g to stand it much
longer. I shall withdraw my account. If he was here, we could
go and see that tomb. I don’t believe he’s at the bank at all. He’s
lark<strong>in</strong>g about somewhere, that’s what he’s do<strong>in</strong>g, leav<strong>in</strong>g us to
do all the work. I’m go<strong>in</strong>g to get out, and have a dr<strong>in</strong>k.”
I po<strong>in</strong>ted out to him that we were miles away from a pub.;
and then he went on about the river, and what was the good

— 73 —
of the river, and was everyone who came on the river to die of
thirst?
It is always best to let Harris have his head when he gets like
this. Then he pumps himself out, and is quiet afterwards.
I rem<strong>in</strong>ded him that there was concentrated lemonade <strong>in</strong>
the hamper, and a gallon-jar of water <strong>in</strong> the nose of the boat,
and that the two only wanted mix<strong>in</strong>g to make a cool and refresh<strong>in</strong>g
beverage.
Then he flew off about lemonade, and “such-like Sundayschool
slops,” as he termed them, g<strong>in</strong>ger-beer, raspberry syrup,
&c., &c. He said they all produced dyspepsia, and ru<strong>in</strong>ed body
and soul alike, and were the cause of half the crime <strong>in</strong> England.
He said he must dr<strong>in</strong>k someth<strong>in</strong>g, however, and climbed
upon the seat, and leant over to get the bottle. It was right at
the bottom of the hamper, and seemed difficult to f<strong>in</strong>d, and
he had to lean over further and further, and, <strong>in</strong> try<strong>in</strong>g to steer
at the same time, from a topsy-turvy po<strong>in</strong>t of view, he pulled
the wrong l<strong>in</strong>e, and sent the boat <strong>in</strong>to the bank, and the shock
upset him, and he dived down right <strong>in</strong>to the hamper, and stood
there on his head, hold<strong>in</strong>g on to the sides of the boat like grim
death, his legs stick<strong>in</strong>g up <strong>in</strong>to the air. He dared not move for
fear of go<strong>in</strong>g over, and had to stay there till I could get hold of
his legs, and haul him back, and that made him madder than
ever.

— 74 —
CHAPTER VIII.
Blackmail<strong>in</strong>g. — The proper course to pursue. — Selfish boorishness
of river-side landowner. — “Notice” boards. — Unchristianlike feel<strong>in</strong>gs
of Harris. — How Harris s<strong>in</strong>gs a comic song. — A high-class
party. — Shameful conduct of two abandoned young men. — Some
useless <strong>in</strong>formation. — George buys a banjo.
WE stopped under the willows by Kempton Park, and lunched.
It is a pretty little spot there: a pleasant grass plateau, runn<strong>in</strong>g
along by the water’s edge, and overhung by willows. We had
just commenced the third course — the bread and jam — when
a gentleman <strong>in</strong> shirt-sleeves and a short pipe came along, and
wanted to know if we knew that we were trespass<strong>in</strong>g. We said
we hadn’t given the matter sufficient consideration as yet to
enable us to arrive at a def<strong>in</strong>ite conclusion on that po<strong>in</strong>t, but
that, if he assured us on his word as a gentleman that we were
trespass<strong>in</strong>g, we would, without further hesitation, believe it.
He gave us the required assurance, and we thanked him, but
he still hung about, and seemed to be dissatisfied, so we asked
him if there was anyth<strong>in</strong>g further that we could do for him;
and Harris, who is of a chummy disposition, offered him a bit
of bread and jam.
I fancy he must have belonged to some society sworn to
absta<strong>in</strong> from bread and jam; for he decl<strong>in</strong>ed it quite gruffly, as
if he were vexed at be<strong>in</strong>g tempted with it, and he added that it
was his duty to turn us off.
Harris said that if it was a duty it ought to be done, and
asked the man what was his idea with regard to the best means
for accomplish<strong>in</strong>g it. Harris is what you would call a well-made
man of about number one size, and looks hard and bony, and
the man measured him up and down, and said he would go
and consult his master, and then come back and chuck us both
<strong>in</strong>to the river.
Of course, we never saw him any more, and, of course, all he
really wanted was a shill<strong>in</strong>g. There are a certa<strong>in</strong> number of riverside
roughs who make quite an <strong>in</strong>come, dur<strong>in</strong>g the summer,

— 75 —
by slouch<strong>in</strong>g about the banks and blackmail<strong>in</strong>g weak-m<strong>in</strong>ded
noodles <strong>in</strong> this way. They represent themselves as sent by the
proprietor. The proper course to pursue is to offer your name
and address, and leave the owner, if he really has anyth<strong>in</strong>g to
do with the matter, to summon you, and prove what damage
you have done to his land by sitt<strong>in</strong>g down on a bit of it. But the
majority of people are so <strong>in</strong>tensely lazy and timid, that they
prefer to encourage the imposition by giv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> to it rather
than put an end to it by the exertion of a little firmness.
Where it is really the owners that are to blame, they ought to
be shown up. The selfishness of the riparian proprietor grows
with every year. If these men had their way they would close
the river Thames altogether. They actually do this along the
m<strong>in</strong>or tributary streams and <strong>in</strong> the backwaters. They drive
posts <strong>in</strong>to the bed of the stream, and draw cha<strong>in</strong>s across from
bank to bank, and nail huge notice-boards on every tree. The
sight of those notice-boards rouses every evil <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct <strong>in</strong> my
nature. I feel I want to tear each one down, and hammer it over
the head of the man who put it up, until I have killed him, and
then I would bury him, and put the board up over the grave as
a tombstone.
I mentioned these feel<strong>in</strong>gs of m<strong>in</strong>e to Harris, and he said he
had them worse than that. He said he not only felt he wanted
to kill the man who caused the board to be put up, but that
he should like to slaughter the whole of his family and all his
friends and relations, and then burn down his house. This
seemed to me to be go<strong>in</strong>g too far, and I said so to Harris; but
he answered:
“Not a bit of it. Serve ’em all jolly well right, and I’d go and
s<strong>in</strong>g comic songs on the ru<strong>in</strong>s.”
I was vexed to hear Harris go on <strong>in</strong> this blood-thirsty stra<strong>in</strong>.
We never ought to allow our <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>cts of justice to degenerate
<strong>in</strong>to mere v<strong>in</strong>dictiveness. It was a long while before I could
get Harris to take a more Christian view of the subject, but I
succeeded at last, and he promised me that he would spare the

— 76 —
friends and relations at all events, and would not s<strong>in</strong>g comic
songs on the ru<strong>in</strong>s.
You have never heard Harris s<strong>in</strong>g a comic song, or you
would understand the service I had rendered to mank<strong>in</strong>d. It
is one of Harris’s fixed ideas that he can s<strong>in</strong>g a comic song;
the fixed idea, on the contrary, among those of Harris’s friends
who have heard him try, is that he can’t and never will be able
to, and that he ought not to be allowed to try.
When Harris is at a party, and is asked to s<strong>in</strong>g, he replies:
“Well, I can only s<strong>in</strong>g a comic song, you know;” and he says
it <strong>in</strong> a tone that implies that his s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g of that, however, is a
th<strong>in</strong>g that you ought to hear once, and then die.
“Oh, that is nice,” says the hostess. “Do s<strong>in</strong>g one, Mr. Harris;”
and Harris gets up, and makes for the piano, with the beam<strong>in</strong>g
cheer<strong>in</strong>ess of a generous-m<strong>in</strong>ded man who is just about to give
somebody someth<strong>in</strong>g.
“Now, silence, please, everybody” says the hostess, turn<strong>in</strong>g
round; “Mr. Harris is go<strong>in</strong>g to s<strong>in</strong>g a comic song!”
“Oh, how jolly!” they murmur; and they hurry <strong>in</strong> from the
conservatory, and come up from the stairs, and go and fetch
each other from all over the house, and crowd <strong>in</strong>to the draw<strong>in</strong>g-room,
and sit round, all smirk<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> anticipation.
Then Harris beg<strong>in</strong>s.
Well, you don’t look for much of a voice <strong>in</strong> a comic song. You
don’t expect correct phras<strong>in</strong>g or vocalization. You don’t m<strong>in</strong>d
if a man does f<strong>in</strong>d out, when <strong>in</strong> the middle of a note, that he is
too high, and comes down with a jerk. You don’t bother about
time. You don’t m<strong>in</strong>d a man be<strong>in</strong>g two bars <strong>in</strong> front of the accompaniment,
and eas<strong>in</strong>g up <strong>in</strong> the middle of a l<strong>in</strong>e to argue it
out with the pianist, and then start<strong>in</strong>g the verse afresh. But you
do expect the words.
You don’t expect a man to never remember more than the
first three l<strong>in</strong>es of the first verse, and to keep on repeat<strong>in</strong>g
these until it is time to beg<strong>in</strong> the chorus. You don’t expect a
man to break off <strong>in</strong> the middle of a l<strong>in</strong>e, and snigger, and say,
it’s very funny, but he’s blest if he can th<strong>in</strong>k of the rest of it, and

— 77 —
then try and make it up for himself, and, afterwards, suddenly
recollect it, when he has got to an entirely different part of the
song, and break off, without a word of warn<strong>in</strong>g, to go back and
let you have it then and there. You don’t — well, I will just give
you an idea of Harris’s comic s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g, and then you can judge
of it for yourself.
HARRIS (stand<strong>in</strong>g up <strong>in</strong> front of piano and address<strong>in</strong>g the expectant
mob): “I’m afraid it’s a very old th<strong>in</strong>g, you know. I expect
you all know it, you know. But it’s the only th<strong>in</strong>g I know.
It’s the Judge’s song out of P<strong>in</strong>afore — no, I don’t mean P<strong>in</strong>afore
— I mean — you know what I mean — the other th<strong>in</strong>g,
you know. You must all jo<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> the chorus, you know.”
Murmurs of delight and anxiety to jo<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> the chorus. Brilliant
performance of prelude to the Judge’s song <strong>in</strong> “Trial by
Jury” by nervous Pianist. Moment arrives for Harris to jo<strong>in</strong>
<strong>in</strong>. Harris takes no notice of it. Nervous pianist commences
prelude over aga<strong>in</strong>, and Harris, commenc<strong>in</strong>g s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g at the
same time, dashes off the first two l<strong>in</strong>es of the First Lord’s
song out of “P<strong>in</strong>afore.” Nervous pianist tries to push on with
prelude, gives it up, and tries to follow Harris with accompaniment
to Judge’s song out “Trial by Jury,” f<strong>in</strong>ds that doesn’t
answer, and tries to recollect what he is do<strong>in</strong>g, and where he
is, feels his m<strong>in</strong>d giv<strong>in</strong>g way, and stops short.
HARRIS (with k<strong>in</strong>dly encouragement): “It’s all right. You’re do<strong>in</strong>g
it very well, <strong>in</strong>deed — go on.”
NERVOUS PIANIST: “I’m afraid there’s a mistake somewhere.
What are you s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g?”
HARRIS (promptly): “Why the Judge’s song out of Trial by Jury.
Don’t you know it?”
SOME FRIEND OF HARRIS’S (from the back of the room): “No,
you’re not, you chuckle-head, you’re s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g the Admiral’s
song from P<strong>in</strong>afore.”
Long argument between Harris and Harris’s friend as to what
Harris is really s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g. Friend f<strong>in</strong>ally suggests that it doesn’t
matter what Harris is s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g so long as Harris gets on and

— 78 —
s<strong>in</strong>gs it, and Harris, with an evident sense of <strong>in</strong>justice rankl<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong>side him, requests pianist to beg<strong>in</strong> aga<strong>in</strong>. Pianist, thereupon,
starts prelude to the Admiral’s song, and Harris, seiz<strong>in</strong>g what
he considers to be a favourable open<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the music, beg<strong>in</strong>s.
HARRIS:
“‘When I was young and called to the Bar.’”
General roar of laughter, taken by Harris as a compliment.
Pianist, th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of his wife and family, gives up the unequal
contest and retires; his place be<strong>in</strong>g taken by a stronger-nerved
man.
THE NEW PIANIST (cheerily): “Now then, old man, you start
off, and I’ll follow. We won’t bother about any prelude.”
HARRIS (upon whom the explanation of matters has slowly
dawned — laugh<strong>in</strong>g): “By Jove! I beg your pardon. Of
course — I’ve been mix<strong>in</strong>g up the two songs. It was Jenk<strong>in</strong>s
who confused me, you know. Now then.
S<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g; his voice appear<strong>in</strong>g to come from the cellar, and suggest<strong>in</strong>g
the first low warn<strong>in</strong>gs of an approach<strong>in</strong>g earthquake.
“‘When I was young I served a term
As office-boy to an attorney’s firm.’
(Aside to pianist): “It is too low, old man; we’ll have that over
aga<strong>in</strong>, if you don’t m<strong>in</strong>d.”
S<strong>in</strong>gs first two l<strong>in</strong>es over aga<strong>in</strong>, <strong>in</strong> a high falsetto this time.
Great surprise on the part of the audience. Nervous old lady
near the fire beg<strong>in</strong>s to cry, and has to be led out.
HARRIS (cont<strong>in</strong>u<strong>in</strong>g):
“I swept the w<strong>in</strong>dows and I swept the door,
And I — ’
No — no, I cleaned the w<strong>in</strong>dows of the big front door. And
I polished up the floor — no, dash it — I beg your pardon —
funny th<strong>in</strong>g, I can’t th<strong>in</strong>k of that l<strong>in</strong>e. And I — and I — Oh,
well, we’ll get on to the chorus, and chance it (s<strong>in</strong>gs):
‘And I diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-de,
Till now I am the ruler of the Queen’s navee.’
Now then, chorus — it is the last two l<strong>in</strong>es repeated, you
know.

— 79 —
GENERAL CHORUS:
‘And he diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-dee’d,
Till now he is the ruler of the Queen’s navee.’
And Harris never sees what an ass he is mak<strong>in</strong>g of himself,
and how he is annoy<strong>in</strong>g a lot of people who never did him any
harm. He honestly imag<strong>in</strong>es that he has given them a treat, and
says he will s<strong>in</strong>g another comic song after supper.
Speak<strong>in</strong>g of comic songs and parties, rem<strong>in</strong>ds me of a rather
curious <strong>in</strong>cident at which I once assisted; which, as it throws
much light upon the <strong>in</strong>ner mental work<strong>in</strong>g of human nature <strong>in</strong>
general, ought, I th<strong>in</strong>k, to be recorded <strong>in</strong> these pages.
We were a fashionable and highly cultured party. We had
on our best clothes, and we talked pretty, and were very
happy — all except two young fellows, students, just returned
from Germany, commonplace young men, who seemed restless
and uncomfortable, as if they found the proceed<strong>in</strong>gs slow.
The truth was, we were too clever for them. Our brilliant but
polished conversation, and our high-class tastes, were beyond
them. They were out of place, among us. They never ought to
have been there at all. Everybody agreed upon that, later on.
We played morceaux from the old German masters. We discussed
philosophy and ethics. We flirted with graceful dignity.
We were even humorous — <strong>in</strong> a high-class way.
Somebody recited a French poem after supper, and we said
it was beautiful; and then a lady sang a sentimental ballad <strong>in</strong>
Spanish, and it made one or two of us weep — it was so pathetic.
And then those two young men got up, and asked us if we
had ever heard Herr Slossenn Boschen (who had just arrived,
and was then down <strong>in</strong> the supper-room) s<strong>in</strong>g his great German
comic song.
None of us had heard it, that we could remember.
The young men said it was the funniest song that had ever
been written, and that, if we liked, they would get Herr Slossenn
Boschen, whom they knew very well, to s<strong>in</strong>g it. They said

— 80 —
it was so funny that, when Herr Slossenn Boschen had sung it
once before the German Emperor, he (the German Emperor)
had had to be carried off to bed.
They said nobody could s<strong>in</strong>g it like Herr Slossenn Boschen;
he was so <strong>in</strong>tensely serious all through it that you might fancy
he was recit<strong>in</strong>g a tragedy, and that, of course, made it all the
funnier. They said he never once suggested by his tone or manner
that he was s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g anyth<strong>in</strong>g funny — that would spoil it.
It was his air of seriousness, almost of pathos, that made it so
irresistibly amus<strong>in</strong>g.
We said we yearned to hear it, that we wanted a good
laugh; and they went downstairs, and fetched Herr Slossenn
Boschen.
He appeared to be quite pleased to s<strong>in</strong>g it, for he came up at
once, and sat down to the piano without another word.
“Oh, it will amuse you. You will laugh,” whispered the two
young men, as they passed through the room, and took up an
unobtrusive position beh<strong>in</strong>d the Professor’s back.
Herr Slossenn Boschen accompanied himself. The prelude
did not suggest a comic song exactly. It was a weird, soulful
air. It quite made one’s flesh creep; but we murmured to one
another that it was the German method, and prepared to enjoy
it.
I don’t understand German myself. I learned it at school, but
forgot every word of it two years after I had left, and have felt
much better ever s<strong>in</strong>ce. Still, I did not want the people there to
guess my ignorance; so I hit upon what I thought to be rather
a good idea. I kept my eye on the two young students, and followed
them. When they tittered, I tittered; when they roared,
I roared; and I also threw <strong>in</strong> a little snigger all by myself now
and then, as if I had seen a bit of humour that had escaped the
others. I considered this particularly artful on my part.
I noticed, as the song progressed, that a good many other
people seemed to have their eye fixed on the two young men,
as well as myself. These other people also tittered when the
young men tittered, and roared when the young men roared;

— 81 —
and, as the two young men tittered and roared and exploded
with laughter pretty cont<strong>in</strong>uously all through the song, it went
exceed<strong>in</strong>gly well.
And yet that German Professor did not seem happy. At first,
when we began to laugh, the expression of his face was one of
<strong>in</strong>tense surprise, as if laughter were the very last th<strong>in</strong>g he had
expected to be greeted with. We thought this very funny: we
said his earnest manner was half the humour. The slightest
h<strong>in</strong>t on his part that he knew how funny he was would have
completely ru<strong>in</strong>ed it all. As we cont<strong>in</strong>ued to laugh, his surprise
gave way to an air of annoyance and <strong>in</strong>dignation, and he
scowled fiercely round upon us all (except upon the two young
men who, be<strong>in</strong>g beh<strong>in</strong>d him, he could not see). That sent us
<strong>in</strong>to convulsions. We told each other that it would be the death
of us, this th<strong>in</strong>g. The words alone, we said, were enough to
send us <strong>in</strong>to fits, but added to his mock seriousness — oh, it
was too much!
In the last verse, he surpassed himself. He glowered round
upon us with a look of such concentrated ferocity that, but for
our be<strong>in</strong>g forewarned as to the German method of comic s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g,
we should have been nervous; and he threw such a wail<strong>in</strong>g
note of agony <strong>in</strong>to the weird music that, if we had not known
it was a funny song, we might have wept.
He f<strong>in</strong>ished amid a perfect shriek of laughter. We said it was
the funniest th<strong>in</strong>g we had ever heard <strong>in</strong> all our lives. We said
how strange it was that, <strong>in</strong> the face of th<strong>in</strong>gs like these, there
should be a popular notion that the Germans hadn’t any sense
of humour. And we asked the Professor why he didn’t translate
the song <strong>in</strong>to English, so that the common people could understand
it, and hear what a real comic song was like.
Then Herr Slossenn Boschen got up, and went on awful. He
swore at us <strong>in</strong> German (which I should judge to be a s<strong>in</strong>gularly
effective language for that purpose), and he danced, and shook
his fists, and called us all the English he knew. He said he had
never been so <strong>in</strong>sulted <strong>in</strong> all his life.
It appeared that the song was not a comic song at all. It was

— 82 —
about a young girl who lived <strong>in</strong> the Hartz Mounta<strong>in</strong>s, and who
had given up her life to save her lover’s soul; and he died, and
met her spirit <strong>in</strong> the air; and then, <strong>in</strong> the last verse, he jilted
her spirit, and went on with another spirit — I’m not quite
sure of the details, but it was someth<strong>in</strong>g very sad, I know. Herr
Boschen said he had sung it once before the German Emperor,
and he (the German Emperor) had sobbed like a little child.
He (Herr Boschen) said it was generally acknowledged to be
one of the most tragic and pathetic songs <strong>in</strong> the German language.
It was a try<strong>in</strong>g situation for us — very try<strong>in</strong>g. There seemed
to be no answer. We looked around for the two young men
who had done this th<strong>in</strong>g, but they had left the house <strong>in</strong> an unostentatious
manner immediately after the end of the song.
That was the end of that party. I never saw a party break up
so quietly, and with so little fuss. We never said good-night
even to one another. We came downstairs one at a time, walk<strong>in</strong>g
softly, and keep<strong>in</strong>g the shady side. We asked the servant
for our hats and coats <strong>in</strong> whispers, and opened the door for
ourselves, and slipped out, and got round the corner quickly,
avoid<strong>in</strong>g each other as much as possible.
I have never taken much <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> German songs s<strong>in</strong>ce
then.
We reached Sunbury Lock at half-past three. The river is
sweetly pretty just there before you come to the gates, and the
backwater is charm<strong>in</strong>g; but don’t attempt to row up it.
I tried to do so once. I was scull<strong>in</strong>g, and asked the fellows
who were steer<strong>in</strong>g if they thought it could be done, and they
said, oh, yes, they thought so, if I pulled hard. We were just under
the little foot-bridge that crosses it between the two weirs,
when they said this, and I bent down over the sculls, and set
myself up, and pulled.
I pulled splendidly. I got well <strong>in</strong>to a steady rhythmical sw<strong>in</strong>g.
I put my arms, and my legs, and my back <strong>in</strong>to it. I set myself a
good, quick, dash<strong>in</strong>g stroke, and worked <strong>in</strong> really grand style.
My two friends said it was a pleasure to watch me. At the end

— 83 —
of five m<strong>in</strong>utes, I thought we ought to be pretty near the weir,
and I looked up. We were under the bridge, <strong>in</strong> exactly the
same spot that we were when I began, and there were those
two idiots, <strong>in</strong>jur<strong>in</strong>g themselves by violent laugh<strong>in</strong>g. I had been
gr<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g away like mad to keep that boat stuck still under that
bridge. I let other people pull up backwaters aga<strong>in</strong>st strong
streams now.
We sculled up to Walton, a rather large place for a riverside
town. As with all riverside places, only the t<strong>in</strong>iest corner of it
comes down to the water, so that from the boat you might fancy
it was a village of some half-dozen houses, all told. W<strong>in</strong>dsor
and Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon are the only towns between London and Oxford
that you can really see anyth<strong>in</strong>g of from the stream. All the
others hide round corners, and merely peep at the river down
one street: my thanks to them for be<strong>in</strong>g so considerate, and
leav<strong>in</strong>g the river-banks to woods and fields and water-works.
Even Read<strong>in</strong>g, though it does its best to spoil and sully and
make hideous as much of the river as it can reach, is good-natured
enough to keep its ugly face a good deal out of sight.
Cæsar, of course, had a little place at Walton — a camp,
or an entrenchment, or someth<strong>in</strong>g of that sort. Cæsar was a
regular up-river man. Also Queen Elizabeth, she was there,
too. You can never get away from that woman, go where you
will. Cromwell and Bradshaw (not the guide man, but the K<strong>in</strong>g
Charles’s head man) likewise sojourned here. They must have
been quite a pleasant little party, altogether.
There is an iron “scold’s bridle” <strong>in</strong> Walton Church. They
used these th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> ancient days for curb<strong>in</strong>g women’s tongues.
They have given up the attempt now. I suppose iron was gett<strong>in</strong>g
scarce, and noth<strong>in</strong>g else would be strong enough.
There are also tombs of note <strong>in</strong> the church, and I was afraid
I should never get Harris past them; but he didn’t seem to
th<strong>in</strong>k of them, and we went on. Above the bridge the river
w<strong>in</strong>ds tremendously. This makes it look picturesque; but it irritates
you from a tow<strong>in</strong>g or scull<strong>in</strong>g po<strong>in</strong>t of view, and causes

— 84 —
argument between the man who is pull<strong>in</strong>g and the man who
is steer<strong>in</strong>g.
You pass Oatlands Park on the right bank here. It is a famous
old place. Henry VIII. stole it from some one or the other, I
forget whom now, and lived <strong>in</strong> it. There is a grotto <strong>in</strong> the park
which you can see for a fee, and which is supposed to be very
wonderful; but I cannot see much <strong>in</strong> it myself. The late Duchess
of York, who lived at Oatlands, was very fond of dogs, and
kept an immense number. She had a special graveyard made,
<strong>in</strong> which to bury them when they died, and there they lie,
about fifty of them, with a tombstone over each, and an epitaph
<strong>in</strong>scribed thereon.
Well, I dare say they deserve it quite as much as the average
Christian does.
At “Corway Stakes” — the first bend above Walton Bridge —
was fought a battle between Cæsar and Cassivelaunus. Cassivelaunus
had prepared the river for Cæsar, by plant<strong>in</strong>g it full of
stakes (and had, no doubt, put up a notice-board). But Cæsar
crossed <strong>in</strong> spite of this. You couldn’t choke Cæsar off that river.
He is the sort of man we want round the backwaters now.
Halliford and Shepperton are both pretty little spots where
they touch the river; but there is noth<strong>in</strong>g remarkable about
either of them. There is a tomb <strong>in</strong> Shepperton churchyard,
however, with a poem on it, and I was nervous lest Harris
should want to get out and fool round it. I saw him fix a long<strong>in</strong>g
eye on the land<strong>in</strong>g-stage as we drew near it, so I managed,
by an adroit movement, to jerk his cap <strong>in</strong>to the water, and <strong>in</strong>
the excitement of recover<strong>in</strong>g that, and his <strong>in</strong>dignation at my
clums<strong>in</strong>ess, he forgot all about his beloved graves.
At Weybridge, the Wey (a pretty little stream, navigable for
small boats up to Guildford, and one which I have always been
mak<strong>in</strong>g up my m<strong>in</strong>d to explore, and never have), the Bourne,
and the Bas<strong>in</strong>gstoke Canal all enter the Thames together. The
lock is just opposite the town, and the first th<strong>in</strong>g that we saw,
when we came <strong>in</strong> view of it, was George’s blazer on one of the
lock gates, closer <strong>in</strong>spection show<strong>in</strong>g that George was <strong>in</strong>side it.

— 85 —
Montmorency set up a furious bark<strong>in</strong>g, I shrieked, Harris
roared; George waved his hat, and yelled back. The lockkeeper
rushed out with a drag, under the impression that
somebody had fallen <strong>in</strong>to the lock, and appeared annoyed at
f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g that no one had.
George had rather a curious oilsk<strong>in</strong>-covered parcel <strong>in</strong> his
hand. It was round and flat at one end, with a long straight
handle stick<strong>in</strong>g out of it.
“What’s that?” said Harris — “a fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan?”
“No,” said George, with a strange, wild look glitter<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his
eyes; “they are all the rage this season; everybody has got them
up the river. It’s a banjo.”
“I never knew you played the banjo!” cried Harris and I, <strong>in</strong>
one breath.
“Not exactly,” replied George: “but it’s very easy, they tell
me; and I’ve got the <strong>in</strong>struction book!”

— 86 —
CHAPTER IX.
George is <strong>in</strong>troduced to work. — Heathenish <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>cts of towl<strong>in</strong>es.
— Ungrateful conduct of a double-scull<strong>in</strong>g skiff. — Towers
and towed. — A use discovered for lovers. — Strange disappearance
of an elderly lady. — Much haste, less speed. — Be<strong>in</strong>g towed
by girls: excit<strong>in</strong>g sensation. — The miss<strong>in</strong>g lock or the haunted
river. — Music. — Saved!
WE made George work, now we had got him. He did not want
to work, of course; that goes without say<strong>in</strong>g. He had had a hard
time <strong>in</strong> the City, so he expla<strong>in</strong>ed. Harris, who is callous <strong>in</strong> his
nature, and not prone to pity, said:
“Ah! and now you are go<strong>in</strong>g to have a hard time on the river
for a change; change is good for everyone. Out you get!”
He could not <strong>in</strong> conscience — not even George’s conscience
— object, though he did suggest that, perhaps, it would
be better for him to stop <strong>in</strong> the boat, and get tea ready, while
Harris and I towed, because gett<strong>in</strong>g tea was such a worry<strong>in</strong>g
work, and Harris and I looked tired. The only reply we made
to this, however, was to pass him over the tow-l<strong>in</strong>e, and he took
it, and stepped out.
There is someth<strong>in</strong>g very strange and unaccountable about a
tow-l<strong>in</strong>e. You roll it up with as much patience and care as you
would take to fold up a new pair of trousers, and five m<strong>in</strong>utes
afterwards, when you pick it up, it is one ghastly, soul-revolt<strong>in</strong>g
tangle.
I do not wish to be <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g, but I firmly believe that if you
took an average tow-l<strong>in</strong>e, and stretched it out straight across
the middle of a field, and then turned your back on it for thirty
seconds, that, when you looked round aga<strong>in</strong>, you would f<strong>in</strong>d
that it had got itself altogether <strong>in</strong> a heap <strong>in</strong> the middle of the
field, and had twisted itself up, and tied itself <strong>in</strong>to knots, and
lost its two ends, and become all loops; and it would take you
a good half-hour, sitt<strong>in</strong>g down there on the grass and swear<strong>in</strong>g
all the while, to disentangle it aga<strong>in</strong>.
That is my op<strong>in</strong>ion of tow-l<strong>in</strong>es <strong>in</strong> general. Of course, there
may be honourable exceptions; I do not say that there are

— 87 —
not. There may be tow-l<strong>in</strong>es that are a credit to their profession
— conscientious, respectable tow-l<strong>in</strong>es — tow-l<strong>in</strong>es that do
not imag<strong>in</strong>e they are crochet-work, and try to knit themselves
up <strong>in</strong>to antimacassars the <strong>in</strong>stant they are left to themselves. I
say there may be such tow-l<strong>in</strong>es; I s<strong>in</strong>cerely hope there are. But
I have not met with them.
This tow-l<strong>in</strong>e I had taken <strong>in</strong> myself just before we had got
to the lock. I would not let Harris touch it, because he is careless.
I had looped it round slowly and cautiously, and tied it
up <strong>in</strong> the middle, and folded it <strong>in</strong> two, and laid it down gently
at the bottom of the boat. Harris had lifted it up scientifically,
and had put it <strong>in</strong>to George’s hand. George had taken it firmly,
and held it away from him, and had begun to unravel it as if he
were tak<strong>in</strong>g the swaddl<strong>in</strong>g clothes off a new-born <strong>in</strong>fant; and,
before he had unwound a dozen yards, the th<strong>in</strong>g was more like
a badly-made door-mat than anyth<strong>in</strong>g else.
It is always the same, and the same sort of th<strong>in</strong>g always goes
on <strong>in</strong> connection with it. The man on the bank, who is try<strong>in</strong>g
to disentangle it, th<strong>in</strong>ks all the fault lies with the man who
rolled it up; and when a man up the river th<strong>in</strong>ks a th<strong>in</strong>g, he
says it.
“What have you been try<strong>in</strong>g to do with it, make a fish<strong>in</strong>gnet
of it? You’ve made a nice mess you have; why couldn’t you
w<strong>in</strong>d it up properly, you silly dummy?” he grunts from time to
time as he struggles wildly with it, and lays it out flat on the
tow-path, and runs round and round it, try<strong>in</strong>g to f<strong>in</strong>d the end.
On the other hand, the man who wound it up th<strong>in</strong>ks the
whole cause of the muddle rests with the man who is try<strong>in</strong>g
to unw<strong>in</strong>d it.
“It was all right when you took it!” he exclaims <strong>in</strong>dignantly.
“Why don’t you th<strong>in</strong>k what you are do<strong>in</strong>g? You go about th<strong>in</strong>gs
<strong>in</strong> such a slap-dash style. You’d get a scaffold<strong>in</strong>g pole entangled
you would!”
And they feel so angry with one another that they would
like to hang each other with the th<strong>in</strong>g.
Ten m<strong>in</strong>utes go by, and the first man gives a yell and goes

— 88 —
mad, and dances on the rope, and tries to pull it straight by
seiz<strong>in</strong>g hold of the first piece that comes to his hand and haul<strong>in</strong>g
at it. Of course, this only gets it <strong>in</strong>to a tighter tangle than
ever. Then the second man climbs out of the boat and comes
to help him, and they get <strong>in</strong> each other’s way, and h<strong>in</strong>der one
another. They both get hold of the same bit of l<strong>in</strong>e, and pull at
it <strong>in</strong> opposite directions, and wonder where it is caught. In the
end, they do get it clear, and then turn round and f<strong>in</strong>d that the
boat has drifted off, and is mak<strong>in</strong>g straight for the weir.
This really happened once to my own knowledge. It was up
by Boveney, one rather w<strong>in</strong>dy morn<strong>in</strong>g. We were pull<strong>in</strong>g down
stream, and, as we came round the bend, we noticed a couple
of men on the bank. They were look<strong>in</strong>g at each other with
as bewildered and helplessly miserable expressions as I have
ever witnessed on any human countenance before or s<strong>in</strong>ce,
and they held a long tow-l<strong>in</strong>e between them. It was clear that
someth<strong>in</strong>g had happened, so we eased up and asked them what
was the matter.
“Why, our boat’s gone off !” they replied <strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>dignant
tone. “We just got out to disentangle the tow-l<strong>in</strong>e, and when
we looked round, it was gone!”
And they seemed hurt at what they evidently regarded as a
mean and ungrateful act on the part of the boat.
We found the truant for them half a mile further down, held
by some rushes, and we brought it back to them. I bet they did
not give that boat another chance for a week.
I shall never forget the picture of those two men walk<strong>in</strong>g up
and down the bank with a tow-l<strong>in</strong>e, look<strong>in</strong>g for their boat.
One sees a good many funny <strong>in</strong>cidents up the river <strong>in</strong> connection
with tow<strong>in</strong>g. One of the most common is the sight of
a couple of towers, walk<strong>in</strong>g briskly along, deep <strong>in</strong> an animated
discussion, while the man <strong>in</strong> the boat, a hundred yards beh<strong>in</strong>d
them, is va<strong>in</strong>ly shriek<strong>in</strong>g to them to stop, and mak<strong>in</strong>g frantic
signs of distress with a scull. Someth<strong>in</strong>g has gone wrong; the
rudder has come off, or the boat-hook has slipped overboard,

— 89 —
or his hat has dropped <strong>in</strong>to the water and is float<strong>in</strong>g rapidly
down stream.
He calls to them to stop, quite gently and politely at first.
“Hi! stop a m<strong>in</strong>ute, will you?” he shouts cheerily. “I’ve
dropped my hat over-board.”
Then: “Hi! Tom — Dick! can’t you hear?” not quite so affably
this time.
Then: “Hi! Confound you, you dunder-headed idiots! Hi!
stop! Oh you — !”
After that he spr<strong>in</strong>gs up, and dances about, and roars himself
red <strong>in</strong> the face, and curses everyth<strong>in</strong>g he knows. And the
small boys on the bank stop and jeer at him, and pitch stones
at him as he is pulled along past them, at the rate of four miles
an hour, and can’t get out.
Much of this sort of trouble would be saved if those who
are tow<strong>in</strong>g would keep remember<strong>in</strong>g that they are tow<strong>in</strong>g, and
give a pretty frequent look round to see how their man is gett<strong>in</strong>g
on. It is best to let one person tow. When two are do<strong>in</strong>g it,
they get chatter<strong>in</strong>g, and forget, and the boat itself, offer<strong>in</strong>g, as
it does, but little resistance, is of no real service <strong>in</strong> rem<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g
them of the fact.
As an example of how utterly oblivious a pair of towers can
be to their work, George told us, later on <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g, when
we were discuss<strong>in</strong>g the subject after supper, of a very curious
<strong>in</strong>stance.
He and three other men, so he said, were scull<strong>in</strong>g a very
heavily laden boat up from Maidenhead one even<strong>in</strong>g, and a little
above Cookham lock they noticed a fellow and a girl, walk<strong>in</strong>g
along the towpath, both deep <strong>in</strong> an apparently <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g
and absorb<strong>in</strong>g conversation. They were carry<strong>in</strong>g a boat-hook
between them, and, attached to the boat-hook was a tow-l<strong>in</strong>e,
which trailed beh<strong>in</strong>d them, its end <strong>in</strong> the water. No boat was
near, no boat was <strong>in</strong> sight. There must have been a boat attached
to that tow-l<strong>in</strong>e at some time or other, that was certa<strong>in</strong>;
but what had become of it, what ghastly fate had overtaken it,
and those who had been left <strong>in</strong> it, was buried <strong>in</strong> mystery. What-

— 90 —
ever the accident may have been, however, it had <strong>in</strong> no way disturbed
the young lady and gentleman, who were tow<strong>in</strong>g. They
had the boat-hook and they had the l<strong>in</strong>e, and that seemed to be
all that they thought necessary to their work.
George was about to call out and wake them up, but, at that
moment, a bright idea flashed across him, and he didn’t. He
got the hitcher <strong>in</strong>stead, and reached over, and drew <strong>in</strong> the end
of the tow-l<strong>in</strong>e; and they made a loop <strong>in</strong> it, and put it over
their mast, and then they tidied up the sculls, and went and sat
down <strong>in</strong> the stern, and lit their pipes.
And that young man and young woman towed those four
hulk<strong>in</strong>g chaps and a heavy boat up to Marlow.
George said he never saw so much thoughtful sadness
concentrated <strong>in</strong>to one glance before, as when, at the lock, that
young couple grasped the idea that, for the last two miles, they
had been tow<strong>in</strong>g the wrong boat. George fancied that, if it had
not been for the restra<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>fluence of the sweet woman at
his side, the young man might have given way to violent language.
The maiden was the first to recover from her surprise, and,
when she did, she clasped her hands, and said, wildly:
“Oh, Henry, then where is auntie?”
“Did they ever recover the old lady?” asked Harris.
George replied he did not know.
Another example of the dangerous want of sympathy between
tower and towed was witnessed by George and myself
once up near Walton. It was where the tow-path shelves gently
down <strong>in</strong>to the water, and we were camp<strong>in</strong>g on the opposite
bank, notic<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> general. By-and-by a small boat came
<strong>in</strong> sight, towed through the water at a tremendous pace by a
powerful barge horse, on which sat a very small boy. Scattered
about the boat, <strong>in</strong> dreamy and reposeful attitudes, lay five fellows,
the man who was steer<strong>in</strong>g hav<strong>in</strong>g a particularly restful
appearance.
“I should like to see him pull the wrong l<strong>in</strong>e,” murmured
George, as they passed. And at that precise moment the man

— 91 —
did it, and the boat rushed up the bank with a noise like the
ripp<strong>in</strong>g up of forty thousand l<strong>in</strong>en sheets. Two men, a hamper,
and three oars immediately left the boat on the larboard side,
and recl<strong>in</strong>ed on the bank, and one and a half moments afterwards,
two other men disembarked from the starboard, and
sat down among boat-hooks and sails and carpet-bags and
bottles. The last man went on twenty yards further, and then
got out on his head.
This seemed to sort of lighten the boat, and it went on much
easier, the small boy shout<strong>in</strong>g at the top of his voice, and urg<strong>in</strong>g
his steed <strong>in</strong>to a gallop. The fellows sat up and stared at one
another. It was some seconds before they realised what had
happened to them, but, when they did, they began to shout
lustily for the boy to stop. He, however, was too much occupied
with the horse to hear them, and we watched them, fly<strong>in</strong>g after
him, until the distance hid them from view.
I cannot say I was sorry at their mishap. Indeed, I only
wish that all the young fools who have their boats towed <strong>in</strong>
this fashion — and plenty do — could meet with similar misfortunes.
Besides the risk they run themselves, they become
a danger and an annoyance to every other boat they pass.
Go<strong>in</strong>g at the pace they do, it is impossible for them to get out
of anybody else’s way, or for anybody else to get out of theirs.
Their l<strong>in</strong>e gets hitched across your mast, and overturns you, or
it catches somebody <strong>in</strong> the boat, and either throws them <strong>in</strong>to
the water, or cuts their face open. The best plan is to stand your
ground, and be prepared to keep them off with the butt-end
of a mast.
Of all experiences <strong>in</strong> connection with tow<strong>in</strong>g, the most
excit<strong>in</strong>g is be<strong>in</strong>g towed by girls. It is a sensation that nobody
ought to miss. It takes three girls to tow always; two hold the
rope, and the other one runs round and round, and giggles.
They generally beg<strong>in</strong> by gett<strong>in</strong>g themselves tied up. They get
the l<strong>in</strong>e round their legs, and have to sit down on the path and
undo each other, and then they twist it round their necks, and
are nearly strangled. They fix it straight, however, at last, and

— 92 —
start off at a run, pull<strong>in</strong>g the boat along at quite a dangerous
pace. At the end of a hundred yards they are naturally breathless,
and suddenly stop, and all sit down on the grass and laugh,
and your boat drifts out to mid-stream and turns round, before
you know what has happened, or can get hold of a scull.
Then they stand up, and are surprised.
“Oh, look!” they say; “he’s gone right out <strong>in</strong>to the middle.”
They pull on pretty steadily for a bit, after this, and then it
all at once occurs to one of them that she will p<strong>in</strong> up her frock,
and they ease up for the purpose, and the boat runs aground.
You jump up, and push it off, and you shout to them not to
stop.
“Yes. What’s the matter?” they shout back.
“Don’t stop,” you roar.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t stop — go on — go on!”
“Go back, Emily, and see what it is they want,” says one; and
Emily comes back, and asks what it is.
“What do you want?” she says; “anyth<strong>in</strong>g happened?”
“No,” you reply, “it’s all right; only go on, you know — don’t
stop.”
“Why not?”
“Why, we can’t steer, if you keep stopp<strong>in</strong>g. You must keep
some way on the boat.”
“Keep some what?”
“Some way — you must keep the boat mov<strong>in</strong>g.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll tell ’em. Are we do<strong>in</strong>g it all right?”
“Oh, yes, very nicely, <strong>in</strong>deed, only don’t stop.”
“It doesn’t seem difficult at all. I thought it was so hard.”
“Oh, no, it’s simple enough. You want to keep on steady at
it, that’s all.”
“I see. Give me out my red shawl, it’s under the cushion.”
You f<strong>in</strong>d the shawl, and hand it out, and by this time another
one has come back and th<strong>in</strong>ks she will have hers too,
and they take Mary’s on chance, and Mary does not want it, so
they br<strong>in</strong>g it back and have a pocket-comb <strong>in</strong>stead. It is about

— 93 —
twenty m<strong>in</strong>utes before they get off aga<strong>in</strong>, and, at the next corner,
they see a cow, and you have to leave the boat to chivy the
cow out of their way.
There is never a dull moment <strong>in</strong> the boat while girls are
tow<strong>in</strong>g it.
George got the l<strong>in</strong>e right after a while, and towed us steadily
on to Penton Hook. There we discussed the important question
of camp<strong>in</strong>g. We had decided to sleep on board that night, and
we had either to lay up just about there, or go on past Sta<strong>in</strong>es.
It seemed early to th<strong>in</strong>k about shutt<strong>in</strong>g up then, however, with
the sun still <strong>in</strong> the heavens, and we settled to push straight on
for Runnymead, three and a half miles further, a quiet wooded
part of the river, and where there is good shelter.
We all wished, however, afterward that we had stopped at
Penton Hook. <strong>Three</strong> or four miles up stream is a trifle, early <strong>in</strong>
the morn<strong>in</strong>g, but it is a weary pull at the end of a long day. You
take no <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> the scenery dur<strong>in</strong>g these last few miles. You
do not chat and laugh. Every half-mile you cover seems like
two. You can hardly believe you are only where you are, and
you are conv<strong>in</strong>ced that the map must be wrong; and, when you
have trudged along for what seems to you at least ten miles,
and still the lock is not <strong>in</strong> sight, you beg<strong>in</strong> to seriously fear that
somebody must have sneaked it, and run off with it.
I remember be<strong>in</strong>g terribly upset once up the river (<strong>in</strong> a
figurative sense, I mean). I was out with a young lady — cous<strong>in</strong>
on my mother’s side — and we were pull<strong>in</strong>g down to Gor<strong>in</strong>g.
It was rather late, and we were anxious to get <strong>in</strong> — at least she
was anxious to get <strong>in</strong>. It was half-past six when we reached
Benson’s lock, and dusk was draw<strong>in</strong>g on, and she began to get
excited then. She said she must be <strong>in</strong> to supper. I said it was a
th<strong>in</strong>g I felt I wanted to be <strong>in</strong> at, too; and I drew out a map I had
with me to see exactly how far it was. I saw it was just a mile
and a half to the next lock — Wall<strong>in</strong>gford — and five on from
there to Cleeve.
“Oh, it’s all right!” I said. “We’ll be through the next lock

— 94 —
before seven, and then there is only one more;” and I settled
down and pulled steadily away.
We passed the bridge, and soon after that I asked if she saw
the lock. She said no, she did not see any lock; and I said, “Oh!”
and pulled on. Another five m<strong>in</strong>utes went by, and then I asked
her to look aga<strong>in</strong>.
“No,” she said; “I can’t see any signs of a lock.”
“You — you are sure you know a lock, when you do see one?”
I asked hesitat<strong>in</strong>gly, not wish<strong>in</strong>g to offend her.
The question did offend her, however, and she suggested
that I had better look for myself; so I laid down the sculls, and
took a view. The river stretched out straight before us <strong>in</strong> the
twilight for about a mile; not a ghost of a lock was to be seen.
“You don’t th<strong>in</strong>k we have lost our way, do you?” asked my
companion.
I did not see how that was possible; though, as I suggested,
we might have somehow got <strong>in</strong>to the weir stream, and be mak<strong>in</strong>g
for the falls.
This idea did not comfort her <strong>in</strong> the least, and she began
to cry. She said we should both be drowned, and that it was a
judgment on her for com<strong>in</strong>g out with me.
It seemed an excessive punishment, I thought; but my cous<strong>in</strong>
thought not, and hoped it would all soon be over.
I tried to reassure her, and to make light of the whole affair.
I said that the fact evidently was that I was not row<strong>in</strong>g as fast
as I fancied I was, but that we should soon reach the lock now;
and I pulled on for another mile.
Then I began to get nervous myself. I looked aga<strong>in</strong> at the
map. There was Wall<strong>in</strong>gford lock, clearly marked, a mile and a
half below Benson’s. It was a good, reliable map; and, besides, I
recollected the lock myself. I had been through it twice. Where
were we? What had happened to us? I began to th<strong>in</strong>k it must
be all a dream, and that I was really asleep <strong>in</strong> bed, and should
wake up <strong>in</strong> a m<strong>in</strong>ute, and be told it was past ten.
I asked my cous<strong>in</strong> if she thought it could be a dream, and
she replied that she was just about to ask me the same ques-

— 95 —
tion; and then we both wondered if we were both asleep, and if
so, who was the real one that was dream<strong>in</strong>g, and who was the
one that was only a dream; it got quite <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g.
I still went on pull<strong>in</strong>g, however, and still no lock came <strong>in</strong>
sight, and the river grew more and more gloomy and mysterious
under the gather<strong>in</strong>g shadows of night, and th<strong>in</strong>gs seemed
to be gett<strong>in</strong>g weird and uncanny. I thought of hobgobl<strong>in</strong>s and
banshees, and will-o’-the-wisps, and those wicked girls who
sit up all night on rocks, and lure people <strong>in</strong>to whirl-pools and
th<strong>in</strong>gs; and I wished I had been a better man, and knew more
hymns; and <strong>in</strong> the middle of these reflections I heard the blessed
stra<strong>in</strong>s of “He’s got ’em on,” played, badly, on a concert<strong>in</strong>a,
and knew that we were saved.
I do not admire the tones of a concert<strong>in</strong>a, as a rule; but, oh!
how beautiful the music seemed to us both then — far, far more
beautiful than the voice of Orpheus or the lute of Apollo, or
anyth<strong>in</strong>g of that sort could have sounded. Heavenly melody, <strong>in</strong>
our then state of m<strong>in</strong>d, would only have still further harrowed
us. A soul-mov<strong>in</strong>g harmony, correctly performed, we should
have taken as a spirit-warn<strong>in</strong>g, and have given up all hope. But
about the stra<strong>in</strong>s of “He’s got ’em on,” jerked spasmodically,
and with <strong>in</strong>voluntary variations, out of a wheezy accordion,
there was someth<strong>in</strong>g s<strong>in</strong>gularly human and reassur<strong>in</strong>g.
The sweet sounds drew nearer, and soon the boat from
which they were worked lay alongside us.
It conta<strong>in</strong>ed a party of prov<strong>in</strong>cial ’Arrys and ’Arriets, out for
a moonlight sail. (There was not any moon, but that was not
their fault.) I never saw more attractive, lovable people <strong>in</strong> all
my life. I hailed them, and asked if they could tell me the way
to Wall<strong>in</strong>gford lock; and I expla<strong>in</strong>ed that I had been look<strong>in</strong>g
for it for the last two hours.
“Wall<strong>in</strong>gford lock!” they answered. “Lor’ love you, sir, that’s
been done away with for over a year. There a<strong>in</strong>’t no Wall<strong>in</strong>gford
lock now, sir. You’re close to Cleeve now. Blow me tight if
’ere a<strong>in</strong>’t a gentleman been look<strong>in</strong>g for Wall<strong>in</strong>gford lock, Bill!”
I had never thought of that. I wanted to fall upon all their

— 96 —
necks and bless them; but the stream was runn<strong>in</strong>g too strong
just there to allow of this, so I had to content myself with mere
cold-sound<strong>in</strong>g words of gratitude.
We thanked them over and over aga<strong>in</strong>, and we said it was a
lovely night, and we wished them a pleasant trip, and, I th<strong>in</strong>k,
I <strong>in</strong>vited them all to come and spend a week with me, and my
cous<strong>in</strong> said her mother would be so pleased to see them. And
we sang the soldiers’ chorus out of Faust, and got home <strong>in</strong> time
for supper, after all.

— 97 —
CHAPTER X.
Our first night. — Under canvas. — An appeal for help. — Contrar<strong>in</strong>ess
of tea-kettles, how to overcome. — Supper. — How to feel virtuous.
— Wanted! A comfortably-appo<strong>in</strong>ted, well-dra<strong>in</strong>ed desert
island, neighbourhood of South Pacific Ocean preferred. — Funny
th<strong>in</strong>g that happened to George’s father. — A restless night.
HARRIS and I began to th<strong>in</strong>k that Bell Weir lock must have
been done away with after the same manner. George had
towed us up to Sta<strong>in</strong>es, and we had taken the boat from there,
and it seemed that we were dragg<strong>in</strong>g fifty tons after us, and
were walk<strong>in</strong>g forty miles. It was half-past seven when we were
through, and we all got <strong>in</strong>, and sculled up close to the left bank,
look<strong>in</strong>g out for a spot to haul up <strong>in</strong>.
We had orig<strong>in</strong>ally <strong>in</strong>tended to go on to Magna Charta Island,
a sweetly pretty part of the river, where it w<strong>in</strong>ds through a soft,
green valley, and to camp <strong>in</strong> one of the many picturesque <strong>in</strong>lets
to be found round that t<strong>in</strong>y shore. But, somehow, we did not
feel that we yearned for the picturesque nearly so much now as
we had earlier <strong>in</strong> the day. A bit of water between a coal-barge
and a gas-works would have quite satisfied us for that night.
We did not want scenery. We wanted to have our supper and go
to bed. However, we did pull up to the po<strong>in</strong>t — “Picnic Po<strong>in</strong>t,”
it is called — and dropped <strong>in</strong>to a very pleasant nook under a
great elm-tree, to the spread<strong>in</strong>g roots of which we fastened the
boat.
Then we thought we were go<strong>in</strong>g to have supper (we had dispensed
with tea, so as to save time), but George said no; that
we had better get the canvas up first, before it got quite dark,
and while we could see what we were do<strong>in</strong>g. Then, he said, all
our work would be done, and we could sit down to eat with an
easy m<strong>in</strong>d.
That canvas wanted more putt<strong>in</strong>g up than I th<strong>in</strong>k any of us
had barga<strong>in</strong>ed for. It looked so simple <strong>in</strong> the abstract. You took
five iron arches, like gigantic croquet hoops, and fitted them

— 98 —
up over the boat, and then stretched the canvas over them, and
fastened it down: it would take quite ten m<strong>in</strong>utes, we thought.
That was an under-estimate.
We took up the hoops, and began to drop them <strong>in</strong>to the
sockets placed for them. You would not imag<strong>in</strong>e this to be
dangerous work; but, look<strong>in</strong>g back now, the wonder to me is
that any of us are alive to tell the tale. They were not hoops,
they were demons. First they would not fit <strong>in</strong>to their sockets at
all, and we had to jump on them, and kick them, and hammer
at them with the boat-hook; and, when they were <strong>in</strong>, it turned
out that they were the wrong hoops for those particular sockets,
and they had to come out aga<strong>in</strong>.
But they would not come out, until two of us had gone and
struggled with them for five m<strong>in</strong>utes, when they would jump
up suddenly, and try and throw us <strong>in</strong>to the water and drown
us. They had h<strong>in</strong>ges <strong>in</strong> the middle, and, when we were not
look<strong>in</strong>g, they nipped us with these h<strong>in</strong>ges <strong>in</strong> delicate parts of
the body; and, while we were wrestl<strong>in</strong>g with one side of the
hoop, and endeavour<strong>in</strong>g to persuade it to do its duty, the other
side would come beh<strong>in</strong>d us <strong>in</strong> a cowardly manner, and hit us
over the head.
We got them fixed at last, and then all that was to be done
was to arrange the cover<strong>in</strong>g over them. George unrolled it, and
fastened one end over the nose of the boat. Harris stood <strong>in</strong> the
middle to take it from George and roll it on to me, and I kept
by the stern to receive it. It was a long time com<strong>in</strong>g down to
me. George did his part all right, but it was new work to Harris,
and he bungled it.
How he managed it I do not know, he could not expla<strong>in</strong>
himself; but by some mysterious process or other he succeeded,
after ten m<strong>in</strong>utes of superhuman effort, <strong>in</strong> gett<strong>in</strong>g
himself completely rolled up <strong>in</strong> it. He was so firmly wrapped
round and tucked <strong>in</strong> and folded over, that he could not get out.
He, of course, made frantic struggles for freedom — the birthright
of every Englishman, — and, <strong>in</strong> do<strong>in</strong>g so (I learned this
afterwards), knocked over George; and then George, swear<strong>in</strong>g

— 99 —
at Harris, began to struggle too, and got himself entangled and
rolled up.
I knew noth<strong>in</strong>g about all this at the time. I did not understand
the bus<strong>in</strong>ess at all myself. I had been told to stand where
I was, and wait till the canvas came to me, and Montmorency
and I stood there and waited, both as good as gold. We could
see the canvas be<strong>in</strong>g violently jerked and tossed about, pretty
considerably; but we supposed this was part of the method,
and did not <strong>in</strong>terfere.
We also heard much smothered language com<strong>in</strong>g from
underneath it, and we guessed that they were f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g the job
rather troublesome, and concluded that we would wait until
th<strong>in</strong>gs had got a little simpler before we jo<strong>in</strong>ed <strong>in</strong>.
We waited some time, but matters seemed to get only more
and more <strong>in</strong>volved, until, at last, George’s head came wriggl<strong>in</strong>g
out over the side of the boat, and spoke up.
It said:
“Give us a hand here, can’t you, you cuckoo; stand<strong>in</strong>g there
like a stuffed mummy, when you see we are both be<strong>in</strong>g suffocated,
you dummy!”
I never could withstand an appeal for help, so I went and undid
them; not before it was time, either, for Harris was nearly
black <strong>in</strong> the face.
It took us half an hour’s hard labour, after that, before it was
properly up, and then we cleared the decks, and got out supper.
We put the kettle on to boil, up <strong>in</strong> the nose of the boat, and
went down to the stern and pretended to take no notice of it,
but set to work to get the other th<strong>in</strong>gs out.
That is the only way to get a kettle to boil up the river. If it
sees that you are wait<strong>in</strong>g for it and are anxious, it will never
even s<strong>in</strong>g. You have to go away and beg<strong>in</strong> your meal, as if you
were not go<strong>in</strong>g to have any tea at all. You must not even look
round at it. Then you will soon hear it sputter<strong>in</strong>g away, mad to
be made <strong>in</strong>to tea.
It is a good plan, too, if you are <strong>in</strong> a great hurry, to talk very
loudly to each other about how you don’t need any tea, and

— 100 —
are not go<strong>in</strong>g to have any. You get near the kettle, so that it can
overhear you, and then you shout out, “I don’t want any tea; do
you, George?” to which George shouts back, “Oh, no, I don’t
like tea; we’ll have lemonade <strong>in</strong>stead — tea’s so <strong>in</strong>digestible.”
Upon which the kettle boils over, and puts the stove out.
We adopted this harmless bit of trickery, and the result was
that, by the time everyth<strong>in</strong>g else was ready, the tea was wait<strong>in</strong>g.
Then we lit the lantern, and squatted down to supper.
We wanted that supper.
For five-and-thirty m<strong>in</strong>utes not a sound was heard throughout
the length and breadth of that boat, save the clank of cutlery
and crockery, and the steady gr<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g of four sets of molars.
At the end of five-and-thirty m<strong>in</strong>utes, Harris said, “Ah!”
and took his left leg out from under him and put his right one
there <strong>in</strong>stead.
Five m<strong>in</strong>utes afterwards, George said, “Ah!” too, and threw
his plate out on the bank; and, three m<strong>in</strong>utes later than that,
Montmorency gave the first sign of contentment he had exhibited
s<strong>in</strong>ce we had started, and rolled over on his side, and
spread his legs out; and then I said, “Ah!” and bent my head
back, and bumped it aga<strong>in</strong>st one of the hoops, but I did not
m<strong>in</strong>d it. I did not even swear.
How good one feels when one is full — how satisfied with
ourselves and with the world! People who have tried it, tell
me that a clear conscience makes you very happy and contented;
but a full stomach does the bus<strong>in</strong>ess quite as well, and
is cheaper, and more easily obta<strong>in</strong>ed. One feels so forgiv<strong>in</strong>g
and generous after a substantial and well-digested meal — so
noble-m<strong>in</strong>ded, so k<strong>in</strong>dly-hearted.
It is very strange, this dom<strong>in</strong>ation of our <strong>in</strong>tellect by our
digestive organs. We cannot work, we cannot th<strong>in</strong>k, unless our
stomach wills so. It dictates to us our emotions, our passions.
After eggs and bacon, it says, “Work!” After beefsteak and porter,
it says, “Sleep!” After a cup of tea (two spoonsful for each
cup, and don’t let it stand more than three m<strong>in</strong>utes), it says
to the bra<strong>in</strong>, “Now, rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent,

— 101 —
and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, <strong>in</strong>to Nature and
<strong>in</strong>to life; spread your white w<strong>in</strong>gs of quiver<strong>in</strong>g thought, and
soar, a god-like spirit, over the whirl<strong>in</strong>g world beneath you, up
through long lanes of flam<strong>in</strong>g stars to the gates of eternity!”
After hot muff<strong>in</strong>s, it says, “Be dull and soulless, like a beast
of the field — a bra<strong>in</strong>less animal, with listless eye, unlit by any
ray of fancy, or of hope, or fear, or love, or life.” And after
brandy, taken <strong>in</strong> sufficient quantity, it says, “Now, come, fool,
gr<strong>in</strong> and tumble, that your fellow-men may laugh — drivel <strong>in</strong>
folly, and splutter <strong>in</strong> senseless sounds, and show what a helpless
n<strong>in</strong>ny is poor man whose wit and will are drowned, like
kittens, side by side, <strong>in</strong> half an <strong>in</strong>ch of alcohol.”
We are but the veriest, sorriest slaves of our stomach. Reach
not after morality and righteousness, my friends; watch vigilantly
your stomach, and diet it with care and judgment. Then
virtue and contentment will come and reign with<strong>in</strong> your heart,
unsought by any effort of your own; and you will be a good
citizen, a lov<strong>in</strong>g husband, and a tender father — a noble, pious
man.
Before our supper, Harris and George and I were quarrelsome
and snappy and ill-tempered; after our supper, we sat
and beamed on one another, and we beamed upon the dog,
too. We loved each other, we loved everybody. Harris, <strong>in</strong> mov<strong>in</strong>g
about, trod on George’s corn. Had this happened before
supper, George would have expressed wishes and desires concern<strong>in</strong>g
Harris’s fate <strong>in</strong> this world and the next that would have
made a thoughtful man shudder.
As it was, he said: “Steady, old man; ’ware wheat.”
And Harris, <strong>in</strong>stead of merely observ<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong> his most unpleasant
tones, that a fellow could hardly help tread<strong>in</strong>g on
some bit of George’s foot, if he had to move about at all with<strong>in</strong>
ten yards of where George was sitt<strong>in</strong>g, suggest<strong>in</strong>g that George
never ought to come <strong>in</strong>to an ord<strong>in</strong>ary sized boat with feet that
length, and advis<strong>in</strong>g him to hang them over the side, as he
would have done before supper, now said: “Oh, I’m so sorry,
old chap; I hope I haven’t hurt you.”

— 102 —
And George said: “Not at all;” that it was his fault; and Harris
said no, it was his.
It was quite pretty to hear them.
We lit our pipes, and sat, look<strong>in</strong>g out on the quiet night, and
talked.
George said why could not we be always like this — away
from the world, with its s<strong>in</strong> and temptation, lead<strong>in</strong>g sober,
peaceful lives, and do<strong>in</strong>g good. I said it was the sort of th<strong>in</strong>g I
had often longed for myself; and we discussed the possibility
of our go<strong>in</strong>g away, we four, to some handy, well-fitted desert
island, and liv<strong>in</strong>g there <strong>in</strong> the woods.
Harris said that the danger about desert islands, as far as he
had heard, was that they were so damp: but George said no, not
if properly dra<strong>in</strong>ed.
And then we got on to dra<strong>in</strong>s, and that put George <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d
of a very funny th<strong>in</strong>g that happened to his father once. He said
his father was travell<strong>in</strong>g with another fellow through Wales,
and, one night, they stopped at a little <strong>in</strong>n, where there were
some other fellows, and they jo<strong>in</strong>ed the other fellows, and
spent the even<strong>in</strong>g with them.
They had a very jolly even<strong>in</strong>g, and sat up late, and, by the
time they came to go to bed, they (this was when George’s
father was a very young man) were slightly jolly, too. They
(George’s father and George’s father’s friend) were to sleep <strong>in</strong>
the same room, but <strong>in</strong> different beds. They took the candle,
and went up. The candle lurched up aga<strong>in</strong>st the wall when
they got <strong>in</strong>to the room, and went out, and they had to undress
and grope <strong>in</strong>to bed <strong>in</strong> the dark. This they did; but, <strong>in</strong>stead of
gett<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to separate beds, as they thought they were do<strong>in</strong>g,
they both climbed <strong>in</strong>to the same one without know<strong>in</strong>g it — one
gett<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> with his head at the top, and the other crawl<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>
from the opposite side of the compass, and ly<strong>in</strong>g with his feet
on the pillow.
There was silence for a moment, and then George’s father
said:
“Joe!”

— 103 —
“What’s the matter, Tom?” replied Joe’s voice from the other
end of the bed.
“Why, there’s a man <strong>in</strong> my bed,” said George’s father; “here’s
his feet on my pillow.”
“Well, it’s an extraord<strong>in</strong>ary th<strong>in</strong>g, Tom,” answered the other;
“but I’m blest if there isn’t a man <strong>in</strong> my bed, too!”
“What are you go<strong>in</strong>g to do?” asked George’s father.
“Well, I’m go<strong>in</strong>g to chuck him out,” replied Joe.
“So am I,” said George’s father, valiantly.
There was a brief struggle, followed by two heavy bumps on
the floor, and then a rather doleful voice said:
“I say, Tom!”
“Yes!”
“How have you got on?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, my man’s chucked me out.”
“So’s m<strong>in</strong>e! I say, I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k much of this <strong>in</strong>n, do you?”
“What was the name of that <strong>in</strong>n?” said Harris.
“The Pig and Whistle,” said George. “Why?”
“Ah, no, then it isn’t the same,” replied Harris.
“What do you mean?” queried George.
“Why it’s so curious,” murmured Harris, “but precisely that
very same th<strong>in</strong>g happened to my father once at a country <strong>in</strong>n.
I’ve often heard him tell the tale. I thought it might have been
the same <strong>in</strong>n.”
We turned <strong>in</strong> at ten that night, and I thought I should sleep
well, be<strong>in</strong>g tired; but I didn’t. As a rule, I undress and put my
head on the pillow, and then somebody bangs at the door,
and says it is half-past eight: but, to-night, everyth<strong>in</strong>g seemed
aga<strong>in</strong>st me; the novelty of it all, the hardness of the boat, the
cramped position (I was ly<strong>in</strong>g with my feet under one seat, and
my head on another), the sound of the lapp<strong>in</strong>g water round the
boat, and the w<strong>in</strong>d among the branches, kept me restless and
disturbed.
I did get to sleep for a few hours, and then some part of the
boat which seemed to have grown up <strong>in</strong> the night — for it certa<strong>in</strong>ly
was not there when we started, and it had disappeared

— 104 —
by the morn<strong>in</strong>g — kept digg<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to my sp<strong>in</strong>e. I slept through
it for a while, dream<strong>in</strong>g that I had swallowed a sovereign, and
that they were cutt<strong>in</strong>g a hole <strong>in</strong> my back with a gimlet, so as
to try and get it out. I thought it very unk<strong>in</strong>d of them, and I
told them I would owe them the money, and they should have
it at the end of the month. But they would not hear of that,
and said it would be much better if they had it then, because
otherwise the <strong>in</strong>terest would accumulate so. I got quite cross
with them after a bit, and told them what I thought of them,
and then they gave the gimlet such an excruciat<strong>in</strong>g wrench
that I woke up.
The boat seemed stuffy, and my head ached; so I thought I
would step out <strong>in</strong>to the cool night-air. I slipped on what clothes
I could f<strong>in</strong>d about — some of my own, and some of George’s
and Harris’s — and crept under the canvas on to the bank.
It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet
earth alone with the stars. It seemed as if, <strong>in</strong> the silence and
the hush, while we her children slept, they were talk<strong>in</strong>g with
her, their sister — convers<strong>in</strong>g of mighty mysteries <strong>in</strong> voices too
vast and deep for childish human ears to catch the sound.
They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as
children whose small feet have strayed <strong>in</strong>to some dim-lit temple
of the god they have been taught to worship but know not;
and, stand<strong>in</strong>g where the echo<strong>in</strong>g dome spans the long vista of
the shadowy light, glance up, half hop<strong>in</strong>g, half afraid to see
some awful vision hover<strong>in</strong>g there.
And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the
night. In its great presence, our small sorrows creep away,
ashamed. The day has been so full of fret and care, and our
hearts have been so full of evil and of bitter thoughts, and
the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then Night,
like some great lov<strong>in</strong>g mother, gently lays her hand upon our
fevered head, and turns our little tear-sta<strong>in</strong>ed faces up to hers,
and smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she
would say, and lay our hot flushed cheek aga<strong>in</strong>st her bosom,
and the pa<strong>in</strong> is gone.

— 105 —
Sometimes, our pa<strong>in</strong> is very deep and real, and we stand before
her very silent, because there is no language for our pa<strong>in</strong>,
only a moan. Night’s heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease
our ach<strong>in</strong>g; she takes our hand <strong>in</strong> hers, and the little world
grows very small and very far away beneath us, and, borne on
her dark w<strong>in</strong>gs, we pass for a moment <strong>in</strong>to a mightier Presence
than her own, and <strong>in</strong> the wondrous light of that great Presence,
all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that Pa<strong>in</strong>
and Sorrow are but the angels of God.
Only those who have worn the crown of suffer<strong>in</strong>g can look
upon that wondrous light; and they, when they return, may not
speak of it, or tell the mystery they know.
Once upon a time, through a strange country, there rode
some goodly knights, and their path lay by a deep wood, where
tangled briars grew very thick and strong, and tore the flesh
of them that lost their way there<strong>in</strong>. And the leaves of the trees
that grew <strong>in</strong> the wood were very dark and thick, so that no ray
of light came through the branches to lighten the gloom and
sadness.
And, as they passed by that dark wood, one knight of those
that rode, miss<strong>in</strong>g his comrades, wandered far away, and returned
to them no more; and they, sorely griev<strong>in</strong>g, rode on
without him, mourn<strong>in</strong>g him as one dead.
Now, when they reached the fair castle towards which they
had been journey<strong>in</strong>g, they stayed there many days, and made
merry; and one night, as they sat <strong>in</strong> cheerful ease around the
logs that burned <strong>in</strong> the great hall, and drank a lov<strong>in</strong>g measure,
there came the comrade they had lost, and greeted them. His
clothes were ragged, like a beggar’s, and many sad wounds
were on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there shone a great
radiance of deep joy.
And they questioned him, ask<strong>in</strong>g him what had befallen
him: and he told them how <strong>in</strong> the dark wood he had lost his
way, and had wandered many days and nights, till, torn and
bleed<strong>in</strong>g, he had la<strong>in</strong> him down to die.
Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! through the savage

— 106 —
gloom there came to him a stately maiden, and took him by
the hand and led him on through devious paths, unknown to
any man, until upon the darkness of the wood there dawned a
light such as the light of day was unto but as a little lamp unto
the sun; and, <strong>in</strong> that wondrous light, our way-worn knight
saw as <strong>in</strong> a dream a vision, and so glorious, so fair the vision
seemed, that of his bleed<strong>in</strong>g wounds he thought no more, but
stood as one entranced, whose joy is deep as is the sea, whereof
no man can tell the depth.
And the vision faded, and the knight, kneel<strong>in</strong>g upon the
ground, thanked the good sa<strong>in</strong>t who <strong>in</strong>to that sad wood had
strayed his steps, so he had seen the vision that lay there hid.
And the name of the dark forest was Sorrow; but of the vision
that the good knight saw there<strong>in</strong> we may not speak nor
tell.

— 107 —
CHAPTER XI.
How George, once upon a time, got up early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g. —
George, Harris, and Montmorency do not like the look of the cold
water. — Heroism and determ<strong>in</strong>ation on the part of J. — George
and his shirt: story with a moral. — Harris as cook. — Historical
retrospect, specially <strong>in</strong>serted for the use of schools.
I WOKE at six the next morn<strong>in</strong>g; and found George awake
too. We both turned round, and tried to go to sleep aga<strong>in</strong>,
but we could not. Had there been any particular reason why
we should not have gone to sleep aga<strong>in</strong>, but have got up and
dressed then and there, we should have dropped off while we
were look<strong>in</strong>g at our watches, and have slept till ten. As there
was no earthly necessity for our gett<strong>in</strong>g up under another two
hours at the very least, and our gett<strong>in</strong>g up at that time was an
utter absurdity, it was only <strong>in</strong> keep<strong>in</strong>g with the natural cussedness
of th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> general that we should both feel that ly<strong>in</strong>g
down for five m<strong>in</strong>utes more would be death to us.
George said that the same k<strong>in</strong>d of th<strong>in</strong>g, only worse, had
happened to him some eighteen months ago, when he was
lodg<strong>in</strong>g by himself <strong>in</strong> the house of a certa<strong>in</strong> Mrs. Gipp<strong>in</strong>gs.
He said his watch went wrong one even<strong>in</strong>g, and stopped at a
quarter-past eight. He did not know this at the time because,
for some reason or other, he forgot to w<strong>in</strong>d it up when he went
to bed (an unusual occurrence with him), and hung it up over
his pillow without ever look<strong>in</strong>g at the th<strong>in</strong>g.
It was <strong>in</strong> the w<strong>in</strong>ter when this happened, very near the
shortest day, and a week of fog <strong>in</strong>to the barga<strong>in</strong>, so the fact that
it was still very dark when George woke <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g was no
guide to him as to the time. He reached up, and hauled down
his watch. It was a quarter-past eight.
“Angels and m<strong>in</strong>isters of grace defend us!” exclaimed
George; “and here have I got to be <strong>in</strong> the City by n<strong>in</strong>e. Why
didn’t somebody call me? Oh, this is a shame!” And he flung
the watch down, and sprang out of bed, and had a cold bath,
and washed himself, and dressed himself, and shaved himself

— 108 —
<strong>in</strong> cold water because there was not time to wait for the hot,
and then rushed and had another look at the watch.
Whether the shak<strong>in</strong>g it had received <strong>in</strong> be<strong>in</strong>g thrown down
on the bed had started it, or how it was, George could not say,
but certa<strong>in</strong> it was that from a quarter-past eight it had begun
to go, and now po<strong>in</strong>ted to twenty m<strong>in</strong>utes to n<strong>in</strong>e.
George snatched it up, and rushed downstairs. In the sitt<strong>in</strong>groom,
all was dark and silent: there was no fire, no breakfast.
George said it was a wicked shame of Mrs. G., and he made
up his m<strong>in</strong>d to tell her what he thought of her when he came
home <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g. Then he dashed on his great-coat and
hat, and, seiz<strong>in</strong>g his umbrella, made for the front door. The
door was not even unbolted. George anathematized Mrs. G. for
a lazy old woman, and thought it was very strange that people
could not get up at a decent, respectable time, unlocked and
unbolted the door, and ran out.
He ran hard for a quarter of a mile, and at the end of that
distance it began to be borne <strong>in</strong> upon him as a strange and
curious th<strong>in</strong>g that there were so few people about, and that
there were no shops open. It was certa<strong>in</strong>ly a very dark and
foggy morn<strong>in</strong>g, but still it seemed an unusual course to stop
all bus<strong>in</strong>ess on that account. He had to go to bus<strong>in</strong>ess: why
should other people stop <strong>in</strong> bed merely because it was dark
and foggy!
At length he reached Holborn. Not a shutter was down! not
a bus was about! There were three men <strong>in</strong> sight, one of whom
was a policeman; a market-cart full of cabbages, and a dilapidated
look<strong>in</strong>g cab. George pulled out his watch and looked at
it: it was five m<strong>in</strong>utes to n<strong>in</strong>e! He stood still and counted his
pulse. He stooped down and felt his legs. Then, with his watch
still <strong>in</strong> his hand, he went up to the policeman, and asked him if
he knew what the time was.
“What’s the time?” said the man, eye<strong>in</strong>g George up and
down with evident suspicion; “why, if you listen you will hear
it strike.”

— 109 —
George listened, and a neighbour<strong>in</strong>g clock immediately
obliged.
“But it’s only gone three!” said George <strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>jured tone,
when it had f<strong>in</strong>ished.
“Well, and how many did you want it to go?” replied the
constable.
“Why, n<strong>in</strong>e,” said George, show<strong>in</strong>g his watch.
“Do you know where you live?” said the guardian of public
order, severely.
George thought, and gave the address.
“Oh! that’s where it is, is it?” replied the man; “well, you take
my advice and go there quietly, and take that watch of yours
with you; and don’t let’s have any more of it.”
And George went home aga<strong>in</strong>, mus<strong>in</strong>g as he walked along,
and let himself <strong>in</strong>.
At first, when he got <strong>in</strong>, he determ<strong>in</strong>ed to undress and go to
bed aga<strong>in</strong>; but when he thought of the redress<strong>in</strong>g and re-wash<strong>in</strong>g,
and the hav<strong>in</strong>g of another bath, he determ<strong>in</strong>ed he would
not, but would sit up and go to sleep <strong>in</strong> the easy-chair.
But he could not get to sleep: he never felt more wakeful
<strong>in</strong> his life; so he lit the lamp and got out the chess-board, and
played himself a game of chess. But even that did not enliven
him: it seemed slow somehow; so he gave chess up and tried to
read. He did not seem able to take any sort of <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> read<strong>in</strong>g
either, so he put on his coat aga<strong>in</strong> and went out for a walk.
It was horribly lonesome and dismal, and all the policemen
he met regarded him with undisguised suspicion, and turned
their lanterns on him and followed him about, and this had
such an effect upon him at last that he began to feel as if he
really had done someth<strong>in</strong>g, and he got to sl<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g down the
by-streets and hid<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> dark doorways when he heard the
regulation flip-flop approach<strong>in</strong>g.
Of course, this conduct made the force only more distrustful
of him than ever, and they would come and rout him out
and ask him what he was do<strong>in</strong>g there; and when he answered,
“Noth<strong>in</strong>g,” he had merely come out for a stroll (it was then

— 110 —
four o’clock <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g), they looked as though they did
not believe him, and two pla<strong>in</strong>-clothes constables came home
with him to see if he really did live where he had said he did.
They saw him go <strong>in</strong> with his key, and then they took up a position
opposite and watched the house.
He thought he would light the fire when he got <strong>in</strong>side, and
make himself some breakfast, just to pass away the time; but
he did not seem able to handle anyth<strong>in</strong>g from a scuttleful of
coals to a teaspoon without dropp<strong>in</strong>g it or fall<strong>in</strong>g over it, and
mak<strong>in</strong>g such a noise that he was <strong>in</strong> mortal fear that it would
wake Mrs. G. up, and that she would th<strong>in</strong>k it was burglars and
open the w<strong>in</strong>dow and call “Police!” and then these two detectives
would rush <strong>in</strong> and handcuff him, and march him off to
the police-court.
He was <strong>in</strong> a morbidly nervous state by this time, and he pictured
the trial, and his try<strong>in</strong>g to expla<strong>in</strong> the circumstances to
the jury, and nobody believ<strong>in</strong>g him, and his be<strong>in</strong>g sentenced to
twenty years’ penal servitude, and his mother dy<strong>in</strong>g of a broken
heart. So he gave up try<strong>in</strong>g to get breakfast, and wrapped
himself up <strong>in</strong> his overcoat and sat <strong>in</strong> the easy-chair till Mrs. G
came down at half-past seven.
He said he had never got up too early s<strong>in</strong>ce that morn<strong>in</strong>g: it
had been such a warn<strong>in</strong>g to him.
We had been sitt<strong>in</strong>g huddled up <strong>in</strong> our rugs while George
had been tell<strong>in</strong>g me this true story, and on his f<strong>in</strong>ish<strong>in</strong>g it I
set to work to wake up Harris with a scull. The third prod did
it: and he turned over on the other side, and said he would be
down <strong>in</strong> a m<strong>in</strong>ute, and that he would have his lace-up boots.
We soon let him know where he was, however, by the aid of the
hitcher, and he sat up suddenly, send<strong>in</strong>g Montmorency, who
had been sleep<strong>in</strong>g the sleep of the just right on the middle of
his chest, sprawl<strong>in</strong>g across the boat.
Then we pulled up the canvas, and all four of us poked our
heads out over the off-side, and looked down at the water and
shivered. The idea, overnight, had been that we should get up
early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, fl<strong>in</strong>g off our rugs and shawls, and, throw-

— 111 —
<strong>in</strong>g back the canvas, spr<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to the river with a joyous shout,
and revel <strong>in</strong> a long delicious swim. Somehow, now the morn<strong>in</strong>g
had come, the notion seemed less tempt<strong>in</strong>g. The water looked
damp and chilly: the w<strong>in</strong>d felt cold.
“Well, who’s go<strong>in</strong>g to be first <strong>in</strong>?” said Harris at last.
There was no rush for precedence. George settled the matter
so far as he was concerned by retir<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to the boat and pull<strong>in</strong>g
on his socks. Montmorency gave vent to an <strong>in</strong>voluntary howl,
as if merely th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of the th<strong>in</strong>g had given him the horrors;
and Harris said it would be so difficult to get <strong>in</strong>to the boat
aga<strong>in</strong>, and went back and sorted out his trousers.
I did not altogether like to give <strong>in</strong>, though I did not relish
the plunge. There might be snags about, or weeds, I thought. I
meant to compromise matters by go<strong>in</strong>g down to the edge and
just throw<strong>in</strong>g the water over myself; so I took a towel and crept
out on the bank and wormed my way along on to the branch of
a tree that dipped down <strong>in</strong>to the water.
It was bitterly cold. The w<strong>in</strong>d cut like a knife. I thought I
would not throw the water over myself after all. I would go
back <strong>in</strong>to the boat and dress; and I turned to do so; and, as I
turned, the silly branch gave way, and I and the towel went <strong>in</strong>
together with a tremendous splash, and I was out mid-stream
with a gallon of Thames water <strong>in</strong>side me before I knew what
had happened.
“By Jove! old J.’s gone <strong>in</strong>,” I heard Harris say, as I came blow<strong>in</strong>g
to the surface. “I didn’t th<strong>in</strong>k he’d have the pluck to do it.
Did you?”
“Is it all right?” sung out George.
“Lovely,” I spluttered back. “You are duffers not to come <strong>in</strong>. I
wouldn’t have missed this for worlds. Why won’t you try it? It
only wants a little determ<strong>in</strong>ation.”
But I could not persuade them.
Rather an amus<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>g happened while dress<strong>in</strong>g that
morn<strong>in</strong>g. I was very cold when I got back <strong>in</strong>to the boat, and,
<strong>in</strong> my hurry to get my shirt on, I accidentally jerked it <strong>in</strong>to
the water. It made me awfully wild, especially as George burst

— 112 —
out laugh<strong>in</strong>g. I could not see anyth<strong>in</strong>g to laugh at, and I told
George so, and he only laughed the more. I never saw a man
laugh so much. I quite lost my temper with him at last, and I
po<strong>in</strong>ted out to him what a drivell<strong>in</strong>g maniac of an imbecile
idiot he was; but he only roared the louder. And then, just as I
was land<strong>in</strong>g the shirt, I noticed that it was not my shirt at all,
but George’s, which I had mistaken for m<strong>in</strong>e; whereupon the
humour of the th<strong>in</strong>g struck me for the first time, and I began
to laugh. And the more I looked from George’s wet shirt to
George, roar<strong>in</strong>g with laughter, the more I was amused, and I
laughed so much that I had to let the shirt fall back <strong>in</strong>to the
water aga<strong>in</strong>.
“Ar’n’t you — you — go<strong>in</strong>g to get it out?” said George, between
his shrieks.
I could not answer him at all for a while, I was laugh<strong>in</strong>g so,
but, at last, between my peals I managed to jerk out:
“It isn’t my shirt — it’s yours!”
I never saw a man’s face change from lively to severe so suddenly
<strong>in</strong> all my life before.
“What!” he yelled, spr<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g up. “You silly cuckoo! Why
can’t you be more careful what you’re do<strong>in</strong>g? Why the deuce
don’t you go and dress on the bank? You’re not fit to be <strong>in</strong> a
boat, you’re not. Gimme the hitcher.”
I tried to make him see the fun of the th<strong>in</strong>g, but he could
not. George is very dense at see<strong>in</strong>g a joke sometimes.
Harris proposed that we should have scrambled eggs for
breakfast. He said he would cook them. It seemed, from his
account, that he was very good at do<strong>in</strong>g scrambled eggs. He
often did them at picnics and when out on yachts. He was quite
famous for them. People who had once tasted his scrambled
eggs, so we gathered from his conversation, never cared for
any other food afterwards, but p<strong>in</strong>ed away and died when they
could not get them.
It made our mouths water to hear him talk about the th<strong>in</strong>gs,
and we handed him out the stove and the fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan and all

— 113 —
the eggs that had not smashed and gone over everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the
hamper, and begged him to beg<strong>in</strong>.
He had some trouble <strong>in</strong> break<strong>in</strong>g the eggs — or rather not
so much trouble <strong>in</strong> break<strong>in</strong>g them exactly as <strong>in</strong> gett<strong>in</strong>g them
<strong>in</strong>to the fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan when broken, and keep<strong>in</strong>g them off his
trousers, and prevent<strong>in</strong>g them from runn<strong>in</strong>g up his sleeve;
but he fixed some half-a-dozen <strong>in</strong>to the pan at last, and then
squatted down by the side of the stove and chivied them about
with a fork.
It seemed harass<strong>in</strong>g work, so far as George and I could judge.
Whenever he went near the pan he burned himself, and then
he would drop everyth<strong>in</strong>g and dance round the stove, flick<strong>in</strong>g
his f<strong>in</strong>gers about and curs<strong>in</strong>g the th<strong>in</strong>gs. Indeed, every time
George and I looked round at him he was sure to be perform<strong>in</strong>g
this feat. We thought at first that it was a necessary part of
the cul<strong>in</strong>ary arrangements.
We did not know what scrambled eggs were, and we fancied
that it must be some Red Indian or Sandwich Islands sort of
dish that required dances and <strong>in</strong>cantations for its proper cook<strong>in</strong>g.
Montmorency went and put his nose over it once, and the
fat spluttered up and scalded him, and then he began danc<strong>in</strong>g
and curs<strong>in</strong>g. Altogether it was one of the most <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g and
excit<strong>in</strong>g operations I have ever witnessed. George and I were
both quite sorry when it was over.
The result was not altogether the success that Harris had
anticipated. There seemed so little to show for the bus<strong>in</strong>ess. Six
eggs had gone <strong>in</strong>to the fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan, and all that came out was a
teaspoonful of burnt and unappetiz<strong>in</strong>g look<strong>in</strong>g mess.
Harris said it was the fault of the fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan, and thought it
would have gone better if we had had a fish-kettle and a gasstove;
and we decided not to attempt the dish aga<strong>in</strong> until we
had those aids to housekeep<strong>in</strong>g by us.
The sun had got more powerful by the time we had f<strong>in</strong>ished
breakfast, and the w<strong>in</strong>d had dropped, and it was as lovely a
morn<strong>in</strong>g as one could desire. Little was <strong>in</strong> sight to rem<strong>in</strong>d us of
the n<strong>in</strong>eteenth century; and, as we looked out upon the river

— 114 —
<strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g sunlight, we could almost fancy that the centuries
between us and that ever-to-be-famous June morn<strong>in</strong>g of
1215 had been drawn aside, and that we, English yeomen’s sons
<strong>in</strong> homespun cloth, with dirk at belt, were wait<strong>in</strong>g there to witness
the writ<strong>in</strong>g of that stupendous page of history, the mean<strong>in</strong>g
whereof was to be translated to the common people some
four hundred and odd years later by one Oliver Cromwell, who
had deeply studied it.
It is a f<strong>in</strong>e summer morn<strong>in</strong>g — sunny, soft, and still. But
through the air there runs a thrill of com<strong>in</strong>g stir. K<strong>in</strong>g John
has slept at Duncroft Hall, and all the day before the little town
of Sta<strong>in</strong>es has echoed to the clang of armed men, and the clatter
of great horses over its rough stones, and the shouts of capta<strong>in</strong>s,
and the grim oaths and surly jests of bearded bowmen,
billmen, pikemen, and strange-speak<strong>in</strong>g foreign spearmen.
Gay-cloaked companies of knights and squires have ridden
<strong>in</strong>, all travel-sta<strong>in</strong>ed and dusty. And all the even<strong>in</strong>g long the
timid townsmen’s doors have had to be quick opened to let <strong>in</strong>
rough groups of soldiers, for whom there must be found both
board and lodg<strong>in</strong>g, and the best of both, or woe betide the
house and all with<strong>in</strong>; for the sword is judge and jury, pla<strong>in</strong>tiff
and executioner, <strong>in</strong> these tempestuous times, and pays for what
it takes by spar<strong>in</strong>g those from whom it takes it, if it pleases it
to do so.
Round the camp-fire <strong>in</strong> the market-place gather still more
of the Barons’ troops, and eat and dr<strong>in</strong>k deep, and bellow
forth royster<strong>in</strong>g dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g songs, and gamble and quarrel as
the even<strong>in</strong>g grows and deepens <strong>in</strong>to night. The firelight sheds
qua<strong>in</strong>t shadows on their piled-up arms and on their uncouth
forms. The children of the town steal round to watch them,
wonder<strong>in</strong>g; and brawny country wenches, laugh<strong>in</strong>g, draw near
to bandy ale-house jest and jibe with the swagger<strong>in</strong>g troopers,
so unlike the village swa<strong>in</strong>s, who, now despised, stand apart
beh<strong>in</strong>d, with vacant gr<strong>in</strong>s upon their broad, peer<strong>in</strong>g faces.
And out from the fields around, glitter the fa<strong>in</strong>t lights of more
distant camps, as here some great lord’s followers lie mustered,

— 115 —
and there false John’s French mercenaries hover like crouch<strong>in</strong>g
wolves without the town.
And so, with sent<strong>in</strong>el <strong>in</strong> each dark street, and tw<strong>in</strong>kl<strong>in</strong>g
watch-fires on each height around, the night has worn away,
and over this fair valley of old Thame has broken the morn<strong>in</strong>g
of the great day that is to close so big with the fate of ages yet
unborn.
Ever s<strong>in</strong>ce grey dawn, <strong>in</strong> the lower of the two islands, just
above where we are stand<strong>in</strong>g, there has been great clamour,
and the sound of many workmen. The great pavilion brought
there yester eve is be<strong>in</strong>g raised, and carpenters are busy nail<strong>in</strong>g
tiers of seats, while ’prentices from London town are there with
many-coloured stuffs and silks and cloth of gold and silver.
And now, lo! down upon the road that w<strong>in</strong>ds along the
river’s bank from Sta<strong>in</strong>es there come towards us, laugh<strong>in</strong>g
and talk<strong>in</strong>g together <strong>in</strong> deep guttural bass, a half-a-score of
stalwart halbert-men — Barons’ men, these — and halt at a hundred
yards or so above us, on the other bank, and lean upon
their arms, and wait.
And so, from hour to hour, march up along the road ever
fresh groups and bands of armed men, their casques and
breastplates flash<strong>in</strong>g back the long low l<strong>in</strong>es of morn<strong>in</strong>g sunlight,
until, as far as eye can reach, the way seems thick with
glitter<strong>in</strong>g steel and pranc<strong>in</strong>g steeds. And shout<strong>in</strong>g horsemen
are gallop<strong>in</strong>g from group to group, and little banners are flutter<strong>in</strong>g
lazily <strong>in</strong> the warm breeze, and every now and then there
is a deeper stir as the ranks make way on either side, and some
great Baron on his war-horse, with his guard of squires around
him, passes along to take his station at the head of his serfs
and vassals.
And up the slope of Cooper’s Hill, just opposite, are gathered
the wonder<strong>in</strong>g rustics and curious townsfolk, who have
run from Sta<strong>in</strong>es, and none are quite sure what the bustle is
about, but each one has a different version of the great event
that they have come to see; and some say that much good to

— 116 —
all the people will come from this day’s work; but the old men
shake their heads, for they have heard such tales before.
And all the river down to Sta<strong>in</strong>es is dotted with small craft
and boats and t<strong>in</strong>y coracles — which last are grow<strong>in</strong>g out of
favour now, and are used only by the poorer folk. Over the
rapids, where <strong>in</strong> after years trim Bell Weir lock will stand, they
have been forced or dragged by their sturdy rowers, and now
are crowd<strong>in</strong>g up as near as they dare come to the great covered
barges, which lie <strong>in</strong> read<strong>in</strong>ess to bear K<strong>in</strong>g John to where the
fateful Charter waits his sign<strong>in</strong>g.
It is noon, and we and all the people have been wait<strong>in</strong>g patient
for many an hour, and the rumour has run round that
slippery John has aga<strong>in</strong> escaped from the Barons’ grasp, and
has stolen away from Duncroft Hall with his mercenaries at his
heels, and will soon be do<strong>in</strong>g other work than sign<strong>in</strong>g charters
for his people’s liberty.
Not so! This time the grip upon him has been one of iron,
and he has slid and wriggled <strong>in</strong> va<strong>in</strong>. Far down the road a little
cloud of dust has risen, and draws nearer and grows larger, and
the patter<strong>in</strong>g of many hoofs grows louder, and <strong>in</strong> and out between
the scattered groups of drawn-up men, there pushes on
its way a brilliant cavalcade of gay-dressed lords and knights.
And front and rear, and either flank, there ride the yeomen of
the Barons, and <strong>in</strong> the midst K<strong>in</strong>g John.
He rides to where the barges lie <strong>in</strong> read<strong>in</strong>ess, and the great
Barons step forth from their ranks to meet him. He greets them
with a smile and laugh, and pleasant honeyed words, as though
it were some feast <strong>in</strong> his honour to which he had been <strong>in</strong>vited.
But as he rises to dismount, he casts one hurried glance from
his own French mercenaries drawn up <strong>in</strong> the rear to the grim
ranks of the Barons’ men that hem him <strong>in</strong>.
Is it too late? One fierce blow at the unsuspect<strong>in</strong>g horseman
at his side, one cry to his French troops, one desperate charge
upon the unready l<strong>in</strong>es before him, and these rebellious Barons
might rue the day they dared to thwart his plans! A bolder
hand might have turned the game even at that po<strong>in</strong>t. Had

— 117 —
it been a Richard there! the cup of liberty might have been
dashed from England’s lips, and the taste of freedom held back
for a hundred years.
But the heart of K<strong>in</strong>g John s<strong>in</strong>ks before the stern faces of the
English fight<strong>in</strong>g men, and the arm of K<strong>in</strong>g John drops back on
to his re<strong>in</strong>, and he dismounts and takes his seat <strong>in</strong> the foremost
barge. And the Barons follow <strong>in</strong>, with each mailed hand upon
the sword-hilt, and the word is given to let go.
Slowly the heavy, bright-decked barges leave the shore of
Runn<strong>in</strong>gmede. Slowly aga<strong>in</strong>st the swift current they work their
ponderous way, till, with a low grumble, they grate aga<strong>in</strong>st the
bank of the little island that from this day will bear the name
of Magna Charta Island. And K<strong>in</strong>g John has stepped upon
the shore, and we wait <strong>in</strong> breathless silence till a great shout
cleaves the air, and the great cornerstone <strong>in</strong> England’s temple
of liberty has, now we know, been firmly laid.

— 118 —
CHAPTER XII.
Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn. — Disadvantages of liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> same
house with pair of lovers. — A try<strong>in</strong>g time for the English nation.
— A night search for the picturesque. — Homeless and houseless.
— Harris prepares to die. — An angel comes along. — Effect
of sudden joy on Harris. — A little supper. — Lunch. — High price
for mustard. — A fearful battle. — Maidenhead. — Sail<strong>in</strong>g. — <strong>Three</strong>
fishers. — We are cursed.
I WAS sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the bank, conjur<strong>in</strong>g up this scene to myself,
when George remarked that when I was quite rested, perhaps
I would not m<strong>in</strong>d help<strong>in</strong>g to wash up; and, thus recalled from
the days of the glorious past to the prosaic present, with all its
misery and s<strong>in</strong>, I slid down <strong>in</strong>to the boat and cleaned out the
fry<strong>in</strong>g-pan with a stick of wood and a tuft of grass, polish<strong>in</strong>g it
up f<strong>in</strong>ally with George’s wet shirt.
We went over to Magna Charta Island, and had a look at the
stone which stands <strong>in</strong> the cottage there and on which the great
Charter is said to have been signed; though, as to whether it
really was signed there, or, as some say, on the other bank at
“Runn<strong>in</strong>gmede,” I decl<strong>in</strong>e to commit myself. As far as my own
personal op<strong>in</strong>ion goes, however, I am <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to give weight to
the popular island theory. Certa<strong>in</strong>ly, had I been one of the Barons,
at the time, I should have strongly urged upon my comrades
the advisability of our gett<strong>in</strong>g such a slippery customer
as K<strong>in</strong>g John on to the island, where there was less chance of
surprises and tricks.
There are the ru<strong>in</strong>s of an old priory <strong>in</strong> the grounds of Ankerwyke
House, which is close to Picnic Po<strong>in</strong>t, and it was round
about the grounds of this old priory that Henry VIII. is said to
have waited for and met Anne Boleyn. He also used to meet
her at Hever Castle <strong>in</strong> Kent, and also somewhere near St. Albans.
It must have been difficult for the people of England <strong>in</strong>
those days to have found a spot where these thoughtless young
folk were not spoon<strong>in</strong>g.
Have you ever been <strong>in</strong> a house where there are a couple
court<strong>in</strong>g? It is most try<strong>in</strong>g. You th<strong>in</strong>k you will go and sit <strong>in</strong> the

— 119 —
draw<strong>in</strong>g-room, and you march off there. As you open the door,
you hear a noise as if somebody had suddenly recollected
someth<strong>in</strong>g, and, when you get <strong>in</strong>, Emily is over by the w<strong>in</strong>dow,
full of <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> the opposite side of the road, and your friend,
John Edward, is at the other end of the room with his whole
soul held <strong>in</strong> thrall by photographs of other people’s relatives.
“Oh!” you say, paus<strong>in</strong>g at the door, “I didn’t know anybody
was here.”
“Oh! didn’t you?” says Emily, coldly, <strong>in</strong> a tone which implies
that she does not believe you.
You hang about for a bit, then you say:
“It’s very dark. Why don’t you light the gas?”
John Edward says, “Oh!” he hadn’t noticed it; and Emily
says that papa does not like the gas lit <strong>in</strong> the afternoon.
You tell them one or two items of news, and give them your
views and op<strong>in</strong>ions on the Irish question; but this does not appear
to <strong>in</strong>terest them. All they remark on any subject is, “Oh!”
“Is it?” “Did he?” “Yes,” and “You don’t say so!” And, after ten
m<strong>in</strong>utes of such style of conversation, you edge up to the door,
and slip out, and are surprised to f<strong>in</strong>d that the door immediately
closes beh<strong>in</strong>d you, and shuts itself, without your hav<strong>in</strong>g
touched it.
Half an hour later, you th<strong>in</strong>k you will try a pipe <strong>in</strong> the conservatory.
The only chair <strong>in</strong> the place is occupied by Emily;
and John Edward, if the language of clothes can be relied upon,
has evidently been sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the floor. They do not speak, but
they give you a look that says all that can be said <strong>in</strong> a civilised
community; and you back out promptly and shut the door
beh<strong>in</strong>d you.
You are afraid to poke your nose <strong>in</strong>to any room <strong>in</strong> the house
now; so, after walk<strong>in</strong>g up and down the stairs for a while, you
go and sit <strong>in</strong> your own bedroom. This becomes un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g,
however, after a time, and so you put on your hat and stroll out
<strong>in</strong>to the garden. You walk down the path, and as you pass the
summer-house you glance <strong>in</strong>, and there are those two young
idiots, huddled up <strong>in</strong>to one corner of it; and they see you, and

— 120 —
are evidently under the idea that, for some wicked purpose of
your own, you are follow<strong>in</strong>g them about.
“Why don’t they have a special room for this sort of th<strong>in</strong>g,
and make people keep to it?” you mutter; and you rush back to
the hall and get your umbrella and go out.
It must have been much like this when that foolish boy
Henry VIII. was court<strong>in</strong>g his little Anne. People <strong>in</strong> Buck<strong>in</strong>ghamshire
would have come upon them unexpectedly when
they were moon<strong>in</strong>g round W<strong>in</strong>dsor and Wraysbury, and have
exclaimed, “Oh! you here!” and Henry would have blushed
and said, “Yes; he’d just come over to see a man;” and Anne
would have said, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you! Isn’t it funny? I’ve
just met Mr. Henry VIII. <strong>in</strong> the lane, and he’s go<strong>in</strong>g the same
way I am.”
Then those people would have gone away and said to themselves:
“Oh! we’d better get out of here while this bill<strong>in</strong>g and
coo<strong>in</strong>g is on. We’ll go down to Kent.”
And they would go to Kent, and the first th<strong>in</strong>g they would
see <strong>in</strong> Kent, when they got there, would be Henry and Anne
fool<strong>in</strong>g round Hever Castle.
“Oh, drat this!” they would have said. “Here, let’s go away.
I can’t stand any more of it. Let’s go to St. Albans — nice quiet
place, St. Albans.”
And when they reached St. Albans, there would be that
wretched couple, kiss<strong>in</strong>g under the Abbey walls. Then these
folks would go and be pirates until the marriage was over.
From Picnic Po<strong>in</strong>t to Old W<strong>in</strong>dsor Lock is a delightful bit
of the river. A shady road, dotted here and there with da<strong>in</strong>ty
little cottages, runs by the bank up to the “Bells of Ouseley,” a
picturesque <strong>in</strong>n, as most up-river <strong>in</strong>ns are, and a place where a
very good glass of ale may be drunk — so Harris says; and on
a matter of this k<strong>in</strong>d you can take Harris’s word. Old W<strong>in</strong>dsor
is a famous spot <strong>in</strong> its way. Edward the Confessor had a palace
here, and here the great Earl Godw<strong>in</strong> was proved guilty by the
justice of that age of hav<strong>in</strong>g encompassed the death of the

— 121 —
K<strong>in</strong>g’s brother. Earl Godw<strong>in</strong> broke a piece of bread and held it
<strong>in</strong> his hand.
“If I am guilty,” said the Earl, “may this bread choke me
when I eat it!”
Then he put the bread <strong>in</strong>to his mouth and swallowed it, and
it choked him, and he died.
After you pass Old W<strong>in</strong>dsor, the river is somewhat un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g,
and does not become itself aga<strong>in</strong> until you are near<strong>in</strong>g
Boveney. George and I towed up past the Home Park, which
stretches along the right bank from Albert to Victoria Bridge;
and as we were pass<strong>in</strong>g Datchet, George asked me if I remembered
our first trip up the river, and when we landed at Datchet
at ten o’clock at night, and wanted to go to bed.
I answered that I did remember it. It will be some time before
I forget it.
It was the Saturday before the August Bank Holiday. We
were tired and hungry, we same three, and when we got to
Datchet we took out the hamper, the two bags, and the rugs
and coats, and such like th<strong>in</strong>gs, and started off to look for digg<strong>in</strong>gs.
We passed a very pretty little hotel, with clematis and
creeper over the porch; but there was no honeysuckle about
it, and, for some reason or other, I had got my m<strong>in</strong>d fixed on
honeysuckle, and I said:
“Oh, don’t let’s go <strong>in</strong> there! Let’s go on a bit further, and see
if there isn’t one with honeysuckle over it.”
So we went on till we came to another hotel. That was a
very nice hotel, too, and it had honey-suckle on it, round at the
side; but Harris did not like the look of a man who was lean<strong>in</strong>g
aga<strong>in</strong>st the front door. He said he didn’t look a nice man at
all, and he wore ugly boots: so we went on further. We went a
goodish way without com<strong>in</strong>g across any more hotels, and then
we met a man, and asked him to direct us to a few.
He said:
“Why, you are com<strong>in</strong>g away from them. You must turn right
round and go back, and then you will come to the Stag.”
We said:

— 122 —
“Oh, we had been there, and didn’t like it — no honeysuckle
over it.”
“Well, then,” he said, “there’s the Manor House, just opposite.
Have you tried that?”
Harris replied that we did not want to go there — didn’t like
the looks of a man who was stopp<strong>in</strong>g there — Harris did not
like the colour of his hair, didn’t like his boots, either.
“Well, I don’t know what you’ll do, I’m sure,” said our <strong>in</strong>formant;
“because they are the only two <strong>in</strong>ns <strong>in</strong> the place.”
“No other <strong>in</strong>ns!” exclaimed Harris.
“None,” replied the man.
“What on earth are we to do?” cried Harris.
Then George spoke up. He said Harris and I could get an
hotel built for us, if we liked, and have some people made to
put <strong>in</strong>. For his part, he was go<strong>in</strong>g back to the Stag.
The greatest m<strong>in</strong>ds never realise their ideals <strong>in</strong> any matter;
and Harris and I sighed over the hollowness of all earthly desires,
and followed George.
We took our traps <strong>in</strong>to the Stag, and laid them down <strong>in</strong> the
hall.
The landlord came up and said:
“Good even<strong>in</strong>g, gentlemen.”
“Oh, good even<strong>in</strong>g,” said George; “we want three beds,
please.”
“Very sorry, sir,” said the landlord; “but I’m afraid we can’t
manage it.”
“Oh, well, never m<strong>in</strong>d,” said George, “two will do. Two of us
can sleep <strong>in</strong> one bed, can’t we?” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued, turn<strong>in</strong>g to Harris
and me.
Harris said, “Oh, yes;” he thought George and I could sleep
<strong>in</strong> one bed very easily.
“Very sorry, sir,” aga<strong>in</strong> repeated the landlord: “but we really
haven’t got a bed vacant <strong>in</strong> the whole house. In fact, we are
putt<strong>in</strong>g two, and even three gentlemen <strong>in</strong> one bed, as it is.”
This staggered us for a bit.

— 123 —
But Harris, who is an old traveller, rose to the occasion, and,
laugh<strong>in</strong>g cheerily, said:
“Oh, well, we can’t help it. We must rough it. You must give
us a shake-down <strong>in</strong> the billiard-room.”
“Very sorry, sir. <strong>Three</strong> gentlemen sleep<strong>in</strong>g on the billiardtable
already, and two <strong>in</strong> the coffee-room. Can’t possibly take
you <strong>in</strong> to-night.”
We picked up our th<strong>in</strong>gs, and went over to the Manor House.
It was a pretty little place. I said I thought I should like it better
than the other house; and Harris said, “Oh, yes,” it would
be all right, and we needn’t look at the man with the red hair;
besides, the poor fellow couldn’t help hav<strong>in</strong>g red hair.
Harris spoke quite k<strong>in</strong>dly and sensibly about it.
The people at the Manor House did not wait to hear us talk.
The landlady met us on the doorstep with the greet<strong>in</strong>g that we
were the fourteenth party she had turned away with<strong>in</strong> the last
hour and a half. As for our meek suggestions of stables, billiard-room,
or coal-cellars, she laughed them all to scorn: all
these nooks had been snatched up long ago.
Did she know of any place <strong>in</strong> the whole village where we
could get shelter for the night?
“Well, if we didn’t m<strong>in</strong>d rough<strong>in</strong>g it — she did not recommend
it, m<strong>in</strong>d — but there was a little beershop half a mile
down the Eton road — ”
We waited to hear no more; we caught up the hamper and
the bags, and the coats and rugs, and parcels, and ran. The distance
seemed more like a mile than half a mile, but we reached
the place at last, and rushed, pant<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong>to the bar.
The people at the beershop were rude. They merely laughed
at us. There were only three beds <strong>in</strong> the whole house, and they
had seven s<strong>in</strong>gle gentlemen and two married couples sleep<strong>in</strong>g
there already. A k<strong>in</strong>d-hearted bargeman, however, who happened
to be <strong>in</strong> the tap-room, thought we might try the grocer’s,
next door to the Stag, and we went back.
The grocer’s was full. An old woman we met <strong>in</strong> the shop

— 124 —
then k<strong>in</strong>dly took us along with her for a quarter of a mile, to a
lady friend of hers, who occasionally let rooms to gentlemen.
This old woman walked very slowly, and we were twenty
m<strong>in</strong>utes gett<strong>in</strong>g to her lady friend’s. She enlivened the journey
by describ<strong>in</strong>g to us, as we trailed along, the various pa<strong>in</strong>s she
had <strong>in</strong> her back.
Her lady friend’s rooms were let. From there we were recommended
to No. 27. No. 27 was full, and sent us to No. 32, and
32 was full.
Then we went back <strong>in</strong>to the high road, and Harris sat down
on the hamper and said he would go no further. He said it
seemed a quiet spot, and he would like to die there. He requested
George and me to kiss his mother for him, and to tell
all his relations that he forgave them and died happy.
At that moment an angel came by <strong>in</strong> the disguise of a small
boy (and I cannot th<strong>in</strong>k of any more effective disguise an angel
could have assumed), with a can of beer <strong>in</strong> one hand, and <strong>in</strong>
the other someth<strong>in</strong>g at the end of a str<strong>in</strong>g, which he let down
on to every flat stone he came across, and then pulled up aga<strong>in</strong>,
this produc<strong>in</strong>g a peculiarly unattractive sound, suggestive of
suffer<strong>in</strong>g.
We asked this heavenly messenger (as we discovered him
afterwards to be) if he knew of any lonely house, whose occupants
were few and feeble (old ladies or paralysed gentlemen
preferred), who could be easily frightened <strong>in</strong>to giv<strong>in</strong>g
up their beds for the night to three desperate men; or, if not
this, could he recommend us to an empty pigstye, or a disused
limekiln, or anyth<strong>in</strong>g of that sort. He did not know of any such
place — at least, not one handy; but he said that, if we liked to
come with him, his mother had a room to spare, and could put
us up for the night.
We fell upon his neck there <strong>in</strong> the moonlight and blessed
him, and it would have made a very beautiful picture if the boy
himself had not been so over-powered by our emotion as to
be unable to susta<strong>in</strong> himself under it, and sunk to the ground,
lett<strong>in</strong>g us all down on top of him. Harris was so overcome with

— 125 —
joy that he fa<strong>in</strong>ted, and had to seize the boy’s beer-can and
half empty it before he could recover consciousness, and then
he started off at a run, and left George and me to br<strong>in</strong>g on the
luggage.
It was a little four-roomed cottage where the boy lived, and
his mother — good soul! — gave us hot bacon for supper, and
we ate it all — five pounds — and a jam tart afterwards, and
two pots of tea, and then we went to bed. There were two beds
<strong>in</strong> the room; one was a 2ft. 6<strong>in</strong>. truckle bed, and George and
I slept <strong>in</strong> that, and kept <strong>in</strong> by ty<strong>in</strong>g ourselves together with a
sheet; and the other was the little boy’s bed, and Harris had
that all to himself, and we found him, <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, with two
feet of bare leg stick<strong>in</strong>g out at the bottom, and George and I
used it to hang the towels on while we bathed.
We were not so uppish about what sort of hotel we would
have, next time we went to Datchet.
To return to our present trip: noth<strong>in</strong>g excit<strong>in</strong>g happened,
and we tugged steadily on to a little below Monkey Island,
where we drew up and lunched. We tackled the cold beef for
lunch, and then we found that we had forgotten to br<strong>in</strong>g any
mustard. I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k I ever <strong>in</strong> my life, before or s<strong>in</strong>ce, felt I
wanted mustard as badly as I felt I wanted it then. I don’t care
for mustard as a rule, and it is very seldom that I take it at all,
but I would have given worlds for it then.
I don’t know how many worlds there may be <strong>in</strong> the universe,
but anyone who had brought me a spoonful of mustard at that
precise moment could have had them all. I grow reckless like
that when I want a th<strong>in</strong>g and can’t get it.
Harris said he would have given worlds for mustard too. It
would have been a good th<strong>in</strong>g for anybody who had come up
to that spot with a can of mustard, then: he would have been
set up <strong>in</strong> worlds for the rest of his life.
But there! I daresay both Harris and I would have tried to
back out of the barga<strong>in</strong> after we had got the mustard. One
makes these extravagant offers <strong>in</strong> moments of excitement, but,
of course, when one comes to th<strong>in</strong>k of it, one sees how absurd-

— 126 —
ly out of proportion they are with the value of the required
article. I heard a man, go<strong>in</strong>g up a mounta<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> Switzerland,
once say he would give worlds for a glass of beer, and, when he
came to a little shanty where they kept it, he kicked up a most
fearful row because they charged him five francs for a bottle of
Bass. He said it was a scandalous imposition, and he wrote to
the Times about it.
It cast a gloom over the boat, there be<strong>in</strong>g no mustard. We ate
our beef <strong>in</strong> silence. Existence seemed hollow and un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g.
We thought of the happy days of childhood, and sighed.
We brightened up a bit, however, over the apple-tart, and,
when George drew out a t<strong>in</strong> of p<strong>in</strong>e-apple from the bottom of
the hamper, and rolled it <strong>in</strong>to the middle of the boat, we felt
that life was worth liv<strong>in</strong>g after all.
We are very fond of p<strong>in</strong>e-apple, all three of us. We looked
at the picture on the t<strong>in</strong>; we thought of the juice. We smiled at
one another, and Harris got a spoon ready.
Then we looked for the knife to open the t<strong>in</strong> with. We
turned out everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the hamper. We turned out the bags.
We pulled up the boards at the bottom of the boat. We took
everyth<strong>in</strong>g out on to the bank and shook it. There was no t<strong>in</strong>opener
to be found.
Then Harris tried to open the t<strong>in</strong> with a pocket-knife, and
broke the knife and cut himself badly; and George tried a pair
of scissors, and the scissors flew up, and nearly put his eye out.
While they were dress<strong>in</strong>g their wounds, I tried to make a hole
<strong>in</strong> the th<strong>in</strong>g with the spiky end of the hitcher, and the hitcher
slipped and jerked me out between the boat and the bank <strong>in</strong>to
two feet of muddy water, and the t<strong>in</strong> rolled over, un<strong>in</strong>jured,
and broke a teacup.
Then we all got mad. We took that t<strong>in</strong> out on the bank, and
Harris went up <strong>in</strong>to a field and got a big sharp stone, and I
went back <strong>in</strong>to the boat and brought out the mast, and George
held the t<strong>in</strong> and Harris held the sharp end of his stone aga<strong>in</strong>st
the top of it, and I took the mast and poised it high up <strong>in</strong> the
air, and gathered up all my strength and brought it down.

— 127 —
It was George’s straw hat that saved his life that day. He keeps
that hat now (what is left of it), and, of a w<strong>in</strong>ter’s even<strong>in</strong>g, when
the pipes are lit and the boys are tell<strong>in</strong>g stretchers about the
dangers they have passed through, George br<strong>in</strong>gs it down and
shows it round, and the stirr<strong>in</strong>g tale is told anew, with fresh
exaggerations every time.
Harris got off with merely a flesh wound.
After that, I took the t<strong>in</strong> off myself, and hammered at it with
the mast till I was worn out and sick at heart, whereupon Harris
took it <strong>in</strong> hand.
We beat it out flat; we beat it back square; we battered it <strong>in</strong>to
every form known to geometry — but we could not make a
hole <strong>in</strong> it. Then George went at it, and knocked it <strong>in</strong>to a shape,
so strange, so weird, so unearthly <strong>in</strong> its wild hideousness, that
he got frightened and threw away the mast. Then we all three
sat round it on the grass and looked at it.
There was one great dent across the top that had the appearance
of a mock<strong>in</strong>g gr<strong>in</strong>, and it drove us furious, so that Harris
rushed at the th<strong>in</strong>g, and caught it up, and flung it far <strong>in</strong>to the
middle of the river, and as it sank we hurled our curses at it,
and we got <strong>in</strong>to the boat and rowed away from the spot, and
never paused till we reached Maidenhead.
Maidenhead itself is too snobby to be pleasant. It is the
haunt of the river swell and his overdressed female companion.
It is the town of showy hotels, patronised chiefly by dudes
and ballet girls. It is the witch’s kitchen from which go forth
those demons of the river — steam-launches. The London Journal
duke always has his “little place” at Maidenhead; and the
hero<strong>in</strong>e of the three-volume novel always d<strong>in</strong>es there when she
goes out on the spree with somebody else’s husband.
We went through Maidenhead quickly, and then eased
up, and took leisurely that grand reach beyond Boulter’s and
Cookham locks. Clieveden Woods still wore their da<strong>in</strong>ty dress
of spr<strong>in</strong>g, and rose up, from the water’s edge, <strong>in</strong> one long harmony
of blended shades of fairy green. In its unbroken lovel<strong>in</strong>ess
this is, perhaps, the sweetest stretch of all the river, and

— 128 —
l<strong>in</strong>ger<strong>in</strong>gly we slowly drew our little boat away from its deep
peace.
We pulled up <strong>in</strong> the backwater, just below Cookham, and
had tea; and, when we were through the lock, it was even<strong>in</strong>g.
A stiffish breeze had sprung up — <strong>in</strong> our favour, for a wonder;
for, as a rule on the river, the w<strong>in</strong>d is always dead aga<strong>in</strong>st you
whatever way you go. It is aga<strong>in</strong>st you <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, when
you start for a day’s trip, and you pull a long distance, th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g
how easy it will be to come back with the sail. Then, after tea,
the w<strong>in</strong>d veers round, and you have to pull hard <strong>in</strong> its teeth all
the way home.
When you forget to take the sail at all, then the w<strong>in</strong>d is
consistently <strong>in</strong> your favour both ways. But there! this world is
only a probation, and man was born to trouble as the sparks
fly upward.
This even<strong>in</strong>g, however, they had evidently made a mistake,
and had put the w<strong>in</strong>d round at our back <strong>in</strong>stead of <strong>in</strong> our face.
We kept very quiet about it, and got the sail up quickly before
they found it out, and then we spread ourselves about the boat
<strong>in</strong> thoughtful attitudes, and the sail bellied out, and stra<strong>in</strong>ed,
and grumbled at the mast, and the boat flew.
I steered.
There is no more thrill<strong>in</strong>g sensation I know of than sail<strong>in</strong>g.
It comes as near to fly<strong>in</strong>g as man has got to yet — except <strong>in</strong>
dreams. The w<strong>in</strong>gs of the rush<strong>in</strong>g w<strong>in</strong>d seem to be bear<strong>in</strong>g you
onward, you know not where. You are no longer the slow, plodd<strong>in</strong>g,
puny th<strong>in</strong>g of clay, creep<strong>in</strong>g tortuously upon the ground;
you are a part of Nature! Your heart is throbb<strong>in</strong>g aga<strong>in</strong>st hers!
Her glorious arms are round you, rais<strong>in</strong>g you up aga<strong>in</strong>st her
heart! Your spirit is at one with hers; your limbs grow light!
The voices of the air are s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g to you. The earth seems far
away and little; and the clouds, so close above your head, are
brothers, and you stretch your arms to them.
We had the river to ourselves, except that, far <strong>in</strong> the distance,
we could see a fish<strong>in</strong>g-punt, moored <strong>in</strong> mid-stream, on which

— 129 —
three fishermen sat; and we skimmed over the water, and
passed the wooded banks, and no one spoke.
I was steer<strong>in</strong>g.
As we drew nearer, we could see that the three men fish<strong>in</strong>g
seemed old and solemn-look<strong>in</strong>g men. They sat on three chairs
<strong>in</strong> the punt, and watched <strong>in</strong>tently their l<strong>in</strong>es. And the red sunset
threw a mystic light upon the waters, and t<strong>in</strong>ged with fire
the tower<strong>in</strong>g woods, and made a golden glory of the piled-up
clouds. It was an hour of deep enchantment, of ecstatic hope
and long<strong>in</strong>g. The little sail stood out aga<strong>in</strong>st the purple sky, the
gloam<strong>in</strong>g lay around us, wrapp<strong>in</strong>g the world <strong>in</strong> ra<strong>in</strong>bow shadows;
and, beh<strong>in</strong>d us, crept the night.
We seemed like knights of some old legend, sail<strong>in</strong>g across
some mystic lake <strong>in</strong>to the unknown realm of twilight, unto the
great land of the sunset.
We did not go <strong>in</strong>to the realm of twilight; we went slap <strong>in</strong>to
that punt, where those three old men were fish<strong>in</strong>g. We did not
know what had happened at first, because the sail shut out the
view, but from the nature of the language that rose up upon
the even<strong>in</strong>g air, we gathered that we had come <strong>in</strong>to the neighbourhood
of human be<strong>in</strong>gs, and that they were vexed and
discontented.
Harris let the sail down, and then we saw what had happened.
We had knocked those three old gentlemen off their
chairs <strong>in</strong>to a general heap at the bottom of the boat, and
they were now slowly and pa<strong>in</strong>fully sort<strong>in</strong>g themselves out
from each other, and pick<strong>in</strong>g fish off themselves; and as they
worked, they cursed us — not with a common cursory curse,
but with long, carefully-thought-out, comprehensive curses,
that embraced the whole of our career, and went away <strong>in</strong>to the
distant future, and <strong>in</strong>cluded all our relations, and covered everyth<strong>in</strong>g
connected with us — good, substantial curses.
Harris told them they ought to be grateful for a little excitement,
sitt<strong>in</strong>g there fish<strong>in</strong>g all day, and he also said that he was
shocked and grieved to hear men their age give way to temper
so.

— 130 —
But it did not do any good.
George said he would steer, after that. He said a m<strong>in</strong>d like
m<strong>in</strong>e ought not to be expected to give itself away <strong>in</strong> steer<strong>in</strong>g
boats — better let a mere commonplace human be<strong>in</strong>g see after
that boat, before we jolly well all got drowned; and he took the
l<strong>in</strong>es, and brought us up to Marlow.
And at Marlow we left the boat by the bridge, and went and
put up for the night at the “Crown.”

— 131 —
CHAPTER XIII.
Marlow. — Bisham Abbey. — The Medmenham Monks. — Montmorency
th<strong>in</strong>ks he will murder an old tom cat. — But eventually decides
that he will let it live. — Shameful conduct of a fox terrier at
the Civil Service Stores. — Our departure from Marlow. — An impos<strong>in</strong>g
procession. — The steam launch, useful receipts for annoy<strong>in</strong>g
and h<strong>in</strong>der<strong>in</strong>g it. — We decl<strong>in</strong>e to dr<strong>in</strong>k the river. — A peaceful
dog. — Strange disappearance of Harris and a pie.
MARLOW is one of the pleasantest river centres I know of.
It is a bustl<strong>in</strong>g, lively little town; not very picturesque on the
whole, it is true, but there are many qua<strong>in</strong>t nooks and corners
to be found <strong>in</strong> it, nevertheless — stand<strong>in</strong>g arches <strong>in</strong> the shattered
bridge of Time, over which our fancy travels back to the
days when Marlow Manor owned Saxon Algar for its lord, ere
conquer<strong>in</strong>g William seized it to give to Queen Matilda, ere it
passed to the Earls of Warwick or to worldly-wise Lord Paget,
the councillor of four successive sovereigns.
There is lovely country round about it, too, if, after boat<strong>in</strong>g,
you are fond of a walk, while the river itself is at its best here.
Down to Cookham, past the Quarry Woods and the meadows,
is a lovely reach. Dear old Quarry Woods! with your narrow,
climb<strong>in</strong>g paths, and little w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g glades, how scented to this
hour you seem with memories of sunny summer days! How
haunted are your shadowy vistas with the ghosts of laugh<strong>in</strong>g
faces! how from your whisper<strong>in</strong>g leaves there softly fall the
voices of long ago!
From Marlow up to Sonn<strong>in</strong>g is even fairer yet. Grand old
Bisham Abbey, whose stone walls have rung to the shouts of
the Knights Templars, and which, at one time, was the home of
Anne of Cleves and at another of Queen Elizabeth, is passed
on the right bank just half a mile above Marlow Bridge. Bisham
Abbey is rich <strong>in</strong> melodramatic properties. It conta<strong>in</strong>s a
tapestry bed-chamber, and a secret room hid high up <strong>in</strong> the
thick walls. The ghost of the Lady Holy, who beat her little boy
to death, still walks there at night, try<strong>in</strong>g to wash its ghostly
hands clean <strong>in</strong> a ghostly bas<strong>in</strong>.

— 132 —
Warwick, the k<strong>in</strong>g-maker, rests there, careless now about
such trivial th<strong>in</strong>gs as earthly k<strong>in</strong>gs and earthly k<strong>in</strong>gdoms; and
Salisbury, who did good service at Poitiers. Just before you
come to the abbey, and right on the river’s bank, is Bisham
Church, and, perhaps, if any tombs are worth <strong>in</strong>spect<strong>in</strong>g, they
are the tombs and monuments <strong>in</strong> Bisham Church. It was while
float<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his boat under the Bisham beeches that Shelley,
who was then liv<strong>in</strong>g at Marlow (you can see his house now, <strong>in</strong>
West street), composed The Revolt of Islam.
By Hurley Weir, a little higher up, I have often thought that I
could stay a month without hav<strong>in</strong>g sufficient time to dr<strong>in</strong>k <strong>in</strong>
all the beauty of the scene. The village of Hurley, five m<strong>in</strong>utes’
walk from the lock, is as old a little spot as there is on the river,
dat<strong>in</strong>g, as it does, to quote the qua<strong>in</strong>t phraseology of those dim
days, “from the times of K<strong>in</strong>g Sebert and K<strong>in</strong>g Offa.” Just past
the weir (go<strong>in</strong>g up) is Danes’ Field, where the <strong>in</strong>vad<strong>in</strong>g Danes
once encamped, dur<strong>in</strong>g their march to Gloucestershire; and a
little further still, nestl<strong>in</strong>g by a sweet corner of the stream, is
what is left of Medmenham Abbey.
The famous Medmenham monks, or “Hell Fire Club,” as
they were commonly called, and of whom the notorious
Wilkes was a member, were a fraternity whose motto was
“Do as you please,” and that <strong>in</strong>vitation still stands over the
ru<strong>in</strong>ed doorway of the abbey. Many years before this bogus
abbey, with its congregation of irreverent jesters, was founded,
there stood upon this same spot a monastery of a sterner k<strong>in</strong>d,
whose monks were of a somewhat different type to the revellers
that were to follow them, five hundred years afterwards.
The Cistercian monks, whose abbey stood there <strong>in</strong> the thirteenth
century, wore no clothes but rough tunics and cowls,
and ate no flesh, nor fish, nor eggs. They lay upon straw, and
they rose at midnight to mass. They spent the day <strong>in</strong> labour,
read<strong>in</strong>g, and prayer; and over all their lives there fell a silence
as of death, for no one spoke.
A grim fraternity, pass<strong>in</strong>g grim lives <strong>in</strong> that sweet spot,
that God had made so bright! Strange that Nature’s voices all

— 133 —
around them — the soft s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g of the waters, the whisper<strong>in</strong>gs
of the river grass, the music of the rush<strong>in</strong>g w<strong>in</strong>d — should
not have taught them a truer mean<strong>in</strong>g of life than this. They
listened there, through the long days, <strong>in</strong> silence, wait<strong>in</strong>g for a
voice from heaven; and all day long and through the solemn
night it spoke to them <strong>in</strong> myriad tones, and they heard it not.
From Medmenham to sweet Hambledon Lock the river is
full of peaceful beauty, but, after it passes Greenlands, the rather
un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g look<strong>in</strong>g river residence of my newsagent — a
quiet unassum<strong>in</strong>g old gentleman, who may often be met with
about these regions, dur<strong>in</strong>g the summer months, scull<strong>in</strong>g himself
along <strong>in</strong> easy vigorous style, or chatt<strong>in</strong>g genially to some
old lock-keeper, as he passes through — until well the other
side of Henley, it is somewhat bare and dull.
We got up tolerably early on the Monday morn<strong>in</strong>g at Marlow,
and went for a bathe before breakfast; and, com<strong>in</strong>g back,
Montmorency made an awful ass of himself. The only subject
on which Montmorency and I have any serious difference of
op<strong>in</strong>ion is cats. I like cats; Montmorency does not.
When I meet a cat, I say, “Poor Pussy!” and stop down and
tickle the side of its head; and the cat sticks up its tail <strong>in</strong> a rigid,
cast-iron manner, arches its back, and wipes its nose up aga<strong>in</strong>st
my trousers; and all is gentleness and peace. When Montmorency
meets a cat, the whole street knows about it; and there is
enough bad language wasted <strong>in</strong> ten seconds to last an ord<strong>in</strong>arily
respectable man all his life, with care.
I do not blame the dog (content<strong>in</strong>g myself, as a rule, with
merely clout<strong>in</strong>g his head or throw<strong>in</strong>g stones at him), because
I take it that it is his nature. Fox-terriers are born with about
four times as much orig<strong>in</strong>al s<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> them as other dogs are, and
it will take years and years of patient effort on the part of us
Christians to br<strong>in</strong>g about any appreciable reformation <strong>in</strong> the
rowd<strong>in</strong>ess of the fox-terrier nature.
I remember be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the lobby of the Haymarket Stores one
day, and all round about me were dogs, wait<strong>in</strong>g for the return
of their owners, who were shopp<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>side. There were a mas-

— 134 —
tiff, and one or two collies, and a St. Bernard, a few retrievers
and Newfoundlands, a boar-hound, a French poodle, with
plenty of hair round its head, but mangy about the middle; a
bull-dog, a few Lowther Arcade sort of animals, about the size
of rats, and a couple of Yorkshire tykes.
There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful. A solemn
peacefulness seemed to reign <strong>in</strong> that lobby. An air of calmness
and resignation — of gentle sadness pervaded the room.
Then a sweet young lady entered, lead<strong>in</strong>g a meek-look<strong>in</strong>g
little fox-terrier, and left him, cha<strong>in</strong>ed up there, between the
bull-dog and the poodle. He sat and looked about him for a
m<strong>in</strong>ute. Then he cast up his eyes to the ceil<strong>in</strong>g, and seemed,
judg<strong>in</strong>g from his expression, to be th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of his mother.
Then he yawned. Then he looked round at the other dogs, all
silent, grave, and dignified.
He looked at the bull-dog, sleep<strong>in</strong>g dreamlessly on his right.
He looked at the poodle, erect and haughty, on his left. Then,
without a word of warn<strong>in</strong>g, without the shadow of a provocation,
he bit that poodle’s near fore-leg, and a yelp of agony rang
through the quiet shades of that lobby.
The result of his first experiment seemed highly satisfactory
to him, and he determ<strong>in</strong>ed to go on and make th<strong>in</strong>gs lively all
round. He sprang over the poodle and vigorously attacked a
collie, and the collie woke up, and immediately commenced
a fierce and noisy contest with the poodle. Then Foxey came
back to his own place, and caught the bull-dog by the ear, and
tried to throw him away; and the bull-dog, a curiously impartial
animal, went for everyth<strong>in</strong>g he could reach, <strong>in</strong>clud<strong>in</strong>g the
hall-porter, which gave that dear little terrier the opportunity
to enjoy an un<strong>in</strong>terrupted fight of his own with an equally
will<strong>in</strong>g Yorkshire tyke.
Anyone who knows can<strong>in</strong>e nature need hardly be told that,
by this time, all the other dogs <strong>in</strong> the place were fight<strong>in</strong>g as if
their hearths and homes depended on the fray. The big dogs
fought each other <strong>in</strong>discrim<strong>in</strong>ately; and the little dogs fought

— 135 —
among themselves, and filled up their spare time by bit<strong>in</strong>g the
legs of the big dogs.
The whole lobby was a perfect pandemonium, and the d<strong>in</strong>
was terrific. A crowd assembled outside <strong>in</strong> the Haymarket, and
asked if it was a vestry meet<strong>in</strong>g; or, if not, who was be<strong>in</strong>g murdered,
and why? <strong>Men</strong> came with poles and ropes, and tried to
separate the dogs, and the police were sent for.
And <strong>in</strong> the midst of the riot that sweet young lady returned,
and snatched up that sweet little dog of hers (he had laid the
tyke up for a month, and had on the expression, now, of a newborn
lamb) <strong>in</strong>to her arms, and kissed him, and asked him if he
was killed, and what those great nasty brutes of dogs had been
do<strong>in</strong>g to him; and he nestled up aga<strong>in</strong>st her, and gazed up <strong>in</strong>to
her face with a look that seemed to say: “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve
come to take me away from this disgraceful scene!”
She said that the people at the Stores had no right to allow
great savage th<strong>in</strong>gs like those other dogs to be put with
respectable people’s dogs, and that she had a great m<strong>in</strong>d to
summon somebody.
Such is the nature of fox-terriers; and, therefore, I do not
blame Montmorency for his tendency to row with cats; but he
wished he had not given way to it that morn<strong>in</strong>g.
We were, as I have said, return<strong>in</strong>g from a dip, and half-way
up the High Street a cat darted out from one of the houses <strong>in</strong>
front of us, and began to trot across the road. Montmorency
gave a cry of joy — the cry of a stern warrior who sees his enemy
given over to his hands — the sort of cry Cromwell might
have uttered when the Scots came down the hill — and flew
after his prey.
His victim was a large black Tom. I never saw a larger cat,
nor a more disreputable-look<strong>in</strong>g cat. It had lost half its tail,
one of its ears, and a fairly appreciable proportion of its nose.
It was a long, s<strong>in</strong>ewy-look<strong>in</strong>g animal. It had a calm, contented
air about it.
Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty
miles an hour; but the cat did not hurry up — did not seem to

— 136 —
have grasped the idea that its life was <strong>in</strong> danger. It trotted quietly
on until its would-be assass<strong>in</strong> was with<strong>in</strong> a yard of it, and
then it turned round and sat down <strong>in</strong> the middle of the road,
and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, <strong>in</strong>quir<strong>in</strong>g expression,
that said:
“Yes! You want me?”
Montmorency does not lack pluck; but there was someth<strong>in</strong>g
about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of
the boldest dog. He stopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.
Neither spoke; but the conversation that one could imag<strong>in</strong>e
was clearly as follows: —
THE CAT: “Can I do anyth<strong>in</strong>g for you?”
MONTMORENCY: “No — no, thanks.”
THE CAT: “Don’t you m<strong>in</strong>d speak<strong>in</strong>g, if you really want anyth<strong>in</strong>g,
you know.”
MONTMORENCY (back<strong>in</strong>g down the High Street): “Oh, no —
not at all — certa<strong>in</strong>ly — don’t you trouble. I — I am afraid I’ve
made a mistake. I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed
you.”
THE CAT: “Not at all — quite a pleasure. Sure you don’t want
anyth<strong>in</strong>g, now?”
MONTMORENCY (still back<strong>in</strong>g): “Not at all, thanks — not at
all — very k<strong>in</strong>d of you. Good-morn<strong>in</strong>g.”
THE CAT: “Good-morn<strong>in</strong>g.”
Then the cat rose, and cont<strong>in</strong>ued his trot; and Montmorency,
fitt<strong>in</strong>g what he calls his tail carefully <strong>in</strong>to its groove, came
back to us, and took up an unimportant position <strong>in</strong> the rear.
To this day, if you say the word “Cats!” to Montmorency, he
will visibly shr<strong>in</strong>k and look up piteously at you, as if to say:
“Please don’t.”
We did our market<strong>in</strong>g after breakfast, and revictualled the
boat for three days. George said we ought to take vegetables —
that it was unhealthy not to eat vegetables. He said they were
easy enough to cook, and that he would see to that; so we got
ten pounds of potatoes, a bushel of peas, and a few cabbages.
We got a beefsteak pie, a couple of gooseberry tarts, and a leg

— 137 —
of mutton from the hotel; and fruit, and cakes, and bread and
butter, and jam, and bacon and eggs, and other th<strong>in</strong>gs we foraged
round about the town for.
Our departure from Marlow I regard as one of our greatest
successes. It was dignified and impressive, without be<strong>in</strong>g
ostentatious. We had <strong>in</strong>sisted at all the shops we had been to
that the th<strong>in</strong>gs should be sent with us then and there. None
of your “Yes, sir, I will send them off at once: the boy will be
down there before you are, sir!” and then fool<strong>in</strong>g about on the
land<strong>in</strong>g-stage, and go<strong>in</strong>g back to the shop twice to have a row
about them, for us. We waited while the basket was packed, and
took the boy with us.
We went to a good many shops, adopt<strong>in</strong>g this pr<strong>in</strong>ciple at
each one; and the consequence was that, by the time we had
f<strong>in</strong>ished, we had as f<strong>in</strong>e a collection of boys with baskets follow<strong>in</strong>g
us around as heart could desire; and our f<strong>in</strong>al march
down the middle of the High Street, to the river, must have
been as impos<strong>in</strong>g a spectacle as Marlow had seen for many a
long day.
The order of the procession was as follows: —
Montmorency, carry<strong>in</strong>g a stick.
Two disreputable-look<strong>in</strong>g curs, friends of Montmorency’s.
George, carry<strong>in</strong>g coats and rugs, and smok<strong>in</strong>g a short pipe.
Harris, try<strong>in</strong>g to walk with easy grace, while carry<strong>in</strong>g
a bulged-out Gladstone bag <strong>in</strong> one hand and
a bottle of lime-juice <strong>in</strong> the other.
Greengrocer’s boy and baker’s boy, with baskets.
Boots from the hotel, carry<strong>in</strong>g hamper.
Confectioner’s boy, with basket.
Grocer’s boy, with basket.
Long-haired dog.
Cheesemonger’s boy, with basket.
Odd man carry<strong>in</strong>g a bag.
Bosom companion of odd man, with his hands
<strong>in</strong> his pockets, smok<strong>in</strong>g a short clay.

— 138 —
Fruiterer’s boy, with basket.
Myself, carry<strong>in</strong>g three hats and a pair of boots,
and try<strong>in</strong>g to look as if I didn’t know it.
Six small boys, and four stray dogs.
When we got down to the land<strong>in</strong>g-stage, the boatman said:
“Let me see, sir; was yours a steam-launch or a houseboat?”
On our <strong>in</strong>form<strong>in</strong>g him it was a double-scull<strong>in</strong>g skiff, he
seemed surprised.
We had a good deal of trouble with steam launches that
morn<strong>in</strong>g. It was just before the Henley week, and they were
go<strong>in</strong>g up <strong>in</strong> large numbers; some by themselves, some tow<strong>in</strong>g
houseboats. I do hate steam launches: I suppose every row<strong>in</strong>g
man does. I never see a steam launch but I feel I should like to
lure it to a lonely part of the river, and there, <strong>in</strong> the silence and
the solitude, strangle it.
There is a blatant bumptiousness about a steam launch that
has the knack of rous<strong>in</strong>g every evil <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct <strong>in</strong> my nature, and
I yearn for the good old days, when you could go about and
tell people what you thought of them with a hatchet and a bow
and arrows. The expression on the face of the man who, with
his hands <strong>in</strong> his pockets, stands by the stern, smok<strong>in</strong>g a cigar,
is sufficient to excuse a breach of the peace by itself; and the
lordly whistle for you to get out of the way would, I am confident,
ensure a verdict of “justifiable homicide” from any jury
of river men.
They used to have to whistle for us to get out of their way. If
I may do so, without appear<strong>in</strong>g boastful, I th<strong>in</strong>k I can honestly
say that our one small boat, dur<strong>in</strong>g that week, caused more
annoyance and delay and aggravation to the steam launches
that we came across than all the other craft on the river put
together.
“Steam launch, com<strong>in</strong>g!” one of us would cry out, on sight<strong>in</strong>g
the enemy <strong>in</strong> the distance; and, <strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>stant, everyth<strong>in</strong>g
was got ready to receive her. I would take the l<strong>in</strong>es, and Harris

— 139 —
and George would sit down beside me, all of us with our backs
to the launch, and the boat would drift out quietly <strong>in</strong>to midstream.
On would come the launch, whistl<strong>in</strong>g, and on we would go,
drift<strong>in</strong>g. At about a hundred yards off, she would start whistl<strong>in</strong>g
like mad, and the people would come and lean over the
side, and roar at us; but we never heard them! Harris would
be tell<strong>in</strong>g us an anecdote about his mother, and George and I
would not have missed a word of it for worlds.
Then that launch would give one f<strong>in</strong>al shriek of a whistle
that would nearly burst the boiler, and she would reverse
her eng<strong>in</strong>es, and blow off steam, and sw<strong>in</strong>g round and get
aground; everyone on board of it would rush to the bow and
yell at us, and the people on the bank would stand and shout to
us, and all the other pass<strong>in</strong>g boats would stop and jo<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong>, till
the whole river for miles up and down was <strong>in</strong> a state of frantic
commotion. And then Harris would break off <strong>in</strong> the most <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g
part of his narrative, and look up with mild surprise,
and say to George:
“Why, George, bless me, if here isn’t a steam launch!”
And George would answer:
“Well, do you know, I thought I heard someth<strong>in</strong>g!”
Upon which we would get nervous and confused, and not
know how to get the boat out of the way, and the people <strong>in</strong> the
launch would crowd round and <strong>in</strong>struct us:
“Pull your right — you, you idiot! back with your left. No,
not you — the other one — leave the l<strong>in</strong>es alone, can’t you —
now, both together. NOT that way. Oh, you — !”
Then they would lower a boat and come to our assistance;
and, after quarter of an hour’s effort, would get us clean out of
their way, so that they could go on; and we would thank them
so much, and ask them to give us a tow. But they never would.
Another good way we discovered of irritat<strong>in</strong>g the aristocratic
type of steam launch, was to mistake them for a beanfeast,
and ask them if they were Messrs. Cubit’s lot or the Bermondsey
Good Templars, and could they lend us a saucepan.

— 140 —
Old ladies, not accustomed to the river, are always <strong>in</strong>tensely
nervous of steam launches. I remember go<strong>in</strong>g up once from
Sta<strong>in</strong>es to W<strong>in</strong>dsor — a stretch of water peculiarly rich <strong>in</strong> these
mechanical monstrosities — with a party conta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g three
ladies of this description. It was very excit<strong>in</strong>g. At the first
glimpse of every steam launch that came <strong>in</strong> view, they <strong>in</strong>sisted
on land<strong>in</strong>g and sitt<strong>in</strong>g down on the bank until it was out of
sight aga<strong>in</strong>. They said they were very sorry, but that they owed
it to their families not to be fool-hardy.
We found ourselves short of water at Hambledon Lock; so
we took our jar and went up to the lock-keeper’s house to beg
for some.
George was our spokesman. He put on a w<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g smile, and
said:
“Oh, please could you spare us a little water?”
“Certa<strong>in</strong>ly,” replied the old gentleman; “take as much as you
want, and leave the rest.”
“Thank you so much,” murmured George, look<strong>in</strong>g about
him. “Where — where do you keep it?”
“It’s always <strong>in</strong> the same place my boy,” was the stolid reply:
“just beh<strong>in</strong>d you.”
“I don’t see it,” said George, turn<strong>in</strong>g round.
“Why, bless us, where’s your eyes?” was the man’s comment,
as he twisted George round and po<strong>in</strong>ted up and down the
stream. “There’s enough of it to see, a<strong>in</strong>’t there?”
“Oh!” exclaimed George, grasp<strong>in</strong>g the idea; “but we can’t
dr<strong>in</strong>k the river, you know!”
“No; but you can dr<strong>in</strong>k some of it,” replied the old fellow.
“It’s what I’ve drunk for the last fifteen years.”
George told him that his appearance, after the course, did
not seem a sufficiently good advertisement for the brand; and
that he would prefer it out of a pump.
We got some from a cottage a little higher up. I daresay that
was only river water, if we had known. But we did not know,
so it was all right. What the eye does not see, the stomach does
not get upset over.

— 141 —
We tried river water once, later on <strong>in</strong> the season, but it was
not a success. We were com<strong>in</strong>g down stream, and had pulled
up to have tea <strong>in</strong> a backwater near W<strong>in</strong>dsor. Our jar was empty,
and it was a case of go<strong>in</strong>g without our tea or tak<strong>in</strong>g water from
the river. Harris was for chanc<strong>in</strong>g it. He said it must be all right
if we boiled the water. He said that the various germs of poison
present <strong>in</strong> the water would be killed by the boil<strong>in</strong>g. So we filled
our kettle with Thames backwater, and boiled it; and very careful
we were to see that it did boil.
We had made the tea, and were just settl<strong>in</strong>g down comfortably
to dr<strong>in</strong>k it, when George, with his cup half-way to his lips,
paused and exclaimed:
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?” asked Harris and I.
“Why that!” said George, look<strong>in</strong>g westward.
Harris and I followed his gaze, and saw, com<strong>in</strong>g down towards
us on the sluggish current, a dog. It was one of the quietest
and peacefullest dogs I have ever seen. I never met a dog
who seemed more contented — more easy <strong>in</strong> its m<strong>in</strong>d. It was
float<strong>in</strong>g dreamily on its back, with its four legs stuck up straight
<strong>in</strong>to the air. It was what I should call a full-bodied dog, with a
well-developed chest. On he came, serene, dignified, and calm,
until he was abreast of our boat, and there, among the rushes,
he eased up, and settled down cosily for the even<strong>in</strong>g.
George said he didn’t want any tea, and emptied his cup <strong>in</strong>to
the water. Harris did not feel thirsty, either, and followed suit. I
had drunk half m<strong>in</strong>e, but I wished I had not.
I asked George if he thought I was likely to have typhoid.
He said: “Oh, no;” he thought I had a very good chance
<strong>in</strong>deed of escap<strong>in</strong>g it. Anyhow, I should know <strong>in</strong> about a fortnight,
whether I had or had not.
We went up the backwater to Wargrave. It is a short cut, lead<strong>in</strong>g
out of the right-hand bank about half a mile above Marsh
Lock, and is well worth tak<strong>in</strong>g, be<strong>in</strong>g a pretty, shady little piece
of stream, besides sav<strong>in</strong>g nearly half a mile of distance.
Of course, its entrance is studded with posts and cha<strong>in</strong>s, and

— 142 —
surrounded with notice boards, menac<strong>in</strong>g all k<strong>in</strong>ds of torture,
imprisonment, and death to everyone who dares set scull upon
its waters — I wonder some of these riparian boors don’t claim
the air of the river and threaten everyone with forty shill<strong>in</strong>gs
f<strong>in</strong>e who breathes it — but the posts and cha<strong>in</strong>s a little skill will
easily avoid; and as for the boards, you might, if you have five
m<strong>in</strong>utes to spare, and there is nobody about, take one or two of
them down and throw them <strong>in</strong>to the river.
Half-way up the backwater, we got out and lunched; and it
was dur<strong>in</strong>g this lunch that George and I received rather a try<strong>in</strong>g
shock.
Harris received a shock, too; but I do not th<strong>in</strong>k Harris’s
shock could have been anyth<strong>in</strong>g like so bad as the shock that
George and I had over the bus<strong>in</strong>ess.
You see, it was <strong>in</strong> this way: we were sitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a meadow,
about ten yards from the water’s edge, and we had just settled
down comfortably to feed. Harris had the beefsteak pie
between his knees, and was carv<strong>in</strong>g it, and George and I were
wait<strong>in</strong>g with our plates ready.
“Have you got a spoon there?” says Harris; “I want a spoon
to help the gravy with.”
The hamper was close beh<strong>in</strong>d us, and George and I both
turned round to reach one out. We were not five seconds gett<strong>in</strong>g
it. When we looked round aga<strong>in</strong>, Harris and the pie were
gone!
It was a wide, open field. There was not a tree or a bit of
hedge for hundreds of yards. He could not have tumbled <strong>in</strong>to
the river, because we were on the water side of him, and he
would have had to climb over us to do it.
George and I gazed all about. Then we gazed at each other.
“Has he been snatched up to heaven?” I queried.
“They’d hardly have taken the pie too,” said George.
There seemed weight <strong>in</strong> this objection, and we discarded the
heavenly theory.
“I suppose the truth of the matter is,” suggested George, de-

— 143 —
scend<strong>in</strong>g to the commonplace and practicable, “that there has
been an earthquake.”
And then he added, with a touch of sadness <strong>in</strong> his voice: “I
wish he hadn’t been carv<strong>in</strong>g that pie.”
With a sigh, we turned our eyes once more towards the spot
where Harris and the pie had last been seen on earth; and
there, as our blood froze <strong>in</strong> our ve<strong>in</strong>s and our hair stood up on
end, we saw Harris’s head — and noth<strong>in</strong>g but his head — stick<strong>in</strong>g
bolt upright among the tall grass, the face very red, and
bear<strong>in</strong>g upon it an expression of great <strong>in</strong>dignation!
George was the first to recover.
“Speak!” he cried, “and tell us whether you are alive or
dead — and where is the rest of you?”
“Oh, don’t be a stupid ass!” said Harris’s head. “I believe you
did it on purpose.”
“Did what?” exclaimed George and I.
“Why, put me to sit here — darn silly trick! Here, catch hold
of the pie.”
And out of the middle of the earth, as it seemed to us, rose
the pie — very much mixed up and damaged; and, after it,
scrambled Harris — tumbled, grubby, and wet.
He had been sitt<strong>in</strong>g, without know<strong>in</strong>g it, on the very verge of
a small gully, the long grass hid<strong>in</strong>g it from view; and <strong>in</strong> lean<strong>in</strong>g
a little back he had shot over, pie and all.
He said he had never felt so surprised <strong>in</strong> all his life, as when
he first felt himself go<strong>in</strong>g, without be<strong>in</strong>g able to conjecture <strong>in</strong>
the slightest what had happened. He thought at first that the
end of the world had come.
Harris believes to this day that George and I planned it all
beforehand. Thus does unjust suspicion follow even the most
blameless for, as the poet says, “Who shall escape calumny?”
Who, <strong>in</strong>deed!

— 144 —
CHAPTER XIV.
Wargrave. — Waxworks. — Sonn<strong>in</strong>g. — Our stew. — Montmorency
is sarcastic. — Fight between Montmorency and the tea-kettle.
— George’s banjo studies. — Meet with discouragement. — Difficulties
<strong>in</strong> the way of the musical amateur. — Learn<strong>in</strong>g to play the
bagpipes. — Harris feels sad after supper. — George and I go for a
walk. — Return hungry and wet. — There is a strangeness about
Harris. — Harris and the swans, a remarkable story. — Harris has
a troubled night.
WE caught a breeze, after lunch, which took us gently up past
Wargrave and Shiplake. Mellowed <strong>in</strong> the drowsy sunlight of a
summer’s afternoon, Wargrave, nestl<strong>in</strong>g where the river bends,
makes a sweet old picture as you pass it, and one that l<strong>in</strong>gers
long upon the ret<strong>in</strong>a of memory.
The “George and Dragon” at Wargrave boasts a sign, pa<strong>in</strong>ted
on the one side by Leslie, R.A., and on the other by Hodgson of
that ilk. Leslie has depicted the fight; Hodgson has imag<strong>in</strong>ed
the scene, “After the Fight” — George, the work done, enjoy<strong>in</strong>g
his p<strong>in</strong>t of beer.
Day, the author of Sandford and Merton, lived and — more
credit to the place still — was killed at Wargrave. In the church
is a memorial to Mrs. Sarah Hill, who bequeathed 1 pound
annually, to be divided at Easter, between two boys and two
girls who “have never been undutiful to their parents; who
have never been known to swear or to tell untruths, to steal, or
to break w<strong>in</strong>dows.” Fancy giv<strong>in</strong>g up all that for five shill<strong>in</strong>gs a
year! It is not worth it.
It is rumoured <strong>in</strong> the town that once, many years ago, a boy
appeared who really never had done these th<strong>in</strong>gs — or at all
events, which was all that was required or could be expected,
had never been known to do them — and thus won the crown
of glory. He was exhibited for three weeks afterwards <strong>in</strong> the
Town Hall, under a glass case.
What has become of the money s<strong>in</strong>ce no one knows. They
say it is always handed over to the nearest wax-works show.
Shiplake is a pretty village, but it cannot be seen from the

— 145 —
river, be<strong>in</strong>g upon the hill. Tennyson was married <strong>in</strong> Shiplake
Church.
The river up to Sonn<strong>in</strong>g w<strong>in</strong>ds <strong>in</strong> and out through many
islands, and is very placid, hushed, and lonely. Few folk, except
at twilight, a pair or two of rustic lovers, walk along its banks.
’Arry and Lord Fitznoodle have been left beh<strong>in</strong>d at Henley,
and dismal, dirty Read<strong>in</strong>g is not yet reached. It is a part of the
river <strong>in</strong> which to dream of bygone days, and vanished forms
and faces, and th<strong>in</strong>gs that might have been, but are not, confound
them.
We got out at Sonn<strong>in</strong>g, and went for a walk round the village.
It is the most fairy-like little nook on the whole river. It
is more like a stage village than one built of bricks and mortar.
Every house is smothered <strong>in</strong> roses, and now, <strong>in</strong> early June,
they were burst<strong>in</strong>g forth <strong>in</strong> clouds of da<strong>in</strong>ty splendour. If you
stop at Sonn<strong>in</strong>g, put up at the “Bull,” beh<strong>in</strong>d the church. It is
a veritable picture of an old country <strong>in</strong>n, with green, square
courtyard <strong>in</strong> front, where, on seats beneath the trees, the old
men group of an even<strong>in</strong>g to dr<strong>in</strong>k their ale and gossip over
village politics; with low, qua<strong>in</strong>t rooms and latticed w<strong>in</strong>dows,
and awkward stairs and w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g passages.
We roamed about sweet Sonn<strong>in</strong>g for an hour or so, and then,
it be<strong>in</strong>g too late to push on past Read<strong>in</strong>g, we decided to go back
to one of the Shiplake islands, and put up there for the night. It
was still early when we got settled, and George said that, as we
had plenty of time, it would be a splendid opportunity to try
a good, slap-up supper. He said he would show us what could
be done up the river <strong>in</strong> the way of cook<strong>in</strong>g, and suggested that,
with the vegetables and the rema<strong>in</strong>s of the cold beef and general
odds and ends, we should make an Irish stew.
It seemed a fasc<strong>in</strong>at<strong>in</strong>g idea. George gathered wood and
made a fire, and Harris and I started to peel the potatoes. I
should never have thought that peel<strong>in</strong>g potatoes was such an
undertak<strong>in</strong>g. The job turned out to be the biggest th<strong>in</strong>g of its
k<strong>in</strong>d that I had ever been <strong>in</strong>. We began cheerfully, one might
almost say skittishly, but our light-heartedness was gone by

— 146 —
the time the first potato was f<strong>in</strong>ished. The more we peeled, the
more peel there seemed to be left on; by the time we had got
all the peel off and all the eyes out, there was no potato left — at
least none worth speak<strong>in</strong>g of. George came and had a look at
it — it was about the size of a pea-nut. He said:
“Oh, that won’t do! You’re wast<strong>in</strong>g them. You must scrape
them.”
So we scraped them, and that was harder work than peel<strong>in</strong>g.
They are such an extraord<strong>in</strong>ary shape, potatoes — all bumps
and warts and hollows. We worked steadily for five-and-twenty
m<strong>in</strong>utes, and did four potatoes. Then we struck. We said we
should require the rest of the even<strong>in</strong>g for scrap<strong>in</strong>g ourselves.
I never saw such a th<strong>in</strong>g as potato-scrap<strong>in</strong>g for mak<strong>in</strong>g a
fellow <strong>in</strong> a mess. It seemed difficult to believe that the potatoscrap<strong>in</strong>gs
<strong>in</strong> which Harris and I stood, half smothered, could
have come off four potatoes. It shows you what can be done
with economy and care.
George said it was absurd to have only four potatoes <strong>in</strong> an
Irish stew, so we washed half-a-dozen or so more, and put
them <strong>in</strong> without peel<strong>in</strong>g. We also put <strong>in</strong> a cabbage and about
half a peck of peas. George stirred it all up, and then he said
that there seemed to be a lot of room to spare, so we overhauled
both the hampers, and picked out all the odds and ends
and the remnants, and added them to the stew. There were half
a pork pie and a bit of cold boiled bacon left, and we put them
<strong>in</strong>. Then George found half a t<strong>in</strong> of potted salmon, and he
emptied that <strong>in</strong>to the pot.
He said that was the advantage of Irish stew: you got rid of
such a lot of th<strong>in</strong>gs. I fished out a couple of eggs that had got
cracked, and put those <strong>in</strong>. George said they would thicken the
gravy.
I forget the other <strong>in</strong>gredients, but I know noth<strong>in</strong>g was
wasted; and I remember that, towards the end, Montmorency,
who had ev<strong>in</strong>ced great <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> the proceed<strong>in</strong>gs throughout,
strolled away with an earnest and thoughtful air, reappear<strong>in</strong>g,
a few m<strong>in</strong>utes afterwards, with a dead water-rat <strong>in</strong> his mouth,

— 147 —
which he evidently wished to present as his contribution to the
d<strong>in</strong>ner; whether <strong>in</strong> a sarcastic spirit, or with a genu<strong>in</strong>e desire
to assist, I cannot say.
We had a discussion as to whether the rat should go <strong>in</strong> or
not. Harris said that he thought it would be all right, mixed up
with the other th<strong>in</strong>gs, and that every little helped; but George
stood up for precedent. He said he had never heard of waterrats
<strong>in</strong> Irish stew, and he would rather be on the safe side, and
not try experiments.
Harris said:
“If you never try a new th<strong>in</strong>g, how can you tell what it’s like?
It’s men such as you that hamper the world’s progress. Th<strong>in</strong>k of
the man who first tried German sausage!”
It was a great success, that Irish stew. I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k I ever enjoyed
a meal more. There was someth<strong>in</strong>g so fresh and piquant
about it. One’s palate gets so tired of the old hackneyed th<strong>in</strong>gs:
here was a dish with a new flavour, with a taste like noth<strong>in</strong>g
else on earth.
And it was nourish<strong>in</strong>g, too. As George said, there was good
stuff <strong>in</strong> it. The peas and potatoes might have been a bit softer,
but we all had good teeth, so that did not matter much: and as
for the gravy, it was a poem — a little too rich, perhaps, for a
weak stomach, but nutritious.
We f<strong>in</strong>ished up with tea and cherry tart. Montmorency had
a fight with the kettle dur<strong>in</strong>g tea-time, and came off a poor
second.
Throughout the trip, he had manifested great curiosity concern<strong>in</strong>g
the kettle. He would sit and watch it, as it boiled, with a
puzzled expression, and would try and rouse it every now and
then by growl<strong>in</strong>g at it. When it began to splutter and steam, he
regarded it as a challenge, and would want to fight it, only, at
that precise moment, some one would always dash up and bear
off his prey before he could get at it.
To-day he determ<strong>in</strong>ed he would be beforehand. At the first
sound the kettle made, he rose, growl<strong>in</strong>g, and advanced to-

— 148 —
wards it <strong>in</strong> a threaten<strong>in</strong>g attitude. It was only a little kettle, but
it was full of pluck, and it up and spit at him.
“Ah! would ye!” growled Montmorency, show<strong>in</strong>g his teeth;
“I’ll teach ye to cheek a hard-work<strong>in</strong>g, respectable dog; ye miserable,
long-nosed, dirty-look<strong>in</strong>g scoundrel, ye. Come on!”
And he rushed at that poor little kettle, and seized it by the
spout.
Then, across the even<strong>in</strong>g stillness, broke a blood-curdl<strong>in</strong>g
yelp, and Montmorency left the boat, and did a constitutional
three times round the island at the rate of thirty-five miles an
hour, stopp<strong>in</strong>g every now and then to bury his nose <strong>in</strong> a bit of
cool mud.
From that day Montmorency regarded the kettle with a mixture
of awe, suspicion, and hate. Whenever he saw it he would
growl and back at a rapid rate, with his tail shut down, and the
moment it was put upon the stove he would promptly climb
out of the boat, and sit on the bank, till the whole tea bus<strong>in</strong>ess
was over.
George got out his banjo after supper, and wanted to play
it, but Harris objected: he said he had got a headache, and did
not feel strong enough to stand it. George thought the music
might do him good — said music often soothed the nerves and
took away a headache; and he twanged two or three notes, just
to show Harris what it was like.
Harris said he would rather have the headache.
George has never learned to play the banjo to this day. He
has had too much all-round discouragement to meet. He tried
on two or three even<strong>in</strong>gs, while we were up the river, to get a
little practice, but it was never a success. Harris’s language used
to be enough to unnerve any man; added to which, Montmorency
would sit and howl steadily, right through the performance.
It was not giv<strong>in</strong>g the man a fair chance.
“What’s he want to howl like that for when I’m play<strong>in</strong>g?”
George would exclaim <strong>in</strong>dignantly, while tak<strong>in</strong>g aim at him
with a boot.
“What do you want to play like that for when he is howl-

— 149 —
<strong>in</strong>g?” Harris would retort, catch<strong>in</strong>g the boot. “You let him
alone. He can’t help howl<strong>in</strong>g. He’s got a musical ear, and your
play<strong>in</strong>g makes him howl.”
So George determ<strong>in</strong>ed to postpone study of the banjo until
he reached home. But he did not get much opportunity even
there. Mrs. P. used to come up and say she was very sorry — for
herself, she liked to hear him — but the lady upstairs was <strong>in</strong> a
very delicate state, and the doctor was afraid it might <strong>in</strong>jure
the child.
Then George tried tak<strong>in</strong>g it out with him late at night, and
practis<strong>in</strong>g round the square. But the <strong>in</strong>habitants compla<strong>in</strong>ed to
the police about it, and a watch was set for him one night, and
he was captured. The evidence aga<strong>in</strong>st him was very clear, and
he was bound over to keep the peace for six months.
He seemed to lose heart <strong>in</strong> the bus<strong>in</strong>ess after that. He did
make one or two feeble efforts to take up the work aga<strong>in</strong> when
the six months had elapsed, but there was always the same
coldness — the same want of sympathy on the part of the world
to fight aga<strong>in</strong>st; and, after awhile, he despaired altogether, and
advertised the <strong>in</strong>strument for sale at a great sacrifice — “owner
hav<strong>in</strong>g no further use for same” — and took to learn<strong>in</strong>g card
tricks <strong>in</strong>stead.
It must be dishearten<strong>in</strong>g work learn<strong>in</strong>g a musical <strong>in</strong>strument.
You would th<strong>in</strong>k that Society, for its own sake, would do
all it could to assist a man to acquire the art of play<strong>in</strong>g a musical
<strong>in</strong>strument. But it doesn’t!
I knew a young fellow once, who was study<strong>in</strong>g to play the
bagpipes, and you would be surprised at the amount of opposition
he had to contend with. Why, not even from the members
of his own family did he receive what you could call active
encouragement. His father was dead aga<strong>in</strong>st the bus<strong>in</strong>ess from
the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g, and spoke quite unfeel<strong>in</strong>gly on the subject.
My friend used to get up early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g to practise,
but he had to give that plan up, because of his sister. She was
somewhat religiously <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed, and she said it seemed such an
awful th<strong>in</strong>g to beg<strong>in</strong> the day like that.

— 150 —
So he sat up at night <strong>in</strong>stead, and played after the family had
gone to bed, but that did not do, as it got the house such a bad
name. People, go<strong>in</strong>g home late, would stop outside to listen,
and then put it about all over the town, the next morn<strong>in</strong>g, that
a fearful murder had been committed at Mr. Jefferson’s the
night before; and would describe how they had heard the victim’s
shrieks and the brutal oaths and curses of the murderer,
followed by the prayer for mercy, and the last dy<strong>in</strong>g gurgle of
the corpse.
So they let him practise <strong>in</strong> the day-time, <strong>in</strong> the back-kitchen
with all the doors shut; but his more successful passages could
generally be heard <strong>in</strong> the sitt<strong>in</strong>g-room, <strong>in</strong> spite of these precautions,
and would affect his mother almost to tears.
She said it put her <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d of her poor father (he had been
swallowed by a shark, poor man, while bath<strong>in</strong>g off the coast of
New Gu<strong>in</strong>ea — where the connection came <strong>in</strong>, she could not
expla<strong>in</strong>).
Then they knocked up a little place for him at the bottom
of the garden, about quarter of a mile from the house, and
made him take the mach<strong>in</strong>e down there when he wanted to
work it; and sometimes a visitor would come to the house who
knew noth<strong>in</strong>g of the matter, and they would forget to tell him
all about it, and caution him, and he would go out for a stroll
round the garden and suddenly get with<strong>in</strong> earshot of those
bagpipes, without be<strong>in</strong>g prepared for it, or know<strong>in</strong>g what it
was. If he were a man of strong m<strong>in</strong>d, it only gave him fits; but
a person of mere average <strong>in</strong>tellect it usually sent mad.
There is, it must be confessed, someth<strong>in</strong>g very sad about the
early efforts of an amateur <strong>in</strong> bagpipes. I have felt that myself
when listen<strong>in</strong>g to my young friend. They appear to be a try<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong>strument to perform upon. You have to get enough breath
for the whole tune before you start — at least, so I gathered
from watch<strong>in</strong>g Jefferson.
He would beg<strong>in</strong> magnificently with a wild, full, come-tothe-battle
sort of a note, that quite roused you. But he would

— 151 —
get more and more piano as he went on, and the last verse generally
collapsed <strong>in</strong> the middle with a splutter and a hiss.
You want to be <strong>in</strong> good health to play the bagpipes.
Young Jefferson only learnt to play one tune on those
bagpipes; but I never heard any compla<strong>in</strong>ts about the <strong>in</strong>sufficiency
of his repertoire — none whatever. This tune was “The
Campbells are Com<strong>in</strong>g, Hooray — Hooray!” so he said, though
his father always held that it was “The Blue Bells of Scotland.”
Nobody seemed quite sure what it was exactly, but they all
agreed that it sounded Scotch.
Strangers were allowed three guesses, and most of them
guessed a different tune each time.
Harris was disagreeable after supper, — I th<strong>in</strong>k it must have
been the stew that had upset him: he is not used to high liv<strong>in</strong>g,
— so George and I left him <strong>in</strong> the boat, and settled to go
for a mouch round Henley. He said he should have a glass of
whisky and a pipe, and fix th<strong>in</strong>gs up for the night. We were
to shout when we returned, and he would row over from the
island and fetch us.
“Don’t go to sleep, old man,” we said as we started.
“Not much fear of that while this stew’s on,” he grunted, as
he pulled back to the island.
Henley was gett<strong>in</strong>g ready for the regatta, and was full of bustle.
We met a goodish number of men we knew about the town,
and <strong>in</strong> their pleasant company the time slipped by somewhat
quickly; so that it was nearly eleven o’clock before we set off on
our four-mile walk home — as we had learned to call our little
craft by this time.
It was a dismal night, coldish, with a th<strong>in</strong> ra<strong>in</strong> fall<strong>in</strong>g; and as
we trudged through the dark, silent fields, talk<strong>in</strong>g low to each
other, and wonder<strong>in</strong>g if we were go<strong>in</strong>g right or not, we thought
of the cosy boat, with the bright light stream<strong>in</strong>g through the
tight-drawn canvas; of Harris and Montmorency, and the
whisky, and wished that we were there.
We conjured up the picture of ourselves <strong>in</strong>side, tired and
a little hungry; of the gloomy river and the shapeless trees;

— 152 —
and, like a giant glow-worm underneath them, our dear old
boat, so snug and warm and cheerful. We could see ourselves
at supper there, peck<strong>in</strong>g away at cold meat, and pass<strong>in</strong>g each
other chunks of bread; we could hear the cheery clatter of our
knives, the laugh<strong>in</strong>g voices, fill<strong>in</strong>g all the space, and overflow<strong>in</strong>g
through the open<strong>in</strong>g out <strong>in</strong>to the night. And we hurried on
to realise the vision.
We struck the tow-path at length, and that made us happy;
because prior to this we had not been sure whether we were
walk<strong>in</strong>g towards the river or away from it, and when you are
tired and want to go to bed uncerta<strong>in</strong>ties like that worry you.
We passed Skiplake as the clock was strik<strong>in</strong>g the quarter to
twelve; and then George said, thoughtfully:
“You don’t happen to remember which of the islands it was,
do you?”
“No,” I replied, beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to grow thoughtful too, “I don’t.
How many are there?”
“Only four,” answered George. “It will be all right, if he’s
awake.”
“And if not?” I queried; but we dismissed that tra<strong>in</strong> of
thought.
We shouted when we came opposite the first island, but
there was no response; so we went to the second, and tried
there, and obta<strong>in</strong>ed the same result.
“Oh! I remember now,” said George; “it was the third one.”
And we ran on hopefully to the third one, and hallooed.
No answer!
The case was becom<strong>in</strong>g serious. It was now past midnight.
The hotels at Skiplake and Henley would be crammed; and
we could not go round, knock<strong>in</strong>g up cottagers and householders
<strong>in</strong> the middle of the night, to know if they let apartments!
George suggested walk<strong>in</strong>g back to Henley and assault<strong>in</strong>g a policeman,
and so gett<strong>in</strong>g a night’s lodg<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the station-house.
But then there was the thought, “Suppose he only hits us back
and refuses to lock us up!”

— 153 —
We could not pass the whole night fight<strong>in</strong>g policemen. Besides,
we did not want to overdo the th<strong>in</strong>g and get six months.
We despair<strong>in</strong>gly tried what seemed <strong>in</strong> the darkness to be
the fourth island, but met with no better success. The ra<strong>in</strong> was
com<strong>in</strong>g down fast now, and evidently meant to last. We were
wet to the sk<strong>in</strong>, and cold and miserable. We began to wonder
whether there were only four islands or more, or whether we
were near the islands at all, or whether we were anywhere
with<strong>in</strong> a mile of where we ought to be, or <strong>in</strong> the wrong part of
the river altogether; everyth<strong>in</strong>g looked so strange and different
<strong>in</strong> the darkness. We began to understand the suffer<strong>in</strong>gs of
the Babes <strong>in</strong> the Wood.
Just when we had given up all hope — yes, I know that is
always the time that th<strong>in</strong>gs do happen <strong>in</strong> novels and tales; but
I can’t help it. I resolved, when I began to write this book, that I
would be strictly truthful <strong>in</strong> all th<strong>in</strong>gs; and so I will be, even if
I have to employ hackneyed phrases for the purpose.
It was just when we had given up all hope, and I must therefore
say so. Just when we had given up all hope, then, I suddenly
caught sight, a little way below us, of a strange, weird sort
of glimmer flicker<strong>in</strong>g among the trees on the opposite bank.
For an <strong>in</strong>stant I thought of ghosts: it was such a shadowy, mysterious
light. The next moment it flashed across me that it was
our boat, and I sent up such a yell across the water that made
the night seem to shake <strong>in</strong> its bed.
We waited breathless for a m<strong>in</strong>ute, and then — oh! div<strong>in</strong>est
music of the darkness! — we heard the answer<strong>in</strong>g bark of
Montmorency. We shouted back loud enough to wake the Seven
Sleepers — I never could understand myself why it should
take more noise to wake seven sleepers than one — and, after
what seemed an hour, but what was really, I suppose, about
five m<strong>in</strong>utes, we saw the lighted boat creep<strong>in</strong>g slowly over the
blackness, and heard Harris’s sleepy voice ask<strong>in</strong>g where we
were.
There was an unaccountable strangeness about Harris. It
was someth<strong>in</strong>g more than mere ord<strong>in</strong>ary tiredness. He pulled

— 154 —
the boat aga<strong>in</strong>st a part of the bank from which it was quite impossible
for us to get <strong>in</strong>to it, and immediately went to sleep. It
took us an immense amount of scream<strong>in</strong>g and roar<strong>in</strong>g to wake
him up aga<strong>in</strong> and put some sense <strong>in</strong>to him; but we succeeded
at last, and got safely on board.
Harris had a sad expression on him, so we noticed, when we
got <strong>in</strong>to the boat. He gave you the idea of a man who had been
through trouble. We asked him if anyth<strong>in</strong>g had happened, and
he said —
“Swans!”
It seemed we had moored close to a swan’s nest, and, soon
after George and I had gone, the female swan came back, and
kicked up a row about it. Harris had chivied her off, and she
had gone away, and fetched up her old man. Harris said he had
had quite a fight with these two swans; but courage and skill
had prevailed <strong>in</strong> the end, and he had defeated them.
Half-an-hour afterwards they returned with eighteen other
swans! It must have been a fearful battle, so far as we could
understand Harris’s account of it. The swans had tried to drag
him and Montmorency out of the boat and drown them; and
he had defended himself like a hero for four hours, and had
killed the lot, and they had all paddled away to die.
“How many swans did you say there were?” asked George.
“Thirty-two,” replied Harris, sleepily.
“You said eighteen just now,” said George.
“No, I didn’t,” grunted Harris; “I said twelve. Th<strong>in</strong>k I can’t
count?”
What were the real facts about these swans we never found
out. We questioned Harris on the subject <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, and
he said, “What swans?” and seemed to th<strong>in</strong>k that George and
I had been dream<strong>in</strong>g.
Oh, how delightful it was to be safe <strong>in</strong> the boat, after our
trials and fears! We ate a hearty supper, George and I, and we
should have had some toddy after it, if we could have found the
whisky, but we could not. We exam<strong>in</strong>ed Harris as to what he
had done with it; but he did not seem to know what we meant

— 155 —
by “whisky,” or what we were talk<strong>in</strong>g about at all. Montmorency
looked as if he knew someth<strong>in</strong>g, but said noth<strong>in</strong>g.
I slept well that night, and should have slept better if it had
not been for Harris. I have a vague recollection of hav<strong>in</strong>g been
woke up at least a dozen times dur<strong>in</strong>g the night by Harris wander<strong>in</strong>g
about the boat with the lantern, look<strong>in</strong>g for his clothes.
He seemed to be worry<strong>in</strong>g about his clothes all night.
Twice he routed up George and myself to see if we were ly<strong>in</strong>g
on his trousers. George got quite wild the second time.
“What the thunder do you want your trousers for, <strong>in</strong> the
middle of the night?” he asked <strong>in</strong>dignantly. “Why don’t you lie
down, and go to sleep?”
I found him <strong>in</strong> trouble, the next time I awoke, because he
could not f<strong>in</strong>d his socks; and my last hazy remembrance is of
be<strong>in</strong>g rolled over on my side, and of hear<strong>in</strong>g Harris mutter<strong>in</strong>g
someth<strong>in</strong>g about its be<strong>in</strong>g an extraord<strong>in</strong>ary th<strong>in</strong>g where his
umbrella could have got to.

— 156 —
CHAPTER XV.
Household duties. — Love of work. — The old river hand, what he
does and what he tells you he has done. — Scepticism of the new
generation. — Early boat<strong>in</strong>g recollections. — Raft<strong>in</strong>g. — George
does the th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> style. — The old boatman, his method. — So calm,
so full of peace. — The beg<strong>in</strong>ner. — Punt<strong>in</strong>g. — A sad accident. —
Pleasures of friendship. — Sail<strong>in</strong>g, my first experience. — Possible
reason why we were not drowned.
WE woke late the next morn<strong>in</strong>g, and, at Harris’s earnest desire,
partook of a pla<strong>in</strong> breakfast, with “non da<strong>in</strong>ties.” Then we
cleaned up, and put everyth<strong>in</strong>g straight (a cont<strong>in</strong>ual labour,
which was beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to afford me a pretty clear <strong>in</strong>sight <strong>in</strong>to
a question that had often posed me — namely, how a woman
with the work of only one house on her hands manages to pass
away her time), and, at about ten, set out on what we had determ<strong>in</strong>ed
should be a good day’s journey.
We agreed that we would pull this morn<strong>in</strong>g, as a change
from tow<strong>in</strong>g; and Harris thought the best arrangement would
be that George and I should scull, and he steer. I did not chime
<strong>in</strong> with this idea at all; I said I thought Harris would have been
show<strong>in</strong>g a more proper spirit if he had suggested that he and
George should work, and let me rest a bit. It seemed to me that
I was do<strong>in</strong>g more than my fair share of the work on this trip,
and I was beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to feel strongly on the subject.
It always does seem to me that I am do<strong>in</strong>g more work than
I should do. It is not that I object to the work, m<strong>in</strong>d you; I like
work: it fasc<strong>in</strong>ates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. I love
to keep it by me: the idea of gett<strong>in</strong>g rid of it nearly breaks my
heart.
You cannot give me too much work; to accumulate work has
almost become a passion with me: my study is so full of it now,
that there is hardly an <strong>in</strong>ch of room for any more. I shall have
to throw out a w<strong>in</strong>g soon.
And I am careful of my work, too. Why, some of the work
that I have by me now has been <strong>in</strong> my possession for years and
years, and there isn’t a f<strong>in</strong>ger-mark on it. I take a great pride

— 157 —
<strong>in</strong> my work; I take it down now and then and dust it. No man
keeps his work <strong>in</strong> a better state of preservation than I do.
But, though I crave for work, I still like to be fair. I do not ask
for more than my proper share.
But I get it without ask<strong>in</strong>g for it — at least, so it appears to
me — and this worries me.
George says he does not th<strong>in</strong>k I need trouble myself on the
subject. He th<strong>in</strong>ks it is only my over-scrupulous nature that
makes me fear I am hav<strong>in</strong>g more than my due; and that, as a
matter of fact, I don’t have half as much as I ought. But I expect
he only says this to comfort me.
In a boat, I have always noticed that it is the fixed idea of
each member of the crew that he is do<strong>in</strong>g everyth<strong>in</strong>g. Harris’s
notion was, that it was he alone who had been work<strong>in</strong>g, and
that both George and I had been impos<strong>in</strong>g upon him. George,
on the other hand, ridiculed the idea of Harris’s hav<strong>in</strong>g done
anyth<strong>in</strong>g more than eat and sleep, and had a cast-iron op<strong>in</strong>ion
that it was he — George himself — who had done all the labour
worth speak<strong>in</strong>g of.
He said he had never been out with such a couple of lazily
skulks as Harris and I.
That amused Harris.
“Fancy old George talk<strong>in</strong>g about work!” he laughed; “why,
about half-an-hour of it would kill him. Have you ever seen
George work?” he added, turn<strong>in</strong>g to me.
I agreed with Harris that I never had — most certa<strong>in</strong>ly not
s<strong>in</strong>ce we had started on this trip.
“Well, I don’t see how you can know much about it, one way
or the other,” George retorted on Harris; “for I’m blest if you
haven’t been asleep half the time. Have you ever seen Harris
fully awake, except at meal-time?” asked George, address<strong>in</strong>g
me.
Truth compelled me to support George. Harris had been
very little good <strong>in</strong> the boat, so far as help<strong>in</strong>g was concerned,
from the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g.

— 158 —
“Well, hang it all, I’ve done more than old J., anyhow,” rejo<strong>in</strong>ed
Harris.
“Well, you couldn’t very well have done less,” added George.
“I suppose J. th<strong>in</strong>ks he is the passenger,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Harris.
And that was their gratitude to me for hav<strong>in</strong>g brought them
and their wretched old boat all the way up from K<strong>in</strong>gston, and
for hav<strong>in</strong>g super<strong>in</strong>tended and managed everyth<strong>in</strong>g for them,
and taken care of them, and slaved for them. It is the way of
the world.
We settled the present difficulty by arrang<strong>in</strong>g that Harris
and George should scull up past Read<strong>in</strong>g, and that I should
tow the boat on from there. Pull<strong>in</strong>g a heavy boat aga<strong>in</strong>st a
strong stream has few attractions for me now. There was a
time, long ago, when I used to clamour for the hard work: now
I like to give the youngsters a chance.
I notice that most of the old river hands are similarly retir<strong>in</strong>g,
whenever there is any stiff pull<strong>in</strong>g to be done. You can
always tell the old river hand by the way <strong>in</strong> which he stretches
himself out upon the cushions at the bottom of the boat, and
encourages the rowers by tell<strong>in</strong>g them anecdotes about the
marvellous feats he performed last season.
“Call what you’re do<strong>in</strong>g hard work!” he drawls, between his
contented whiffs, address<strong>in</strong>g the two perspir<strong>in</strong>g novices, who
have been gr<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g away steadily up stream for the last hour
and a half; “why, Jim Biffles and Jack and I, last season, pulled
up from Marlow to Gor<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> one afternoon — never stopped
once. Do you remember that, Jack?”
Jack, who has made himself a bed up <strong>in</strong> the prow of all the
rugs and coats he can collect, and who has been ly<strong>in</strong>g there
asleep for the last two hours, partially wakes up on be<strong>in</strong>g thus
appealed to, and recollects all about the matter, and also remembers
that there was an unusually strong stream aga<strong>in</strong>st
them all the way — likewise a stiff w<strong>in</strong>d.
“About thirty-four miles, I suppose, it must have been,” adds
the first speaker, reach<strong>in</strong>g down another cushion to put under
his head.

— 159 —
“No — no; don’t exaggerate, Tom,” murmurs Jack, reprov<strong>in</strong>gly;
“thirty-three at the outside.”
And Jack and Tom, quite exhausted by this conversational
effort, drop off to sleep once more. And the two simple-m<strong>in</strong>ded
youngsters at the sculls feel quite proud of be<strong>in</strong>g allowed to
row such wonderful oarsmen as Jack and Tom, and stra<strong>in</strong> away
harder than ever.
When I was a young man, I used to listen to these tales from
my elders, and take them <strong>in</strong>, and swallow them, and digest every
word of them, and then come up for more; but the new generation
do not seem to have the simple faith of the old times.
We — George, Harris, and myself — took a “raw’un” up with us
once last season, and we plied him with the customary stretchers
about the wonderful th<strong>in</strong>gs we had done all the way up.
We gave him all the regular ones — the time-honoured lies
that have done duty up the river with every boat<strong>in</strong>g-man for
years past — and added seven entirely orig<strong>in</strong>al ones that we
had <strong>in</strong>vented for ourselves, <strong>in</strong>clud<strong>in</strong>g a really quite likely story,
founded, to a certa<strong>in</strong> extent, on an all but true episode, which
had actually happened <strong>in</strong> a modified degree some years ago to
friends of ours — a story that a mere child could have believed
without <strong>in</strong>jur<strong>in</strong>g itself, much.
And that young man mocked at them all, and wanted us to
repeat the feats then and there, and to bet us ten to one that
we didn’t.
We got to chatt<strong>in</strong>g about our row<strong>in</strong>g experiences this morn<strong>in</strong>g,
and to recount<strong>in</strong>g stories of our first efforts <strong>in</strong> the art of
oarsmanship. My own earliest boat<strong>in</strong>g recollection is of five
of us contribut<strong>in</strong>g threepence each and tak<strong>in</strong>g out a curiously
constructed craft on the Regent’s Park lake, dry<strong>in</strong>g ourselves
subsequently, <strong>in</strong> the park-keeper’s lodge.
After that, hav<strong>in</strong>g acquired a taste for the water, I did a good
deal of raft<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> various suburban brickfields — an exercise
provid<strong>in</strong>g more <strong>in</strong>terest and excitement than might be imag<strong>in</strong>ed,
especially when you are <strong>in</strong> the middle of the pond and

— 160 —
the proprietor of the materials of which the raft is constructed
suddenly appears on the bank, with a big stick <strong>in</strong> his hand.
Your first sensation on see<strong>in</strong>g this gentleman is that, somehow
or other, you don’t feel equal to company and conversation,
and that, if you could do so without appear<strong>in</strong>g rude, you
would rather avoid meet<strong>in</strong>g him; and your object is, therefore,
to get off on the opposite side of the pond to which he is, and
to go home quietly and quickly, pretend<strong>in</strong>g not to see him. He,
on the contrary is yearn<strong>in</strong>g to take you by the hand, and talk
to you.
It appears that he knows your father, and is <strong>in</strong>timately acqua<strong>in</strong>ted
with yourself, but this does not draw you towards
him. He says he’ll teach you to take his boards and make a raft
of them; but, see<strong>in</strong>g that you know how to do this pretty well
already, the offer, though doubtless k<strong>in</strong>dly meant, seems a superfluous
one on his part, and you are reluctant to put him to
any trouble by accept<strong>in</strong>g it.
His anxiety to meet you, however, is proof aga<strong>in</strong>st all your
coolness, and the energetic manner <strong>in</strong> which he dodges up and
down the pond so as to be on the spot to greet you when you
land is really quite flatter<strong>in</strong>g.
If he be of a stout and short-w<strong>in</strong>ded build, you can easily
avoid his advances; but, when he is of the youthful and longlegged
type, a meet<strong>in</strong>g is <strong>in</strong>evitable. The <strong>in</strong>terview is, however,
extremely brief, most of the conversation be<strong>in</strong>g on his part,
your remarks be<strong>in</strong>g mostly of an exclamatory and mono-syllabic
order, and as soon as you can tear yourself away you do
so.
I devoted some three months to raft<strong>in</strong>g, and, be<strong>in</strong>g then as
proficient as there was any need to be at that branch of the art,
I determ<strong>in</strong>ed to go <strong>in</strong> for row<strong>in</strong>g proper, and jo<strong>in</strong>ed one of the
Lea boat<strong>in</strong>g clubs.
Be<strong>in</strong>g out <strong>in</strong> a boat on the river Lea, especially on Saturday
afternoons, soon makes you smart at handl<strong>in</strong>g a craft, and spry
at escap<strong>in</strong>g be<strong>in</strong>g run down by roughs or swamped by barges;
and it also affords plenty of opportunity for acquir<strong>in</strong>g the most

— 161 —
prompt and graceful method of ly<strong>in</strong>g down flat at the bottom
of the boat so as to avoid be<strong>in</strong>g chucked out <strong>in</strong>to the river by
pass<strong>in</strong>g tow-l<strong>in</strong>es.
But it does not give you style. It was not till I came to the
Thames that I got style. My style of row<strong>in</strong>g is very much admired
now. People say it is so qua<strong>in</strong>t.
George never went near the water until he was sixteen. Then
he and eight other gentlemen of about the same age went
down <strong>in</strong> a body to Kew one Saturday, with the idea of hir<strong>in</strong>g
a boat there, and pull<strong>in</strong>g to Richmond and back; one of their
number, a shock-headed youth, named Josk<strong>in</strong>s, who had once
or twice taken out a boat on the Serpent<strong>in</strong>e, told them it was
jolly fun, boat<strong>in</strong>g!
The tide was runn<strong>in</strong>g out pretty rapidly when they reached
the land<strong>in</strong>g-stage, and there was a stiff breeze blow<strong>in</strong>g across
the river, but this did not trouble them at all, and they proceeded
to select their boat.
There was an eight-oared rac<strong>in</strong>g outrigger drawn up on the
stage; that was the one that took their fancy. They said they’d
have that one, please. The boatman was away, and only his
boy was <strong>in</strong> charge. The boy tried to damp their ardour for the
outrigger, and showed them two or three very comfortablelook<strong>in</strong>g
boats of the family-party build, but those would not
do at all; the outrigger was the boat they thought they would
look best <strong>in</strong>.
So the boy launched it, and they took off their coats and prepared
to take their seats. The boy suggested that George, who,
even <strong>in</strong> those days, was always the heavy man of any party,
should be number four. George said he should be happy to be
number four, and promptly stepped <strong>in</strong>to bow’s place, and sat
down with his back to the stern. They got him <strong>in</strong>to his proper
position at last, and then the others followed.
A particularly nervous boy was appo<strong>in</strong>ted cox, and the
steer<strong>in</strong>g pr<strong>in</strong>ciple expla<strong>in</strong>ed to him by Josk<strong>in</strong>s. Josk<strong>in</strong>s himself
took stroke. He told the others that it was simple enough; all
they had to do was to follow him.

— 162 —
They said they were ready, and the boy on the land<strong>in</strong>g stage
took a boat-hook and shoved him off.
What then followed George is unable to describe <strong>in</strong> detail.
He has a confused recollection of hav<strong>in</strong>g, immediately on
start<strong>in</strong>g, received a violent blow <strong>in</strong> the small of the back from
the butt-end of number five’s scull, at the same time that his
own seat seemed to disappear from under him by magic, and
leave him sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the boards. He also noticed, as a curious
circumstance, that number two was at the same <strong>in</strong>stant ly<strong>in</strong>g
on his back at the bottom of the boat, with his legs <strong>in</strong> the air,
apparently <strong>in</strong> a fit.
They passed under Kew Bridge, broadside, at the rate of
eight miles an hour. Josk<strong>in</strong>s be<strong>in</strong>g the only one who was row<strong>in</strong>g.
George, on recover<strong>in</strong>g his seat, tried to help him, but, on
dipp<strong>in</strong>g his oar <strong>in</strong>to the water, it immediately, to his <strong>in</strong>tense
surprise, disappeared under the boat, and nearly took him
with it.
And then “cox” threw both rudder l<strong>in</strong>es over-board, and
burst <strong>in</strong>to tears.
How they got back George never knew, but it took them just
forty m<strong>in</strong>utes. A dense crowd watched the enterta<strong>in</strong>ment from
Kew Bridge with much <strong>in</strong>terest, and everybody shouted out to
them different directions. <strong>Three</strong> times they managed to get the
boat back through the arch, and three times they were carried
under it aga<strong>in</strong>, and every time “cox” looked up and saw the
bridge above him he broke out <strong>in</strong>to renewed sobs.
George said he little thought that afternoon that he should
ever come to really like boat<strong>in</strong>g.
Harris is more accustomed to sea row<strong>in</strong>g than to river work,
and says that, as an exercise, he prefers it. I don’t. I remember
tak<strong>in</strong>g a small boat out at Eastbourne last summer: I used to do
a good deal of sea row<strong>in</strong>g years ago, and I thought I should be
all right; but I found I had forgotten the art entirely. When one
scull was deep down underneath the water, the other would be
flourish<strong>in</strong>g wildly about <strong>in</strong> the air. To get a grip of the water
with both at the same time I had to stand up. The parade was

— 163 —
crowded with nobility and gentry, and I had to pull past them
<strong>in</strong> this ridiculous fashion. I landed half-way down the beach,
and secured the services of an old boatman to take me back.
I like to watch an old boatman row<strong>in</strong>g, especially one who
has been hired by the hour. There is someth<strong>in</strong>g so beautifully
calm and restful about his method. It is so free from that fretful
haste, that vehement striv<strong>in</strong>g, that is every day becom<strong>in</strong>g
more and more the bane of n<strong>in</strong>eteenth-century life. He is not
for ever stra<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g himself to pass all the other boats. If another
boat overtakes him and passes him it does not annoy him; as
a matter of fact, they all do overtake him and pass him — all
those that are go<strong>in</strong>g his way. This would trouble and irritate
some people; the sublime equanimity of the hired boatman
under the ordeal affords us a beautiful lesson aga<strong>in</strong>st ambition
and uppishness.
Pla<strong>in</strong> practical row<strong>in</strong>g of the get-the-boat-along order is not
a very difficult art to acquire, but it takes a good deal of practice
before a man feels comfortable, when row<strong>in</strong>g past girls. It
is the “time” that worries a youngster. “It’s jolly funny,” he says,
as for the twentieth time with<strong>in</strong> five m<strong>in</strong>utes he disentangles
his sculls from yours; “I can get on all right when I’m by myself
!”
To see two novices try to keep time with one another is very
amus<strong>in</strong>g. Bow f<strong>in</strong>ds it impossible to keep pace with stroke,
because stroke rows <strong>in</strong> such an extraord<strong>in</strong>ary fashion. Stroke
is <strong>in</strong>tensely <strong>in</strong>dignant at this, and expla<strong>in</strong>s that what he has
been endeavour<strong>in</strong>g to do for the last ten m<strong>in</strong>utes is to adapt his
method to bow’s limited capacity. Bow, <strong>in</strong> turn, then becomes
<strong>in</strong>sulted, and requests stroke not to trouble his head about him
(bow), but to devote his m<strong>in</strong>d to sett<strong>in</strong>g a sensible stroke.
“Or, shall I take stroke?” he adds, with the evident idea that
that would at once put the whole matter right.
They splash along for another hundred yards with still moderate
success, and then the whole secret of their trouble bursts
upon stroke like a flash of <strong>in</strong>spiration.

— 164 —
“I tell you what it is: you’ve got my sculls,” he cries, turn<strong>in</strong>g
to bow; “pass yours over.”
“Well, do you know, I’ve been wonder<strong>in</strong>g how it was I
couldn’t get on with these,” answers bow, quite brighten<strong>in</strong>g up,
and most will<strong>in</strong>gly assist<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the exchange. “Now we shall be
all right.”
But they are not — not even then. Stroke has to stretch his
arms nearly out of their sockets to reach his sculls now; while
bow’s pair, at each recovery, hit him a violent blow <strong>in</strong> the chest.
So they change back aga<strong>in</strong>, and come to the conclusion that
the man has given them the wrong set altogether; and over
their mutual abuse of this man they become quite friendly and
sympathetic.
George said he had often longed to take to punt<strong>in</strong>g for a
change. Punt<strong>in</strong>g is not as easy as it looks. As <strong>in</strong> row<strong>in</strong>g, you
soon learn how to get along and handle the craft, but it takes
long practice before you can do this with dignity and without
gett<strong>in</strong>g the water all up your sleeve.
One young man I knew had a very sad accident happen to
him the first time he went punt<strong>in</strong>g. He had been gett<strong>in</strong>g on
so well that he had grown quite cheeky over the bus<strong>in</strong>ess, and
was walk<strong>in</strong>g up and down the punt, work<strong>in</strong>g his pole with a
careless grace that was quite fasc<strong>in</strong>at<strong>in</strong>g to watch. Up he would
march to the head of the punt, plant his pole, and then run
along right to the other end, just like an old punter. Oh! it was
grand.
And it would all have gone on be<strong>in</strong>g grand if he had not
unfortunately, while look<strong>in</strong>g round to enjoy the scenery, taken
just one step more than there was any necessity for, and walked
off the punt altogether. The pole was firmly fixed <strong>in</strong> the mud,
and he was left cl<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g to it while the punt drifted away. It
was an undignified position for him. A rude boy on the bank
immediately yelled out to a lagg<strong>in</strong>g chum to “hurry up and see
real monkey on a stick.”
I could not go to his assistance, because, as ill-luck would
have it, we had not taken the proper precaution to br<strong>in</strong>g out a

— 165 —
spare pole with us. I could only sit and look at him. His expression
as the pole slowly sank with him I shall never forget; there
was so much thought <strong>in</strong> it.
I watched him gently let down <strong>in</strong>to the water, and saw him
scramble out, sad and wet. I could not help laugh<strong>in</strong>g, he looked
such a ridiculous figure. I cont<strong>in</strong>ued to chuckle to myself about
it for some time, and then it was suddenly forced <strong>in</strong> upon me
that really I had got very little to laugh at when I came to th<strong>in</strong>k
of it. Here was I, alone <strong>in</strong> a punt, without a pole, drift<strong>in</strong>g helplessly
down mid-stream — possibly towards a weir.
I began to feel very <strong>in</strong>dignant with my friend for hav<strong>in</strong>g
stepped overboard and gone off <strong>in</strong> that way. He might, at all
events, have left me the pole.
I drifted on for about a quarter of a mile, and then I came
<strong>in</strong> sight of a fish<strong>in</strong>g-punt moored <strong>in</strong> mid-stream, <strong>in</strong> which sat
two old fishermen. They saw me bear<strong>in</strong>g down upon them,
and they called out to me to keep out of their way.
“I can’t,” I shouted back.
“But you don’t try,” they answered.
I expla<strong>in</strong>ed the matter to them when I got nearer, and they
caught me and lent me a pole. The weir was just fifty yards
below. I am glad they happened to be there.
The first time I went punt<strong>in</strong>g was <strong>in</strong> company with three
other fellows; they were go<strong>in</strong>g to show me how to do it. We
could not all start together, so I said I would go down first and
get out the punt, and then I could potter about and practice a
bit until they came.
I could not get a punt out that afternoon, they were all engaged;
so I had noth<strong>in</strong>g else to do but to sit down on the bank,
watch<strong>in</strong>g the river, and wait<strong>in</strong>g for my friends.
I had not been sitt<strong>in</strong>g there long before my attention became
attracted to a man <strong>in</strong> a punt who, I noticed with some surprise,
wore a jacket and cap exactly like m<strong>in</strong>e. He was evidently a
novice at punt<strong>in</strong>g, and his performance was most <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g.
You never knew what was go<strong>in</strong>g to happen when he put the
pole <strong>in</strong>; he evidently did not know himself. Sometimes he shot

— 166 —
up stream and sometimes he shot down stream, and at other
times he simply spun round and came up the other side of the
pole. And with every result he seemed equally surprised and
annoyed.
The people about the river began to get quite absorbed <strong>in</strong>
him after a while, and to make bets with one another as to what
would be the outcome of his next push.
In the course of time my friends arrived on the opposite
bank, and they stopped and watched him too. His back was
towards them, and they only saw his jacket and cap. From this
they immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was I, their
beloved companion, who was mak<strong>in</strong>g an exhibition of himself,
and their delight knew no bounds. They commenced to chaff
him unmercifully.
I did not grasp their mistake at first, and I thought, “How
rude of them to go on like that, with a perfect stranger, too!”
But before I could call out and reprove them, the explanation
of the matter occurred to me, and I withdrew beh<strong>in</strong>d a tree.
Oh, how they enjoyed themselves, ridicul<strong>in</strong>g that young
man! For five good m<strong>in</strong>utes they stood there, shout<strong>in</strong>g ribaldry
at him, derid<strong>in</strong>g him, mock<strong>in</strong>g him, jeer<strong>in</strong>g at him. They
peppered him with stale jokes, they even made a few new ones
and threw at him. They hurled at him all the private family
jokes belong<strong>in</strong>g to our set, and which must have been perfectly
un<strong>in</strong>telligible to him. And then, unable to stand their brutal
jibes any longer, he turned round on them, and they saw his
face!
I was glad to notice that they had sufficient decency left <strong>in</strong>
them to look very foolish. They expla<strong>in</strong>ed to him that they had
thought he was some one they knew. They said they hoped he
would not deem them capable of so <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g any one except a
personal friend of their own.
Of course their hav<strong>in</strong>g mistaken him for a friend excused
it. I remember Harris tell<strong>in</strong>g me once of a bath<strong>in</strong>g experience
he had at Boulogne. He was swimm<strong>in</strong>g about there near
the beach, when he felt himself suddenly seized by the neck

— 167 —
from beh<strong>in</strong>d, and forcibly plunged under water. He struggled
violently, but whoever had got hold of him seemed to be a
perfect Hercules <strong>in</strong> strength, and all his efforts to escape were
unavail<strong>in</strong>g. He had given up kick<strong>in</strong>g, and was try<strong>in</strong>g to turn his
thoughts upon solemn th<strong>in</strong>gs, when his captor released him.
He rega<strong>in</strong>ed his feet, and looked round for his would-be
murderer. The assass<strong>in</strong> was stand<strong>in</strong>g close by him, laugh<strong>in</strong>g
heartily, but the moment he caught sight of Harris’s face, as
it emerged from the water, he started back and seemed quite
concerned.
“I really beg your pardon,” he stammered confusedly, “but I
took you for a friend of m<strong>in</strong>e!”
Harris thought it was lucky for him the man had not mistaken
him for a relation, or he would probably have been
drowned outright.
Sail<strong>in</strong>g is a th<strong>in</strong>g that wants knowledge and practice too —
though, as a boy, I did not th<strong>in</strong>k so. I had an idea it came natural
to a body, like rounders and touch. I knew another boy who
held this view likewise, and so, one w<strong>in</strong>dy day, we thought we
would try the sport. We were stopp<strong>in</strong>g down at Yarmouth, and
we decided we would go for a trip up the Yare. We hired a sail<strong>in</strong>g
boat at the yard by the bridge, and started off. “It’s rather a
rough day,” said the man to us, as we put off: “better take <strong>in</strong> a
reef and luff sharp when you get round the bend.”
We said we would make a po<strong>in</strong>t of it, and left him with a
cheery “Good-morn<strong>in</strong>g,” wonder<strong>in</strong>g to ourselves how you
“luffed,” and where we were to get a “reef ” from, and what we
were to do with it when we had got it.
We rowed until we were out of sight of the town, and then,
with a wide stretch of water <strong>in</strong> front of us, and the w<strong>in</strong>d blow<strong>in</strong>g
a perfect hurricane across it, we felt that the time had come
to commence operations.
Hector — I th<strong>in</strong>k that was his name — went on pull<strong>in</strong>g while
I unrolled the sail. It seemed a complicated job, but I accomplished
it at length, and then came the question, which was the
top end?

— 168 —
By a sort of natural <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct, we, of course, eventually decided
that the bottom was the top, and set to work to fix it
upside-down. But it was a long time before we could get it up,
either that way or any other way. The impression on the m<strong>in</strong>d
of the sail seemed to be that we were play<strong>in</strong>g at funerals, and
that I was the corpse and itself was the w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g-sheet.
When it found that this was not the idea, it hit me over the
head with the boom, and refused to do anyth<strong>in</strong>g.
“Wet it,” said Hector; “drop it over and get it wet.”
He said people <strong>in</strong> ships always wetted the sails before they
put them up. So I wetted it; but that only made matters worse
than they were before. A dry sail cl<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g to your legs and
wrapp<strong>in</strong>g itself round your head is not pleasant, but, when the
sail is sopp<strong>in</strong>g wet, it becomes quite vex<strong>in</strong>g.
We did get the th<strong>in</strong>g up at last, the two of us together. We
fixed it, not exactly upside down — more sideways like — and
we tied it up to the mast with the pa<strong>in</strong>ter, which we cut off for
the purpose.
That the boat did not upset I simply state as a fact. Why it
did not upset I am unable to offer any reason. I have often
thought about the matter s<strong>in</strong>ce, but I have never succeeded <strong>in</strong>
arriv<strong>in</strong>g at any satisfactory explanation of the phenomenon.
Possibly the result may have been brought about by the
natural obst<strong>in</strong>acy of all th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> this world. The boat may
possibly have come to the conclusion, judg<strong>in</strong>g from a cursory
view of our behaviour, that we had come out for a morn<strong>in</strong>g’s
suicide, and had thereupon determ<strong>in</strong>ed to disappo<strong>in</strong>t us. That
is the only suggestion I can offer.
By cl<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g like grim death to the gunwale, we just managed
to keep <strong>in</strong>side the boat, but it was exhaust<strong>in</strong>g work. Hector
said that pirates and other seafar<strong>in</strong>g people generally lashed
the rudder to someth<strong>in</strong>g or other, and hauled <strong>in</strong> the ma<strong>in</strong> topjib,
dur<strong>in</strong>g severe squalls, and thought we ought to try to do
someth<strong>in</strong>g of the k<strong>in</strong>d; but I was for lett<strong>in</strong>g her have her head
to the w<strong>in</strong>d.
As my advice was by far the easiest to follow, we ended by

— 169 —
adopt<strong>in</strong>g it, and contrived to embrace the gunwale and give
her her head.
The boat travelled up stream for about a mile at a pace I
have never sailed at s<strong>in</strong>ce, and don’t want to aga<strong>in</strong>. Then, at a
bend, she heeled over till half her sail was under water. Then
she righted herself by a miracle and flew for a long low bank
of soft mud.
That mud-bank saved us. The boat ploughed its way <strong>in</strong>to the
middle of it and then stuck. F<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g that we were once more
able to move accord<strong>in</strong>g to our ideas, <strong>in</strong>stead of be<strong>in</strong>g pitched
and thrown about like peas <strong>in</strong> a bladder, we crept forward, and
cut down the sail.
We had had enough sail<strong>in</strong>g. We did not want to overdo
the th<strong>in</strong>g and get a surfeit of it. We had had a sail — a good
all-round excit<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g sail — and now we thought we
would have a row, just for a change like.
We took the sculls and tried to push the boat off the mud,
and, <strong>in</strong> do<strong>in</strong>g so, we broke one of the sculls. After that we proceeded
with great caution, but they were a wretched old pair,
and the second one cracked almost easier than the first, and
left us helpless.
The mud stretched out for about a hundred yards <strong>in</strong> front of
us, and beh<strong>in</strong>d us was the water. The only th<strong>in</strong>g to be done was
to sit and wait until someone came by.
It was not the sort of day to attract people out on the river,
and it was three hours before a soul came <strong>in</strong> sight. It was an
old fisherman who, with immense difficulty, at last rescued
us, and we were towed back <strong>in</strong> an ignom<strong>in</strong>ious fashion to the
boat-yard.
What between tipp<strong>in</strong>g the man who had brought us home,
and pay<strong>in</strong>g for the broken sculls, and for hav<strong>in</strong>g been out four
hours and a half, it cost us a pretty considerable number of
weeks’ pocket-money, that sail. But we learned experience, and
they say that is always cheap at any price.

— 170 —
CHAPTER XVI.
Read<strong>in</strong>g. — We are towed by steam launch. — Irritat<strong>in</strong>g behaviour
of small boats. — How they get <strong>in</strong> the way of steam launches. —
George and Harris aga<strong>in</strong> shirk their work. — Rather a hackneyed
story. — Streatley and Gor<strong>in</strong>g.
WE came <strong>in</strong> sight of Read<strong>in</strong>g about eleven. The river is dirty
and dismal here. One does not l<strong>in</strong>ger <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood
of Read<strong>in</strong>g. The town itself is a famous old place, dat<strong>in</strong>g from
the dim days of K<strong>in</strong>g Ethelred, when the Danes anchored their
warships <strong>in</strong> the Kennet, and started from Read<strong>in</strong>g to ravage all
the land of Wessex; and here Ethelred and his brother Alfred
fought and defeated them, Ethelred do<strong>in</strong>g the pray<strong>in</strong>g and Alfred
the fight<strong>in</strong>g.
In later years, Read<strong>in</strong>g seems to have been regarded as a
handy place to run down to, when matters were becom<strong>in</strong>g
unpleasant <strong>in</strong> London. Parliament generally rushed off to
Read<strong>in</strong>g whenever there was a plague on at Westm<strong>in</strong>ster; and,
<strong>in</strong> 1625, the Law followed suit, and all the courts were held at
Read<strong>in</strong>g. It must have been worth while hav<strong>in</strong>g a mere ord<strong>in</strong>ary
plague now and then <strong>in</strong> London to get rid of both the
lawyers and the Parliament.
Dur<strong>in</strong>g the Parliamentary struggle, Read<strong>in</strong>g was besieged by
the Earl of Essex, and, a quarter of a century later, the Pr<strong>in</strong>ce of
Orange routed K<strong>in</strong>g James’s troops there.
Henry I. lies buried at Read<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong> the Benedict<strong>in</strong>e abbey
founded by him there, the ru<strong>in</strong>s of which may still be seen;
and, <strong>in</strong> this same abbey, great John of Gaunt was married to
the Lady Blanche.
At Read<strong>in</strong>g lock we came up with a steam launch, belong<strong>in</strong>g
to some friends of m<strong>in</strong>e, and they towed us up to with<strong>in</strong>
about a mile of Streatley. It is very delightful be<strong>in</strong>g towed
up by a launch. I prefer it myself to row<strong>in</strong>g. The run would
have been more delightful still, if it had not been for a lot of
wretched small boats that were cont<strong>in</strong>ually gett<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the way
of our launch, and, to avoid runn<strong>in</strong>g down which, we had to

— 171 —
be cont<strong>in</strong>ually eas<strong>in</strong>g and stopp<strong>in</strong>g. It is really most annoy<strong>in</strong>g,
the manner <strong>in</strong> which these row<strong>in</strong>g boats get <strong>in</strong> the way of one’s
launch up the river; someth<strong>in</strong>g ought to done to stop it.
And they are so confoundedly impert<strong>in</strong>ent, too, over it. You
can whistle till you nearly burst your boiler before they will
trouble themselves to hurry. I would have one or two of them
run down now and then, if I had my way, just to teach them
all a lesson.
The river becomes very lovely from a little above Read<strong>in</strong>g.
The railway rather spoils it near Tilehurst, but from Mapledurham
up to Streatley it is glorious. A little above Mapledurham
lock you pass Hardwick House, where Charles I. played bowls.
The neighbourhood of Pangbourne, where the qua<strong>in</strong>t little
Swan Inn stands, must be as familiar to the habitués of the Art
Exhibitions as it is to its own <strong>in</strong>habitants.
My friends’ launch cast us loose just below the grotto, and
then Harris wanted to make out that it was my turn to pull.
This seemed to me most unreasonable. It had been arranged
<strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g that I should br<strong>in</strong>g the boat up to three miles
above Read<strong>in</strong>g. Well, here we were, ten miles above Read<strong>in</strong>g!
Surely it was now their turn aga<strong>in</strong>.
I could not get either George or Harris to see the matter
<strong>in</strong> its proper light, however; so, to save argument, I took the
sculls. I had not been pull<strong>in</strong>g for more than a m<strong>in</strong>ute or so,
when George noticed someth<strong>in</strong>g black float<strong>in</strong>g on the water,
and we drew up to it. George leant over, as we neared it,
and laid hold of it. And then he drew back with a cry, and a
blanched face.
It was the dead body of a woman. It lay very lightly on the
water, and the face was sweet and calm. It was not a beautiful
face; it was too prematurely aged-look<strong>in</strong>g, too th<strong>in</strong> and drawn,
to be that; but it was a gentle, lovable face, <strong>in</strong> spite of its stamp
of p<strong>in</strong>ch and poverty, and upon it was that look of restful peace
that comes to the faces of the sick sometimes when at last the
pa<strong>in</strong> has left them.
Fortunately for us — we hav<strong>in</strong>g no desire to be kept hang<strong>in</strong>g

— 172 —
about coroners’ courts — some men on the bank had seen the
body too, and now took charge of it from us.
We found out the woman’s story afterwards. Of course it was
the old, old vulgar tragedy. She had loved and been deceived —
or had deceived herself. Anyhow, she had s<strong>in</strong>ned — some of
us do now and then — and her family and friends, naturally
shocked and <strong>in</strong>dignant, had closed their doors aga<strong>in</strong>st her.
Left to fight the world alone, with the millstone of her shame
around her neck, she had sunk ever lower and lower. For a
while she had kept both herself and the child on the twelve
shill<strong>in</strong>gs a week that twelve hours’ drudgery a day procured
her, pay<strong>in</strong>g six shill<strong>in</strong>gs out of it for the child, and keep<strong>in</strong>g her
own body and soul together on the rema<strong>in</strong>der.
Six shill<strong>in</strong>gs a week does not keep body and soul together
very unitedly. They want to get away from each other when
there is only such a very slight bond as that between them; and
one day, I suppose, the pa<strong>in</strong> and the dull monotony of it all
had stood before her eyes pla<strong>in</strong>er than usual, and the mock<strong>in</strong>g
spectre had frightened her. She had made one last appeal
to friends, but, aga<strong>in</strong>st the chill wall of their respectability, the
voice of the err<strong>in</strong>g outcast fell unheeded; and then she had
gone to see her child — had held it <strong>in</strong> her arms and kissed it, <strong>in</strong>
a weary, dull sort of way, and without betray<strong>in</strong>g any particular
emotion of any k<strong>in</strong>d, and had left it, after putt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to its hand
a penny box of chocolate she had bought it, and afterwards,
with her last few shill<strong>in</strong>gs, had taken a ticket and come down
to Gor<strong>in</strong>g.
It seemed that the bitterest thoughts of her life must have
centred about the wooded reaches and the bright green
meadows around Gor<strong>in</strong>g; but women strangely hug the knife
that stabs them, and, perhaps, amidst the gall, there may have
m<strong>in</strong>gled also sunny memories of sweetest hours, spent upon
those shadowed deeps over which the great trees bend their
branches down so low.
She had wandered about the woods by the river’s br<strong>in</strong>k all
day, and then, when even<strong>in</strong>g fell and the grey twilight spread

— 173 —
its dusky robe upon the waters, she stretched her arms out to
the silent river that had known her sorrow and her joy. And the
old river had taken her <strong>in</strong>to its gentle arms, and had laid her
weary head upon its bosom, and had hushed away the pa<strong>in</strong>.
Thus had she s<strong>in</strong>ned <strong>in</strong> all th<strong>in</strong>gs — s<strong>in</strong>ned <strong>in</strong> liv<strong>in</strong>g and <strong>in</strong>
dy<strong>in</strong>g. God help her! and all other s<strong>in</strong>ners, if any more there
be.
Gor<strong>in</strong>g on the left bank and Streatley on the right are both
or either charm<strong>in</strong>g places to stay at for a few days. The reaches
down to Pangbourne woo one for a sunny sail or for a moonlight
row, and the country round about is full of beauty. We
had <strong>in</strong>tended to push on to Wall<strong>in</strong>gford that day, but the sweet
smil<strong>in</strong>g face of the river here lured us to l<strong>in</strong>ger for a while; and
so we left our boat at the bridge, and went up <strong>in</strong>to Streatley, and
lunched at the “Bull,” much to Montmorency’s satisfaction.
They say that the hills on each side of the stream here once
jo<strong>in</strong>ed and formed a barrier across what is now the Thames,
and that then the river ended there above Gor<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> one vast
lake. I am not <strong>in</strong> a position either to contradict or affirm this
statement. I simply offer it.
It is an ancient place, Streatley, dat<strong>in</strong>g back, like most riverside
towns and villages, to British and Saxon times. Gor<strong>in</strong>g is
not nearly so pretty a little spot to stop at as Streatley, if you
have your choice; but it is pass<strong>in</strong>g fair enough <strong>in</strong> its way, and is
nearer the railway <strong>in</strong> case you want to slip off without pay<strong>in</strong>g
your hotel bill.

— 174 —
CHAPTER XVII.
Wash<strong>in</strong>g day. — Fish and fishers. — On the art of angl<strong>in</strong>g. — A conscientious
fly-fisher. — A fishy story.
WE stayed two days at Streatley, and got our clothes washed.
We had tried wash<strong>in</strong>g them ourselves, <strong>in</strong> the river, under
George’s super<strong>in</strong>tendence, and it had been a failure. Indeed, it
had been more than a failure, because we were worse off after
we had washed our clothes than we were before. Before we had
washed them, they had been very, very dirty, it is true; but they
were just wearable. After we had washed them — well, the river
between Read<strong>in</strong>g and Henley was much cleaner, after we had
washed our clothes <strong>in</strong> it, than it was before. All the dirt conta<strong>in</strong>ed
<strong>in</strong> the river between Read<strong>in</strong>g and Henley, we collected,
dur<strong>in</strong>g that wash, and worked it <strong>in</strong>to our clothes.
The washerwoman at Streatley said she felt she owed it to
herself to charge us just three times the usual prices for that
wash. She said it had not been like wash<strong>in</strong>g, it had been more
<strong>in</strong> the nature of excavat<strong>in</strong>g.
We paid the bill without a murmur.
The neighbourhood of Streatley and Gor<strong>in</strong>g is a great fish<strong>in</strong>g
centre. There is some excellent fish<strong>in</strong>g to be had here. The
river abounds <strong>in</strong> pike, roach, dace, gudgeon, and eels, just here;
and you can sit and fish for them all day.
Some people do. They never catch them. I never knew
anybody catch anyth<strong>in</strong>g, up the Thames, except m<strong>in</strong>nows and
dead cats, but that has noth<strong>in</strong>g to do, of course, with fish<strong>in</strong>g!
The local fisherman’s guide doesn’t say a word about catch<strong>in</strong>g
anyth<strong>in</strong>g. All it says is the place is “a good station for fish<strong>in</strong>g;”
and, from what I have seen of the district, I am quite prepared
to bear out this statement.
There is no spot <strong>in</strong> the world where you can get more fish<strong>in</strong>g,
or where you can fish for a longer period. Some fishermen
come here and fish for a day, and others stop and fish for a
month. You can hang on and fish for a year, if you want to: it
will be all the same.

— 175 —
The Angler’s Guide to the Thames says that “jack and perch
are also to be had about here,” but there the Angler’s Guide is
wrong. Jack and perch may be about there. Indeed, I know for
a fact that they are. You can see them there <strong>in</strong> shoals, when you
are out for a walk along the banks: they come and stand half
out of the water with their mouths open for biscuits. And, if
you go for a bathe, they crowd round, and get <strong>in</strong> your way, and
irritate you. But they are not to be “had” by a bit of worm on
the end of a hook, nor anyth<strong>in</strong>g like it — not they!
I am not a good fisherman myself. I devoted a considerable
amount of attention to the subject at one time, and was gett<strong>in</strong>g
on, as I thought, fairly well; but the old hands told me that I
should never be any real good at it, and advised me to give it
up. They said that I was an extremely neat thrower, and that
I seemed to have plenty of gumption for the th<strong>in</strong>g, and quite
enough constitutional laz<strong>in</strong>ess. But they were sure I should
never make anyth<strong>in</strong>g of a fisherman. I had not got sufficient
imag<strong>in</strong>ation.
They said that as a poet, or a shill<strong>in</strong>g shocker, or a reporter,
or anyth<strong>in</strong>g of that k<strong>in</strong>d, I might be satisfactory, but that, to
ga<strong>in</strong> any position as a Thames angler, would require more play
of fancy, more power of <strong>in</strong>vention than I appeared to possess.
Some people are under the impression that all that is required
to make a good fisherman is the ability to tell lies easily
and without blush<strong>in</strong>g; but this is a mistake. Mere bald fabrication
is useless; the veriest tyro can manage that. It is <strong>in</strong> the
circumstantial detail, the embellish<strong>in</strong>g touches of probability,
the general air of scrupulous — almost of pedantic — veracity,
that the experienced angler is seen.
Anybody can come <strong>in</strong> and say, “Oh, I caught fifteen dozen
perch yesterday even<strong>in</strong>g;” or “Last Monday I landed a gudgeon,
weigh<strong>in</strong>g eighteen pounds, and measur<strong>in</strong>g three feet from
the tip to the tail.”
There is no art, no skill, required for that sort of th<strong>in</strong>g. It
shows pluck, but that is all.

— 176 —
No; your accomplished angler would scorn to tell a lie, that
way. His method is a study <strong>in</strong> itself.
He comes <strong>in</strong> quietly with his hat on, appropriates the most
comfortable chair, lights his pipe, and commences to puff <strong>in</strong>
silence. He lets the youngsters brag away for a while, and then,
dur<strong>in</strong>g a momentary lull, he removes the pipe from his mouth,
and remarks, as he knocks the ashes out aga<strong>in</strong>st the bars:
“Well, I had a haul on Tuesday even<strong>in</strong>g that it’s not much
good my tell<strong>in</strong>g anybody about.”
“Oh! why’s that?” they ask.
“Because I don’t expect anybody would believe me if I did,”
replies the old fellow calmly, and without even a t<strong>in</strong>ge of bitterness
<strong>in</strong> his tone, as he refills his pipe, and requests the landlord
to br<strong>in</strong>g him three of Scotch, cold.
There is a pause after this, nobody feel<strong>in</strong>g sufficiently sure
of himself to contradict the old gentleman. So he has to go on
by himself without any encouragement.
“No,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ues thoughtfully; “I shouldn’t believe it myself
if anybody told it to me, but it’s a fact, for all that. I had
been sitt<strong>in</strong>g there all the afternoon and had caught literally
noth<strong>in</strong>g — except a few dozen dace and a score of jack; and I
was just about giv<strong>in</strong>g it up as a bad job when I suddenly felt a
rather smart pull at the l<strong>in</strong>e. I thought it was another little one,
and I went to jerk it up. Hang me, if I could move the rod! It
took me half-an-hour — half-an-hour, sir! — to land that fish;
and every moment I thought the l<strong>in</strong>e was go<strong>in</strong>g to snap! I
reached him at last, and what do you th<strong>in</strong>k it was? A sturgeon!
a forty pound sturgeon! taken on a l<strong>in</strong>e, sir! Yes, you may well
look surprised — I’ll have another three of Scotch, landlord,
please.”
And then he goes on to tell of the astonishment of everybody
who saw it; and what his wife said, when he got home,
and of what Joe Buggles thought about it.
I asked the landlord of an <strong>in</strong>n up the river once, if it did not
<strong>in</strong>jure him, sometimes, listen<strong>in</strong>g to the tales that the fishermen
about there told him; and he said:

— 177 —
“Oh, no; not now, sir. It did used to knock me over a bit at
first, but, lor love you! me and the missus we listens to ’em all
day now. It’s what you’re used to, you know. It’s what you’re
used to.”
I knew a young man once, he was a most conscientious fellow,
and, when he took to fly-fish<strong>in</strong>g, he determ<strong>in</strong>ed never to
exaggerate his hauls by more than twenty-five per cent.
“When I have caught forty fish,” said he, “then I will tell
people that I have caught fifty, and so on. But I will not lie any
more than that, because it is s<strong>in</strong>ful to lie.”
But the twenty-five per cent. plan did not work well at all.
He never was able to use it. The greatest number of fish he ever
caught <strong>in</strong> one day was three, and you can’t add twenty-five per
cent. to three — at least, not <strong>in</strong> fish.
So he <strong>in</strong>creased his percentage to thirty-three-and-a-third;
but that, aga<strong>in</strong>, was awkward, when he had only caught one
or two; so, to simplify matters, he made up his m<strong>in</strong>d to just
double the quantity.
He stuck to this arrangement for a couple of months, and
then he grew dissatisfied with it. Nobody believed him when
he told them that he only doubled, and he, therefore, ga<strong>in</strong>ed
no credit that way whatever, while his moderation put him at
a disadvantage among the other anglers. When he had really
caught three small fish, and said he had caught six, it used to
make him quite jealous to hear a man, whom he knew for a
fact had only caught one, go<strong>in</strong>g about tell<strong>in</strong>g people he had
landed two dozen.
So, eventually, he made one f<strong>in</strong>al arrangement with himself,
which he has religiously held to ever s<strong>in</strong>ce, and that was to
count each fish that he caught as ten, and to assume ten to beg<strong>in</strong>
with. For example, if he did not catch any fish at all, then he
said he had caught ten fish — you could never catch less than
ten fish by his system; that was the foundation of it. Then, if
by any chance he really did catch one fish, he called it twenty,
while two fish would count thirty, three forty, and so on.
It is a simple and easily worked plan, and there has been

— 178 —
some talk lately of its be<strong>in</strong>g made use of by the angl<strong>in</strong>g fraternity
<strong>in</strong> general. Indeed, the Committee of the Thames Angler’s
Association did recommend its adoption about two years ago,
but some of the older members opposed it. They said they
would consider the idea if the number were doubled, and each
fish counted as twenty.
If ever you have an even<strong>in</strong>g to spare, up the river, I should
advise you to drop <strong>in</strong>to one of the little village <strong>in</strong>ns, and take
a seat <strong>in</strong> the tap-room. You will be nearly sure to meet one or
two old rod-men, sipp<strong>in</strong>g their toddy there, and they will tell
you enough fishy stories, <strong>in</strong> half an hour, to give you <strong>in</strong>digestion
for a month.
George and I — I don’t know what had become of Harris; he
had gone out and had a shave, early <strong>in</strong> the afternoon, and had
then come back and spent full forty m<strong>in</strong>utes <strong>in</strong> pipeclay<strong>in</strong>g his
shoes, we had not seen him s<strong>in</strong>ce — George and I, therefore,
and the dog, left to ourselves, went for a walk to Wall<strong>in</strong>gford
on the second even<strong>in</strong>g, and, com<strong>in</strong>g home, we called <strong>in</strong> at a little
river-side <strong>in</strong>n, for a rest, and other th<strong>in</strong>gs.
We went <strong>in</strong>to the parlour and sat down. There was an old
fellow there, smok<strong>in</strong>g a long clay pipe, and we naturally began
chatt<strong>in</strong>g.
He told us that it had been a f<strong>in</strong>e day to-day, and we told him
that it had been a f<strong>in</strong>e day yesterday, and then we all told each
other that we thought it would be a f<strong>in</strong>e day to-morrow; and
George said the crops seemed to be com<strong>in</strong>g up nicely.
After that it came out, somehow or other, that we were
strangers <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood, and that we were go<strong>in</strong>g away
the next morn<strong>in</strong>g.
Then a pause ensued <strong>in</strong> the conversation, dur<strong>in</strong>g which our
eyes wandered round the room. They f<strong>in</strong>ally rested upon a
dusty old glass-case, fixed very high up above the chimneypiece,
and conta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g a trout. It rather fasc<strong>in</strong>ated me, that
trout; it was such a monstrous fish. In fact, at first glance, I
thought it was a cod.

— 179 —
“Ah!” said the old gentleman, follow<strong>in</strong>g the direction of my
gaze, “f<strong>in</strong>e fellow that, a<strong>in</strong>’t he?”
“Quite uncommon,” I murmured; and George asked the old
man how much he thought it weighed.
“Eighteen pounds six ounces,” said our friend, ris<strong>in</strong>g and
tak<strong>in</strong>g down his coat. “Yes,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued, “it wur sixteen year
ago, come the third o’ next month, that I landed him. I caught
him just below the bridge with a m<strong>in</strong>now. They told me he wur
<strong>in</strong> the river, and I said I’d have him, and so I did. You don’t see
many fish that size about here now, I’m th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g. Good-night,
gentlemen, good-night.”
And out he went, and left us alone.
We could not take our eyes off the fish after that. It really
was a remarkably f<strong>in</strong>e fish. We were still look<strong>in</strong>g at it, when
the local carrier, who had just stopped at the <strong>in</strong>n, came to the
door of the room with a pot of beer <strong>in</strong> his hand, and he also
looked at the fish.
“Good-sized trout, that,” said George, turn<strong>in</strong>g round to
him.
“Ah! you may well say that, sir,” replied the man; and then,
after a pull at his beer, he added, “Maybe you wasn’t here, sir,
when that fish was caught?”
“No,” we told him. We were strangers <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood.
“Ah!” said the carrier, “then, of course, how should you? It
was nearly five years ago that I caught that trout.”
“Oh! was it you who caught it, then?” said I.
“Yes, sir,” replied the genial old fellow. “I caught him just
below the lock — leastways, what was the lock then — one
Friday afternoon; and the remarkable th<strong>in</strong>g about it is that I
caught him with a fly. I’d gone out pike fish<strong>in</strong>g, bless you, never
th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of a trout, and when I saw that whopper on the end
of my l<strong>in</strong>e, blest if it didn’t quite take me aback. Well, you see,
he weighed twenty-six pound. Good-night, gentlemen, goodnight.”
Five m<strong>in</strong>utes afterwards, a third man came <strong>in</strong>, and described

— 180 —
how he had caught it early one morn<strong>in</strong>g, with bleak; and then
he left, and a stolid, solemn-look<strong>in</strong>g, middle-aged <strong>in</strong>dividual
came <strong>in</strong>, and sat down over by the w<strong>in</strong>dow.
None of us spoke for a while; but, at length, George turned
to the new comer, and said:
“I beg your pardon, I hope you will forgive the liberty that
we — perfect strangers <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood — are tak<strong>in</strong>g, but
my friend here and myself would be so much obliged if you
would tell us how you caught that trout up there.”
“Why, who told you I caught that trout!” was the surprised
query.
We said that nobody had told us so, but somehow or other
we felt <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ctively that it was he who had done it.
“Well, it’s a most remarkable th<strong>in</strong>g — most remarkable,” answered
the stolid stranger, laugh<strong>in</strong>g; “because, as a matter of
fact, you are quite right. I did catch it. But fancy your guess<strong>in</strong>g
it like that. Dear me, it’s really a most remarkable th<strong>in</strong>g.”
And then he went on, and told us how it had taken him half
an hour to land it, and how it had broken his rod. He said he
had weighed it carefully when he reached home, and it had
turned the scale at thirty-four pounds.
He went <strong>in</strong> his turn, and when he was gone, the landlord
came <strong>in</strong> to us. We told him the various histories we had heard
about his trout, and he was immensely amused, and we all
laughed very heartily.
“Fancy Jim Bates and Joe Muggles and Mr. Jones and old
Billy Maunders all tell<strong>in</strong>g you that they had caught it. Ha! ha!
ha! Well, that is good,” said the honest old fellow, laugh<strong>in</strong>g
heartily. “Yes, they are the sort to give it me, to put up <strong>in</strong> my
parlour, if they had caught it, they are! Ha! ha! ha!”
And then he told us the real history of the fish. It seemed
that he had caught it himself, years ago, when he was quite a
lad; not by any art or skill, but by that unaccountable luck that
appears to always wait upon a boy when he plays the wag from
school, and goes out fish<strong>in</strong>g on a sunny afternoon, with a bit of
str<strong>in</strong>g tied on to the end of a tree.

— 181 —
He said that br<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g home that trout had saved him from
a whack<strong>in</strong>g, and that even his school-master had said it was
worth the rule-of-three and practice put together.
He was called out of the room at this po<strong>in</strong>t, and George and
I aga<strong>in</strong> turned our gaze upon the fish.
It really was a most astonish<strong>in</strong>g trout. The more we looked
at it, the more we marvelled at it.
It excited George so much that he climbed up on the back of
a chair to get a better view of it.
And then the chair slipped, and George clutched wildly at
the trout-case to save himself, and down it came with a crash,
George and the chair on top of it.
“You haven’t <strong>in</strong>jured the fish, have you?” I cried <strong>in</strong> alarm,
rush<strong>in</strong>g up.
“I hope not,” said George, ris<strong>in</strong>g cautiously and look<strong>in</strong>g
about.
But he had. That trout lay shattered <strong>in</strong>to a thousand fragments
— I say a thousand, but they may have only been n<strong>in</strong>e
hundred. I did not count them.
We thought it strange and unaccountable that a stuffed trout
should break up <strong>in</strong>to little pieces like that.
And so it would have been strange and unaccountable, if it
had been a stuffed trout, but it was not.
That trout was plaster-of-Paris.

— 182 —
CHAPTER XVIII.
Locks. — George and I are photographed. — Wall<strong>in</strong>gford. — Dorchester.
— Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon. — A family man. — A good spot for drown<strong>in</strong>g. —
A difficult bit of water. — Demoraliz<strong>in</strong>g effect of river air.
WE left Streatley early the next morn<strong>in</strong>g, and pulled up to Culham,
and slept under the canvas, <strong>in</strong> the backwater there.
The river is not extraord<strong>in</strong>arily <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g between Streatley
and Wall<strong>in</strong>gford. From Cleve you get a stretch of six and a
half miles without a lock. I believe this is the longest un<strong>in</strong>terrupted
stretch anywhere above Tedd<strong>in</strong>gton, and the Oxford
Club make use of it for their trial eights.
But however satisfactory this absence of locks may be to
row<strong>in</strong>g-men, it is to be regretted by the mere pleasure-seeker.
For myself, I am fond of locks. They pleasantly break the
monotony of the pull. I like sitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the boat and slowly ris<strong>in</strong>g
out of the cool depths up <strong>in</strong>to new reaches and fresh views; or
s<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g down, as it were, out of the world, and then wait<strong>in</strong>g,
while the gloomy gates creak, and the narrow strip of day-light
between them widens till the fair smil<strong>in</strong>g river lies full before
you, and you push your little boat out from its brief prison on
to the welcom<strong>in</strong>g waters once aga<strong>in</strong>.
They are picturesque little spots, these locks. The stout
old lock-keeper, or his cheerful-look<strong>in</strong>g wife, or bright-eyed
daughter, are pleasant folk to have a pass<strong>in</strong>g chat with.* You
meet other boats there, and river gossip is exchanged. The
Thames would not be the fairyland it is without its flowerdecked
locks.
Talk<strong>in</strong>g of locks rem<strong>in</strong>ds me of an accident George and I
very nearly had one summer’s morn<strong>in</strong>g at Hampton Court.
It was a glorious day, and the lock was crowded; and, as is a
* Or rather were. The Conservancy of late seems to have constituted
itself <strong>in</strong>to a society for the employment of idiots. A good many of the
new lock-keepers, especially <strong>in</strong> the more crowded portions of the river,
are excitable, nervous old men, quite unfitted for their post.

— 183 —
common practice up the river, a speculative photographer was
tak<strong>in</strong>g a picture of us all as we lay upon the ris<strong>in</strong>g waters.
I did not catch what was go<strong>in</strong>g on at first, and was, therefore,
extremely surprised at notic<strong>in</strong>g George hurriedly smooth out
his trousers, ruffle up his hair, and stick his cap on <strong>in</strong> a rakish
manner at the back of his head, and then, assum<strong>in</strong>g an expression
of m<strong>in</strong>gled affability and sadness, sit down <strong>in</strong> a graceful
attitude, and try to hide his feet.
My first idea was that he had suddenly caught sight of some
girl he knew, and I looked about to see who it was. Everybody
<strong>in</strong> the lock seemed to have been suddenly struck wooden.
They were all stand<strong>in</strong>g or sitt<strong>in</strong>g about <strong>in</strong> the most qua<strong>in</strong>t and
curious attitudes I have ever seen off a Japanese fan. All the
girls were smil<strong>in</strong>g. Oh, they did look so sweet! And all the fellows
were frown<strong>in</strong>g, and look<strong>in</strong>g stern and noble.
And then, at last, the truth flashed across me, and I wondered
if I should be <strong>in</strong> time. Ours was the first boat, and it
would be unk<strong>in</strong>d of me to spoil the man’s picture, I thought.
So I faced round quickly, and took up a position <strong>in</strong> the prow,
where I leant with careless grace upon the hitcher, <strong>in</strong> an attitude
suggestive of agility and strength. I arranged my hair with
a curl over the forehead, and threw an air of tender wistfulness
<strong>in</strong>to my expression, m<strong>in</strong>gled with a touch of cynicism, which
I am told suits me.
As we stood, wait<strong>in</strong>g for the eventful moment, I heard someone
beh<strong>in</strong>d call out:
“Hi! look at your nose.”
I could not turn round to see what was the matter, and
whose nose it was that was to be looked at. I stole a side-glance
at George’s nose! It was all right — at all events, there was noth<strong>in</strong>g
wrong with it that could be altered. I squ<strong>in</strong>ted down at my
own, and that seemed all that could be expected also.
“Look at your nose, you stupid ass!” came the same voice
aga<strong>in</strong>, louder.
And then another voice cried:

— 184 —
“Push your nose out, can’t you, you — you two with the
dog!”
Neither George nor I dared to turn round. The man’s hand
was on the cap, and the picture might be taken any moment.
Was it us they were call<strong>in</strong>g to? What was the matter with our
noses? Why were they to be pushed out!
But now the whole lock started yell<strong>in</strong>g, and a stentorian
voice from the back shouted:
“Look at your boat, sir; you <strong>in</strong> the red and black caps. It’s
your two corpses that will get taken <strong>in</strong> that photo, if you a<strong>in</strong>’t
quick.”
We looked then, and saw that the nose of our boat had got
fixed under the woodwork of the lock, while the <strong>in</strong>-com<strong>in</strong>g
water was ris<strong>in</strong>g all around it, and tilt<strong>in</strong>g it up. In another
moment we should be over. Quick as thought, we each seized
an oar, and a vigorous blow aga<strong>in</strong>st the side of the lock with
the butt-ends released the boat, and sent us sprawl<strong>in</strong>g on our
backs.
We did not come out well <strong>in</strong> that photograph, George and I.
Of course, as was to be expected, our luck orda<strong>in</strong>ed it, that the
man should set his wretched mach<strong>in</strong>e <strong>in</strong> motion at the precise
moment that we were both ly<strong>in</strong>g on our backs with a wild expression
of “Where am I? and what is it?” on our faces, and our
four feet wav<strong>in</strong>g madly <strong>in</strong> the air.
Our feet were undoubtedly the lead<strong>in</strong>g article <strong>in</strong> that photograph.
Indeed, very little else was to be seen. They filled up
the foreground entirely. Beh<strong>in</strong>d them, you caught glimpses
of the other boats, and bits of the surround<strong>in</strong>g scenery; but
everyth<strong>in</strong>g and everybody else <strong>in</strong> the lock looked so utterly
<strong>in</strong>significant and paltry compared with our feet, that all the
other people felt quite ashamed of themselves, and refused to
subscribe to the picture.
The owner of one steam launch, who had bespoke six copies,
resc<strong>in</strong>ded the order on see<strong>in</strong>g the negative. He said he would
take them if anybody could show him his launch, but nobody
could. It was somewhere beh<strong>in</strong>d George’s right foot.

— 185 —
There was a good deal of unpleasantness over the bus<strong>in</strong>ess.
The photographer thought we ought to take a dozen copies
each, see<strong>in</strong>g that the photo was about n<strong>in</strong>e-tenths us, but we
decl<strong>in</strong>ed. We said we had no objection to be<strong>in</strong>g photo’d fulllength,
but we preferred be<strong>in</strong>g taken the right way up.
Wall<strong>in</strong>gford, six miles above Streatley, is a very ancient town,
and has been an active centre for the mak<strong>in</strong>g of English history.
It was a rude, mud-built town <strong>in</strong> the time of the Britons,
who squatted there, until the Roman legions evicted them; and
replaced their clay-baked walls by mighty fortifications, the
trace of which Time has not yet succeeded <strong>in</strong> sweep<strong>in</strong>g away,
so well those old-world masons knew how to build.
But Time, though he halted at Roman walls, soon crumbled
Romans to dust; and on the ground, <strong>in</strong> later years, fought savage
Saxons and huge Danes, until the Normans came.
It was a walled and fortified town up to the time of the Parliamentary
War, when it suffered a long and bitter siege from
Fairfax. It fell at last, and then the walls were razed.
From Wall<strong>in</strong>gford up to Dorchester the neighbourhood of
the river grows more hilly, varied, and picturesque. Dorchester
stands half a mile from the river. It can be reached by paddl<strong>in</strong>g
up the Thame, if you have a small boat; but the best way is to
leave the river at Day’s Lock, and take a walk across the fields.
Dorchester is a delightfully peaceful old place, nestl<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> stillness
and silence and drows<strong>in</strong>ess.
Dorchester, like Wall<strong>in</strong>gford, was a city <strong>in</strong> ancient British
times; it was then called Caer Doren, “the city on the water.” In
more recent times the Romans formed a great camp here, the
fortifications surround<strong>in</strong>g which now seem like low, even hills.
In Saxon days it was the capital of Wessex. It is very old, and it
was very strong and great once. Now it sits aside from the stirr<strong>in</strong>g
world, and nods and dreams.
Round Clifton Hampden, itself a wonderfully pretty village,
old-fashioned, peaceful, and da<strong>in</strong>ty with flowers, the river
scenery is rich and beautiful. If you stay the night on land at
Clifton, you cannot do better than put up at the “Barley Mow.”

— 186 —
It is, without exception, I should say, the qua<strong>in</strong>test, most oldworld
<strong>in</strong>n up the river. It stands on the right of the bridge, quite
away from the village. Its low-pitched gables and thatched roof
and latticed w<strong>in</strong>dows give it quite a story-book appearance,
while <strong>in</strong>side it is even still more once-upon-a-timeyfied.
It would not be a good place for the hero<strong>in</strong>e of a modern
novel to stay at. The hero<strong>in</strong>e of a modern novel is always
“div<strong>in</strong>ely tall,” and she is ever “draw<strong>in</strong>g herself up to her full
height.” At the “Barley Mow” she would bump her head aga<strong>in</strong>st
the ceil<strong>in</strong>g each time she did this.
It would also be a bad house for a drunken man to put up at.
There are too many surprises <strong>in</strong> the way of unexpected steps
down <strong>in</strong>to this room and up <strong>in</strong>to that; and as for gett<strong>in</strong>g upstairs
to his bedroom, or ever f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g his bed when he got up,
either operation would be an utter impossibility to him.
We were up early the next morn<strong>in</strong>g, as we wanted to be <strong>in</strong>
Oxford by the afternoon. It is surpris<strong>in</strong>g how early one can get
up, when camp<strong>in</strong>g out. One does not yearn for “just another
five m<strong>in</strong>utes” nearly so much, ly<strong>in</strong>g wrapped up <strong>in</strong> a rug on the
boards of a boat, with a Gladstone bag for a pillow, as one does
<strong>in</strong> a featherbed. We had f<strong>in</strong>ished breakfast, and were through
Clifton Lock by half-past eight.
From Clifton to Culham the river banks are flat, monotonous,
and un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g, but, after you get through Culhalm
Lock — the coldest and deepest lock on the river — the landscape
improves.
At Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon, the river passes by the streets. Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon is a
typical country town of the smaller order — quiet, em<strong>in</strong>ently
respectable, clean, and desperately dull. It prides itself on be<strong>in</strong>g
old, but whether it can compare <strong>in</strong> this respect with Wall<strong>in</strong>gford
and Dorchester seems doubtful. A famous abbey stood
here once, and with<strong>in</strong> what is left of its sanctified walls they
brew bitter ale nowadays.
In St. Nicholas Church, at Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon, there is a monument
to John Blackwall and his wife Jane, who both, after lead<strong>in</strong>g a
happy married life, died on the very same day, August 21, 1625;

— 187 —
and <strong>in</strong> St. Helen’s Church, it is recorded that W. Lee, who died
<strong>in</strong> 1637, “had <strong>in</strong> his lifetime issue from his lo<strong>in</strong>s two hundred
lack<strong>in</strong>g but three.” If you work this out you will f<strong>in</strong>d that Mr. W.
Lee’s family numbered one hundred and n<strong>in</strong>ety-seven. Mr. W.
Lee — five times Mayor of Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon — was, no doubt, a benefactor
to his generation, but I hope there are not many of his
k<strong>in</strong>d about <strong>in</strong> this overcrowded n<strong>in</strong>eteenth century.
From Ab<strong>in</strong>gdon to Nuneham Courteney is a lovely stretch.
Nuneham Park is well worth a visit. It can be viewed on Tuesdays
and Thursdays. The house conta<strong>in</strong>s a f<strong>in</strong>e collection of
pictures and curiosities, and the grounds are very beautiful.
The pool under Sandford lasher, just beh<strong>in</strong>d the lock, is a
very good place to drown yourself <strong>in</strong>. The undercurrent is terribly
strong, and if you once get down <strong>in</strong>to it you are all right.
An obelisk marks the spot where two men have already been
drowned, while bath<strong>in</strong>g there; and the steps of the obelisk are
generally used as a div<strong>in</strong>g-board by young men now who wish
to see if the place really is dangerous.
Iffley Lock and Mill, a mile before you reach Oxford, is a
favourite subject with the river-lov<strong>in</strong>g brethren of the brush.
The real article, however, is rather disappo<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g, after the pictures.
Few th<strong>in</strong>gs, I have noticed, come quite up to the pictures
of them, <strong>in</strong> this world.
We passed through Iffley Lock at about half-past twelve, and
then, hav<strong>in</strong>g tidied up the boat and made all ready for land<strong>in</strong>g,
we set to work on our last mile.
Between Iffley and Oxford is the most difficult bit of the
river I know. You want to be born on that bit of water, to understand
it. I have been over it a fairish number of times, but I
have never been able to get the hang of it. The man who could
row a straight course from Oxford to Iffley ought to be able to
live comfortably, under one roof, with his wife, his mother-<strong>in</strong>law,
his elder sister, and the old servant who was <strong>in</strong> the family
when he was a baby.
First the current drives you on to the right bank, and then
on to the left, then it takes you out <strong>in</strong>to the middle, turns you

— 188 —
round three times, and carries you up stream aga<strong>in</strong>, and always
ends by try<strong>in</strong>g to smash you up aga<strong>in</strong>st a college barge.
Of course, as a consequence of this, we got <strong>in</strong> the way of
a good many other boats, dur<strong>in</strong>g the mile, and they <strong>in</strong> ours,
and, of course, as a consequence of that, a good deal of bad
language occurred.
I don’t know why it should be, but everybody is always so
exceptionally irritable on the river. Little mishaps, that you
would hardly notice on dry land, drive you nearly frantic with
rage, when they occur on the water. When Harris or George
makes an ass of himself on dry land, I smile <strong>in</strong>dulgently; when
they behave <strong>in</strong> a chuckle-head way on the river, I use the most
blood-curdl<strong>in</strong>g language to them. When another boat gets <strong>in</strong>
my way, I feel I want to take an oar and kill all the people <strong>in</strong>
it.
The mildest tempered people, when on land, become violent
and blood-thirsty when <strong>in</strong> a boat. I did a little boat<strong>in</strong>g once
with a young lady. She was naturally of the sweetest and gentlest
disposition imag<strong>in</strong>able, but on the river it was quite awful
to hear her.
“Oh, drat the man!” she would exclaim, when some unfortunate
sculler would get <strong>in</strong> her way; “why don’t he look where
he’s go<strong>in</strong>g?”
And, “Oh, bother the silly old th<strong>in</strong>g!” she would say <strong>in</strong>dignantly,
when the sail would not go up properly. And she would
catch hold of it, and shake it quite brutally.
Yet, as I have said, when on shore she was k<strong>in</strong>d-hearted and
amiable enough.
The air of the river has a demoralis<strong>in</strong>g effect upon one’s
temper, and this it is, I suppose, which causes even barge men
to be sometimes rude to one another, and to use language
which, no doubt, <strong>in</strong> their calmer moments they regret.

— 189 —
CHAPTER XIX.
Oxford. — Montmorency’s idea of Heaven. — The hired up-river
boat, its beauties and advantages. — The “Pride of the Thames.” —
The weather changes. — The river under different aspects. — Not a
cheerful even<strong>in</strong>g. — Yearn<strong>in</strong>gs for the unatta<strong>in</strong>able. — The cheery
chat goes round. — George performs upon the banjo. — A mournful
melody. — Another wet day. — Flight. — A little supper and a
toast.
WE spent two very pleasant days at Oxford. There are plenty
of dogs <strong>in</strong> the town of Oxford. Montmorency had eleven fights
on the first day, and fourteen on the second, and evidently
thought he had got to heaven.
Among folk too constitutionally weak, or too constitutionally
lazy, whichever it may be, to relish up-stream work, it is a
common practice to get a boat at Oxford, and row down. For
the energetic, however, the up-stream journey is certa<strong>in</strong>ly to be
preferred. It does not seem good to be always go<strong>in</strong>g with the
current. There is more satisfaction <strong>in</strong> squar<strong>in</strong>g one’s back, and
fight<strong>in</strong>g aga<strong>in</strong>st it, and w<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g one’s way forward <strong>in</strong> spite of
it — at least, so I feel, when Harris and George are scull<strong>in</strong>g and
I am steer<strong>in</strong>g.
To those who do contemplate mak<strong>in</strong>g Oxford their start<strong>in</strong>g-place,
I would say, take your own boat — unless, of course,
you can take someone else’s without any possible danger of
be<strong>in</strong>g found out. The boats that, as a rule, are let for hire on
the Thames above Marlow, are very good boats. They are
fairly water-tight; and so long as they are handled with care,
they rarely come to pieces, or s<strong>in</strong>k. There are places <strong>in</strong> them
to sit down on, and they are complete with all the necessary
arrangements — or nearly all — to enable you to row them and
steer them.
But they are not ornamental. The boat you hire up the river
above Marlow is not the sort of boat <strong>in</strong> which you can flash
about and give yourself airs. The hired up-river boat very
soon puts a stop to any nonsense of that sort on the part of

— 190 —
its occupants. That is its chief — one may say, its only recommendation.
The man <strong>in</strong> the hired up-river boat is modest and retir<strong>in</strong>g.
He likes to keep on the shady side, underneath the trees, and to
do most of his travell<strong>in</strong>g early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g or late at night,
when there are not many people about on the river to look at
him.
When the man <strong>in</strong> the hired up-river boat sees anyone he
knows, he gets out on to the bank, and hides beh<strong>in</strong>d a tree.
I was one of a party who hired an up-river boat one summer,
for a few days’ trip. We had none of us ever seen the hired
up-river boat before; and we did not know what it was when
we did see it.
We had written for a boat — a double scull<strong>in</strong>g skiff; and
when we went down with our bags to the yard, and gave our
names, the man said:
“Oh, yes; you’re the party that wrote for a double scull<strong>in</strong>g
skiff. It’s all right. Jim, fetch round The Pride of the Thames.”
The boy went, and re-appeared five m<strong>in</strong>utes afterwards,
struggl<strong>in</strong>g with an antediluvian chunk of wood, that looked
as though it had been recently dug out of somewhere, and dug
out carelessly, so as to have been unnecessarily damaged <strong>in</strong> the
process.
My own idea, on first catch<strong>in</strong>g sight of the object, was that it
was a Roman relic of some sort, — relic of what I do not know,
possibly of a coff<strong>in</strong>.
The neighbourhood of the upper Thames is rich <strong>in</strong> Roman
relics, and my surmise seemed to me a very probable one;
but our serious young man, who is a bit of a geologist, poohpoohed
my Roman relic theory, and said it was clear to the
meanest <strong>in</strong>tellect (<strong>in</strong> which category he seemed to be grieved
that he could not conscientiously <strong>in</strong>clude m<strong>in</strong>e) that the th<strong>in</strong>g
the boy had found was the fossil of a whale; and he po<strong>in</strong>ted out
to us various evidences prov<strong>in</strong>g that it must have belonged to
the preglacial period.
To settle the dispute, we appealed to the boy. We told him

— 191 —
not to be afraid, but to speak the pla<strong>in</strong> truth: Was it the fossil of
a pre-Adamite whale, or was it an early Roman coff<strong>in</strong>?
The boy said it was The Pride of the Thames.
We thought this a very humorous answer on the part of the
boy at first, and somebody gave him twopence as a reward for
his ready wit; but when he persisted <strong>in</strong> keep<strong>in</strong>g up the joke, as
we thought, too long, we got vexed with him.
“Come, come, my lad!” said our capta<strong>in</strong> sharply, “don’t let us
have any nonsense. You take your mother’s wash<strong>in</strong>g-tub home
aga<strong>in</strong>, and br<strong>in</strong>g us a boat.”
The boat-builder himself came up then, and assured us,
on his word, as a practical man, that the th<strong>in</strong>g really was a
boat — was, <strong>in</strong> fact, the boat, the “double scull<strong>in</strong>g skiff ” selected
to take us on our trip down the river.
We grumbled a good deal. We thought he might, at least,
have had it whitewashed or tarred — had someth<strong>in</strong>g done to
it to dist<strong>in</strong>guish it from a bit of a wreck; but he could not see
any fault <strong>in</strong> it.
He even seemed offended at our remarks. He said he had
picked us out the best boat <strong>in</strong> all his stock, and he thought we
might have been more grateful.
He said it, The Pride of the Thames, had been <strong>in</strong> use, just as
it now stood (or rather as it now hung together), for the last
forty years, to his knowledge, and nobody had compla<strong>in</strong>ed of it
before, and he did not see why we should be the first to beg<strong>in</strong>.
We argued no more.
We fastened the so-called boat together with some pieces
of str<strong>in</strong>g, got a bit of wall-paper and pasted over the shabbier
places, said our prayers, and stepped on board.
They charged us thirty-five shill<strong>in</strong>gs for the loan of the
remnant for six days; and we could have bought the th<strong>in</strong>g outand-out
for four-and-sixpence at any sale of drift-wood round
the coast.
The weather changed on the third day, — Oh! I am talk<strong>in</strong>g
about our present trip now, — and we started from Oxford
upon our homeward journey <strong>in</strong> the midst of a steady drizzle.

— 192 —
The river — with the sunlight flash<strong>in</strong>g from its danc<strong>in</strong>g
wavelets, gild<strong>in</strong>g gold the grey-green beech-trunks, gl<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g
through the dark, cool wood paths, chas<strong>in</strong>g shadows o’er the
shallows, fl<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g diamonds from the mill-wheels, throw<strong>in</strong>g
kisses to the lilies, wanton<strong>in</strong>g with the weirs’ white waters, silver<strong>in</strong>g
moss-grown walls and bridges, brighten<strong>in</strong>g every t<strong>in</strong>y
townlet, mak<strong>in</strong>g sweet each lane and meadow, ly<strong>in</strong>g tangled <strong>in</strong>
the rushes, peep<strong>in</strong>g, laugh<strong>in</strong>g, from each <strong>in</strong>let, gleam<strong>in</strong>g gay
on many a far sail, mak<strong>in</strong>g soft the air with glory — is a golden
fairy stream.
But the river — chill and weary, with the ceaseless ra<strong>in</strong>-drops
fall<strong>in</strong>g on its brown and sluggish waters, with a sound as of a
woman, weep<strong>in</strong>g low <strong>in</strong> some dark chamber; while the woods,
all dark and silent, shrouded <strong>in</strong> their mists of vapour, stand
like ghosts upon the marg<strong>in</strong>; silent ghosts with eyes reproachful,
like the ghosts of evil actions, like the ghosts of friends
neglected — is a spirit-haunted water through the land of va<strong>in</strong>
regrets.
Sunlight is the life-blood of Nature. Mother Earth looks at
us with such dull, soulless eyes, when the sunlight has died
away from out of her. It makes us sad to be with her then; she
does not seem to know us or to care for us. She is as a widow
who has lost the husband she loved, and her children touch her
hand, and look up <strong>in</strong>to her eyes, but ga<strong>in</strong> no smile from her.
We rowed on all that day through the ra<strong>in</strong>, and very melancholy
work it was. We pretended, at first, that we enjoyed it. We
said it was a change, and that we liked to see the river under
all its different aspects. We said we could not expect to have
it all sunsh<strong>in</strong>e, nor should we wish it. We told each other that
Nature was beautiful, even <strong>in</strong> her tears.
Indeed, Harris and I were quite enthusiastic about the bus<strong>in</strong>ess,
for the first few hours. And we sang a song about a gipsy’s
life, and how delightful a gipsy’s existence was! — free to storm
and sunsh<strong>in</strong>e, and to every w<strong>in</strong>d that blew! — and how he enjoyed
the ra<strong>in</strong>, and what a lot of good it did him; and how he
laughed at people who didn’t like it.

— 193 —
George took the fun more soberly, and stuck to the umbrella.
We hoisted the cover before we had lunch, and kept it up
all the afternoon, just leav<strong>in</strong>g a little space <strong>in</strong> the bow, from
which one of us could paddle and keep a look-out. In this way
we made n<strong>in</strong>e miles, and pulled up for the night a little below
Day’s Lock.
I cannot honestly say that we had a merry even<strong>in</strong>g. The ra<strong>in</strong>
poured down with quiet persistency. Everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the boat
was damp and clammy. Supper was not a success. Cold veal pie,
when you don’t feel hungry, is apt to cloy. I felt I wanted whitebait
and a cutlet; Harris babbled of soles and white-sauce, and
passed the rema<strong>in</strong>s of his pie to Montmorency, who decl<strong>in</strong>ed
it, and, apparently <strong>in</strong>sulted by the offer, went and sat over at the
other end of the boat by himself.
George requested that we would not talk about these th<strong>in</strong>gs,
at all events until he had f<strong>in</strong>ished his cold boiled beef without
mustard.
We played penny nap after supper. We played for about an
hour and a half, by the end of which time George had won
fourpence — George always is lucky at cards — and Harris and
I had lost exactly twopence each.
We thought we would give up gambl<strong>in</strong>g then. As Harris
said, it breeds an unhealthy excitement when carried too far.
George offered to go on and give us our revenge; but Harris
and I decided not to battle any further aga<strong>in</strong>st Fate.
After that, we mixed ourselves some toddy, and sat round
and talked. George told us about a man he had known, who
had come up the river two years ago and who had slept out <strong>in</strong>
a damp boat on just such another night as that was, and it had
given him rheumatic fever, and noth<strong>in</strong>g was able to save him,
and he had died <strong>in</strong> great agony ten days afterwards. George
said he was quite a young man, and was engaged to be married.
He said it was one of the saddest th<strong>in</strong>gs he had ever known.
And that put Harris <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d of a friend of his, who had been
<strong>in</strong> the Volunteers, and who had slept out under canvas one wet

— 194 —
night down at Aldershot, “on just such another night as this,”
said Harris; and he had woke up <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g a cripple for
life. Harris said he would <strong>in</strong>troduce us both to the man when
we got back to town; it would make our hearts bleed to see
him.
This naturally led to some pleasant chat about sciatica, fevers,
chills, lung diseases, and bronchitis; and Harris said how
very awkward it would be if one of us were taken seriously ill
<strong>in</strong> the night, see<strong>in</strong>g how far away we were from a doctor.
There seemed to be a desire for someth<strong>in</strong>g frolicksome to
follow upon this conversation, and <strong>in</strong> a weak moment I suggested
that George should get out his banjo, and see if he could
not give us a comic song.
I will say for George that he did not want any press<strong>in</strong>g.
There was no nonsense about hav<strong>in</strong>g left his music at home, or
anyth<strong>in</strong>g of that sort. He at once fished out his <strong>in</strong>strument, and
commenced to play “Two Lovely Black Eyes.”
I had always regarded “Two Lovely Black Eyes” as rather a
commonplace tune until that even<strong>in</strong>g. The rich ve<strong>in</strong> of sadness
that George extracted from it quite surprised me.
The desire that grew upon Harris and myself, as the mournful
stra<strong>in</strong>s progressed, was to fall upon each other’s necks and
weep; but by great effort we kept back the ris<strong>in</strong>g tears, and
listened to the wild yearnful melody <strong>in</strong> silence.
When the chorus came we even made a desperate effort to
be merry. We re-filled our glasses and jo<strong>in</strong>ed <strong>in</strong>; Harris, <strong>in</strong> a
voice trembl<strong>in</strong>g with emotion, lead<strong>in</strong>g, and George and I follow<strong>in</strong>g
a few words beh<strong>in</strong>d:
“Two lovely black eyes;
Oh! what a surprise!
Only for tell<strong>in</strong>g a man he was wrong,
Two —”
There we broke down. The unutterable pathos of George’s
accompaniment to that “two” we were, <strong>in</strong> our then state of de-

— 195 —
pression, unable to bear. Harris sobbed like a little child, and
the dog howled till I thought his heart or his jaw must surely
break.
George wanted to go on with another verse. He thought that
when he had got a little more <strong>in</strong>to the tune, and could throw
more “abandon,” as it were, <strong>in</strong>to the render<strong>in</strong>g, it might not
seem so sad. The feel<strong>in</strong>g of the majority, however, was opposed
to the experiment.
There be<strong>in</strong>g noth<strong>in</strong>g else to do, we went to bed — that is,
we undressed ourselves, and tossed about at the bottom of the
boat for some three or four hours. After which, we managed to
get some fitful slumber until five a.m., when we all got up and
had breakfast.
The second day was exactly like the first. The ra<strong>in</strong> cont<strong>in</strong>ued
to pour down, and we sat, wrapped up <strong>in</strong> our mack<strong>in</strong>toshes,
underneath the canvas, and drifted slowly down.
One of us — I forget which one now, but I rather th<strong>in</strong>k it was
myself — made a few feeble attempts dur<strong>in</strong>g the course of the
morn<strong>in</strong>g to work up the old gipsy foolishness about be<strong>in</strong>g children
of Nature and enjoy<strong>in</strong>g the wet; but it did not go down
well at all. That —
“I care not for the ra<strong>in</strong>, not I!”
was so pa<strong>in</strong>fully evident, as express<strong>in</strong>g the sentiments of each
of us, that to s<strong>in</strong>g it seemed unnecessary.
On one po<strong>in</strong>t we were all agreed, and that was that, come
what might, we would go through with this job to the bitter
end. We had come out for a fortnight’s enjoyment on the river,
and a fortnight’s enjoyment on the river we meant to have. If
it killed us! well, that would be a sad th<strong>in</strong>g for our friends and
relations, but it could not be helped. We felt that to give <strong>in</strong> to
the weather <strong>in</strong> a climate such as ours would be a most disastrous
precedent.
“It’s only two days more,” said Harris, “and we are young and
strong. We may get over it all right, after all.”

— 196 —
At about four o’clock we began to discuss our arrangements
for the even<strong>in</strong>g. We were a little past Gor<strong>in</strong>g then, and we decided
to paddle on to Pangbourne, and put up there for the
night.
“Another jolly even<strong>in</strong>g!” murmured George.
We sat and mused on the prospect. We should be <strong>in</strong> at Pangbourne
by five. We should f<strong>in</strong>ish d<strong>in</strong>ner at, say, half-past six.
After that we could walk about the village <strong>in</strong> the pour<strong>in</strong>g ra<strong>in</strong>
until bed-time; or we could sit <strong>in</strong> a dimly-lit bar-parlour and
read the almanac.
“Why, the Alhambra would be almost more lively,” said
Harris, ventur<strong>in</strong>g his head outside the cover for a moment and
tak<strong>in</strong>g a survey of the sky.
“With a little supper at the — * to follow,” I added, half unconsciously.
“Yes it’s almost a pity we’ve made up our m<strong>in</strong>ds to stick to
this boat,” answered Harris; and then there was silence for a
while.
“If we hadn’t made up our m<strong>in</strong>ds to contract our certa<strong>in</strong>
deaths <strong>in</strong> this bally old coff<strong>in</strong>,” observed George, cast<strong>in</strong>g a
glance of <strong>in</strong>tense malevolence over the boat, “it might be
worth while to mention that there’s a tra<strong>in</strong> leaves Pangbourne,
I know, soon after five, which would just land us <strong>in</strong> town <strong>in</strong>
comfortable time to get a chop, and then go on to the place you
mentioned afterwards.”
Nobody spoke. We looked at one another, and each one
seemed to see his own mean and guilty thoughts reflected <strong>in</strong>
the faces of the others. In silence, we dragged out and overhauled
the Gladstone. We looked up the river and down the
river; not a soul was <strong>in</strong> sight!
Twenty m<strong>in</strong>utes later, three figures, followed by a shamed-
* A capital little out-of-the-way restaurant, <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood of —,
where you can get one of the best-cooked and cheapest little French
d<strong>in</strong>ners or suppers that I know of, with an excellent bottle of Beaune,
for three-and-six; and which I am not go<strong>in</strong>g to be idiot enough to
advertise.

— 197 —
look<strong>in</strong>g dog, might have been seen creep<strong>in</strong>g stealthily from the
boat-house at the “Swan” towards the railway station, dressed
<strong>in</strong> the follow<strong>in</strong>g neither neat nor gaudy costume:
Black leather shoes, dirty; suit of boat<strong>in</strong>g flannels, very
dirty; brown felt hat, much battered; mack<strong>in</strong>tosh, very wet;
umbrella.
We had deceived the boatman at Pangbourne. We had not
had the face to tell him that we were runn<strong>in</strong>g away from the
ra<strong>in</strong>. We had left the boat, and all it conta<strong>in</strong>ed, <strong>in</strong> his charge,
with <strong>in</strong>structions that it was to be ready for us at n<strong>in</strong>e the next
morn<strong>in</strong>g. If, we said — if anyth<strong>in</strong>g unforeseen should happen,
prevent<strong>in</strong>g our return, we would write to him.
We reached Padd<strong>in</strong>gton at seven, and drove direct to the
restaurant I have before described, where we partook of a light
meal, left Montmorency, together with suggestions for a supper
to be ready at half-past ten, and then cont<strong>in</strong>ued our way to
Leicester Square.
We attracted a good deal of attention at the Alhambra. On
our present<strong>in</strong>g ourselves at the paybox we were gruffly directed
to go round to Castle Street, and were <strong>in</strong>formed that we
were half-an-hour beh<strong>in</strong>d our time.
We conv<strong>in</strong>ced the man, with some difficulty, that we were
not “the world-renowned contortionists from the Himalaya
Mounta<strong>in</strong>s,” and he took our money and let us pass.
Inside we were a still greater success. Our f<strong>in</strong>e bronzed
countenances and picturesque clothes were followed round
the place with admir<strong>in</strong>g gaze. We were the cynosure of every
eye.
It was a proud moment for us all.
We adjourned soon after the first ballet, and wended our
way back to the restaurant, where supper was already await<strong>in</strong>g
us.
I must confess to enjoy<strong>in</strong>g that supper. For about ten days
we seemed to have been liv<strong>in</strong>g, more or less, on noth<strong>in</strong>g but
cold meat, cake, and bread and jam. It had been a simple, a nutritious
diet; but there had been noth<strong>in</strong>g excit<strong>in</strong>g about it, and

— 198 —
the odour of Burgundy, and the smell of French sauces, and
the sight of clean napk<strong>in</strong>s and long loaves, knocked as a very
welcome visitor at the door of our <strong>in</strong>ner man.
We pegged and quaffed away <strong>in</strong> silence for a while, until
the time came when, <strong>in</strong>stead of sitt<strong>in</strong>g bolt upright, and grasp<strong>in</strong>g
the knife and fork firmly, we leant back <strong>in</strong> our chairs and
worked slowly and carelessly — when we stretched out our
legs beneath the table, let our napk<strong>in</strong>s fall, unheeded, to the
floor, and found time to more critically exam<strong>in</strong>e the smoky
ceil<strong>in</strong>g than we had hitherto been able to do — when we rested
our glasses at arm’s-length upon the table, and felt good, and
thoughtful, and forgiv<strong>in</strong>g.
Then Harris, who was sitt<strong>in</strong>g next the w<strong>in</strong>dow, drew aside
the curta<strong>in</strong> and looked out upon the street.
It glistened darkly <strong>in</strong> the wet, the dim lamps flickered with
each gust, the ra<strong>in</strong> splashed steadily <strong>in</strong>to the puddles and
trickled down the water-spouts <strong>in</strong>to the runn<strong>in</strong>g gutters. A few
soaked wayfarers hurried past, crouch<strong>in</strong>g beneath their dripp<strong>in</strong>g
umbrellas, the women hold<strong>in</strong>g up their skirts.
“Well,” said Harris, reach<strong>in</strong>g his hand out for his glass, “we
have had a pleasant trip, and my hearty thanks for it to old
Father Thames — but I th<strong>in</strong>k we did well to chuck it when we
did. Here’s to <strong>Three</strong> <strong>Men</strong> well out of a <strong>Boat</strong>!”
And Montmorency, stand<strong>in</strong>g on his h<strong>in</strong>d legs, before the
w<strong>in</strong>dow, peer<strong>in</strong>g out <strong>in</strong>to the night, gave a short bark of decided
concurrence with the toast.

THREE MEN ON THE BUMMEL

CHAPTER I
<strong>Three</strong> men need change — Anecdote show<strong>in</strong>g evil result of deception
— Moral cowardice of George — Harris has ideas — Yarn of
the Ancient Mar<strong>in</strong>er and the Inexperienced Yachtsman — A hearty
crew — Danger of sail<strong>in</strong>g when the w<strong>in</strong>d is off the land — Impossibility
of sail<strong>in</strong>g when the w<strong>in</strong>d is off the sea — The argumentativeness
of Ethelbertha — The dampness of the river — Harris suggests
a bicycle tour — George th<strong>in</strong>ks of the w<strong>in</strong>d — Harris suggests the
Black Forest — George th<strong>in</strong>ks of the hills — Plan adopted by Harris
for ascent of hills — Interruption by Mrs. Harris.
“WHAT we want,” said Harris, “is a change.”
At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Harris put her
head <strong>in</strong> to say that Ethelbertha had sent her to rem<strong>in</strong>d me that
we must not be late gett<strong>in</strong>g home because of Clarence. Ethelbertha,
I am <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to th<strong>in</strong>k, is unnecessarily nervous about
the children. As a matter of fact, there was noth<strong>in</strong>g wrong
with the child whatever. He had been out with his aunt that
morn<strong>in</strong>g; and if he looks wistfully at a pastrycook’s w<strong>in</strong>dow
she takes him <strong>in</strong>side and buys him cream buns and “maids-ofhonour”
until he <strong>in</strong>sists that he has had enough, and politely,
but firmly, refuses to eat another anyth<strong>in</strong>g. Then, of course, he
wants only one help<strong>in</strong>g of pudd<strong>in</strong>g at lunch, and Ethelbertha
th<strong>in</strong>ks he is sicken<strong>in</strong>g for someth<strong>in</strong>g. Mrs. Harris added that
it would be as well for us to come upstairs soon, on our own
account also, as otherwise we should miss Muriel’s render<strong>in</strong>g
of “The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party,” out of Alice <strong>in</strong> Wonderland.
Muriel is Harris’s second, age eight: she is a bright, <strong>in</strong>telligent
child; but I prefer her myself <strong>in</strong> serious pieces. We said we
would f<strong>in</strong>ish our cigarettes and follow almost immediately;
we also begged her not to let Muriel beg<strong>in</strong> until we arrived.
She promised to hold the child back as long as possible, and
went. Harris, as soon as the door was closed, resumed his <strong>in</strong>terrupted
sentence.
“You know what I mean,” he said, “a complete change.”
The question was how to get it.
George suggested “bus<strong>in</strong>ess.” It was the sort of suggestion

— 202 —
George would make. A bachelor th<strong>in</strong>ks a married woman
doesn’t know enough to get out of the way of a steam-roller. I
knew a young fellow once, an eng<strong>in</strong>eer, who thought he would
go to Vienna “on bus<strong>in</strong>ess.” His wife wanted to know “what
bus<strong>in</strong>ess?” He told her it would be his duty to visit the m<strong>in</strong>es
<strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood of the Austrian capital, and to make
reports. She said she would go with him; she was that sort
of woman. He tried to dissuade her: he told her that a m<strong>in</strong>e
was no place for a beautiful woman. She said she felt that herself,
and that therefore she did not <strong>in</strong>tend to accompany him
down the shafts; she would see him off <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, and
then amuse herself until his return, look<strong>in</strong>g round the Vienna
shops, and buy<strong>in</strong>g a few th<strong>in</strong>gs she might want. Hav<strong>in</strong>g started
the idea, he did not see very well how to get out of it; and for
ten long summer days he did visit the m<strong>in</strong>es <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood
of Vienna, and <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g wrote reports about them,
which she posted for him to his firm, who didn’t want them.
I should be grieved to th<strong>in</strong>k that either Ethelbertha or Mrs.
Harris belonged to that class of wife, but it is as well not to
overdo “bus<strong>in</strong>ess” — it should be kept for cases of real emergency.
“No,” I said, “the th<strong>in</strong>g is to be frank and manly. I shall tell
Ethelbertha that I have come to the conclusion a man never
values happ<strong>in</strong>ess that is always with him. I shall tell her that,
for the sake of learn<strong>in</strong>g to appreciate my own advantages as I
know they should be appreciated, I <strong>in</strong>tend to tear myself away
from her and the children for at least three weeks. I shall tell
her,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued, turn<strong>in</strong>g to Harris, “that it is you who have
shown me my duty <strong>in</strong> this respect; that it is to you we shall
owe —”
Harris put down his glass rather hurriedly.
“If you don’t m<strong>in</strong>d, old man,” he <strong>in</strong>terrupted, “I’d really
rather you didn’t. She’ll talk it over with my wife, and — well, I
should not be happy, tak<strong>in</strong>g credit that I do not deserve.”
“But you do deserve it,” I <strong>in</strong>sisted; “it was your suggestion.”
“It was you gave me the idea,” <strong>in</strong>terrupted Harris aga<strong>in</strong>. “You

— 203 —
know you said it was a mistake for a man to get <strong>in</strong>to a groove,
and that unbroken domesticity cloyed the bra<strong>in</strong>.”
“I was speak<strong>in</strong>g generally,” I expla<strong>in</strong>ed.
“It struck me as very apt,” said Harris. “I thought of repeat<strong>in</strong>g
it to Clara; she has a great op<strong>in</strong>ion of your sense, I know. I
am sure that if —”
“We won’t risk it,” I <strong>in</strong>terrupted, <strong>in</strong> my turn; “it is a delicate
matter, and I see a way out of it. We will say George suggested
the idea.”
There is a lack of genial helpfulness about George that it
sometimes vexes me to notice. You would have thought he
would have welcomed the chance of assist<strong>in</strong>g two old friends
out of a dilemma; <strong>in</strong>stead, he became disagreeable.
“You do,” said George, “and I shall tell them both that my
orig<strong>in</strong>al plan was that we should make a party — children and
all; that I should br<strong>in</strong>g my aunt, and that we should hire a
charm<strong>in</strong>g old château I know of <strong>in</strong> Normandy, on the coast,
where the climate is peculiarly adapted to delicate children,
and the milk such as you do not get <strong>in</strong> England. I shall add that
you over-rode that suggestion, argu<strong>in</strong>g we should be happier
by ourselves.”
With a man like George k<strong>in</strong>dness is of no use; you have to
be firm.
“You do,” said Harris, “and I, for one, will close with the offer.
We will just take that château. You will br<strong>in</strong>g your aunt — I
will see to that, — and we will have a month of it. The children
are all fond of you; J. and I will be nowhere. You’ve promised
to teach Edgar fish<strong>in</strong>g; and it is you who will have to play
wild beasts. S<strong>in</strong>ce last Sunday Dick and Muriel have talked
of noth<strong>in</strong>g else but your hippopotamus. We will picnic <strong>in</strong> the
woods — there will only be eleven of us, — and <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>gs
we will have music and recitations. Muriel is master of six
pieces already, as perhaps you know; and all the other children
are quick studies.”
George climbed down — he has no real courage — but he did
not do it gracefully. He said that if we were mean and cowardly

— 204 —
and false-hearted enough to stoop to such a shabby trick, he
supposed he couldn’t help it; and that if I didn’t <strong>in</strong>tend to f<strong>in</strong>ish
the whole bottle of claret myself, he would trouble me to
spare him a glass. He also added, somewhat illogically, that it
really did not matter, see<strong>in</strong>g both Ethelbertha and Mrs. Harris
were women of sense who would judge him better than to believe
for a moment that the suggestion emanated from him.
This little po<strong>in</strong>t settled, the question was: What sort of a
change?
Harris, as usual, was for the sea. He said he knew a yacht,
just the very th<strong>in</strong>g — one that we could manage by ourselves;
no skulk<strong>in</strong>g lot of lubbers loaf<strong>in</strong>g about, add<strong>in</strong>g to the expense
and tak<strong>in</strong>g away from the romance. Give him a handy boy, he
would sail it himself. We knew that yacht, and we told him so;
we had been on it with Harris before. It smells of bilge-water
and greens to the exclusion of all other scents; no ord<strong>in</strong>ary
sea air can hope to head aga<strong>in</strong>st it. So far as sense of smell is
concerned, one might be spend<strong>in</strong>g a week <strong>in</strong> Limehouse Hole.
There is no place to get out of the ra<strong>in</strong>; the saloon is ten feet
by four, and half of that is taken up by a stove, which falls to
pieces when you go to light it. You have to take your bath on
deck, and the towel blows overboard just as you step out of
the tub. Harris and the boy do all the <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g work — the
lugg<strong>in</strong>g and the reef<strong>in</strong>g, the lett<strong>in</strong>g her go and the heel<strong>in</strong>g her
over, and all that sort of th<strong>in</strong>g, — leav<strong>in</strong>g George and myself to
do the peel<strong>in</strong>g of the potatoes and the wash<strong>in</strong>g up.
“Very well, then,” said Harris, “let’s take a proper yacht, with
a skipper, and do the th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> style.”
That also I objected to. I know that skipper; his notion of
yacht<strong>in</strong>g is to lie <strong>in</strong> what he calls the “off<strong>in</strong>g,” where he can be
well <strong>in</strong> touch with his wife and family, to say noth<strong>in</strong>g of his
favourite public-house.
Years ago, when I was young and <strong>in</strong>experienced, I hired a
yacht myself. <strong>Three</strong> th<strong>in</strong>gs had comb<strong>in</strong>ed to lead me <strong>in</strong>to this
foolishness: I had had a stroke of unexpected luck; Ethelbertha
had expressed a yearn<strong>in</strong>g for sea air; and the very next morn-

— 205 —
<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong> tak<strong>in</strong>g up casually at the club a copy of the Sportsman, I
had come across the follow<strong>in</strong>g advertisement:—
TO YACHTSMEN. — Unique Opportunity. — “Rogue,”
28 -ton Yawl. — Owner, called away suddenly on bus<strong>in</strong>ess,
is will<strong>in</strong>g to let this superbly-fitted “greyhound of the
sea” for any period short or long. Two cab<strong>in</strong>s and saloon;
pianette, by Woffenkoff; new copper. Terms, 10 gu<strong>in</strong>eas a
week. — Apply Pertwee and Co., 3A Bucklersbury.
It had seemed to me like the answer to a prayer. “The new
copper” did not <strong>in</strong>terest me; what little wash<strong>in</strong>g we might want
could wait, I thought. But the “pianette by Woffenkoff ” sounded
allur<strong>in</strong>g. I pictured Ethelbertha play<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g —
someth<strong>in</strong>g with a chorus, <strong>in</strong> which, perhaps, the crew, with a
little tra<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g, might jo<strong>in</strong> — while our mov<strong>in</strong>g home bounded,
“greyhound-like,” over the silvery billows.
I took a cab and drove direct to 3A Bucklersbury. Mr. Pertwee
was an unpretentious-look<strong>in</strong>g gentleman, who had an
unostentatious office on the third floor. He showed me a picture
<strong>in</strong> water-colours of the Rogue fly<strong>in</strong>g before the w<strong>in</strong>d. The
deck was at an angle of 95 to the ocean. In the picture no human
be<strong>in</strong>gs were represented on the deck; I suppose they had
slipped off. Indeed, I do not see how anyone could have kept
on, unless nailed. I po<strong>in</strong>ted out this disadvantage to the agent,
who, however, expla<strong>in</strong>ed to me that the picture represented the
Rogue doubl<strong>in</strong>g someth<strong>in</strong>g or other on the well-known occasion
of her w<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g the Medway Challenge Shield. Mr. Pertwee
assumed that I knew all about the event, so that I did not like
to ask any questions. Two specks near the frame of the picture,
which at first I had taken for moths, represented, it appeared,
the second and third w<strong>in</strong>ners <strong>in</strong> this celebrated race. A photograph
of the yacht at anchor off Gravesend was less impressive,
but suggested more stability. All answers to my <strong>in</strong>quiries be<strong>in</strong>g
satisfactory, I took the th<strong>in</strong>g for a fortnight. Mr. Pertwee said it
was fortunate I wanted it only for a fortnight — later on I came

— 206 —
to agree with him, — the time fitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> exactly with another
hir<strong>in</strong>g. Had I required it for three weeks he would have been
compelled to refuse me.
The lett<strong>in</strong>g be<strong>in</strong>g thus arranged, Mr. Pertwee asked me if I
had a skipper <strong>in</strong> my eye. That I had not was also fortunate —
th<strong>in</strong>gs seemed to be turn<strong>in</strong>g out luckily for me all round, — because
Mr. Pertwee felt sure I could not do better than keep on
Mr. Goyles, at present <strong>in</strong> charge — an excellent skipper, so Mr.
Pertwee assured me, a man who knew the sea as a man knows
his own wife, and who had never lost a life.
It was still early <strong>in</strong> the day, and the yacht was ly<strong>in</strong>g off
Harwich. I caught the ten forty-five from Liverpool Street,
and by one o’clock was talk<strong>in</strong>g to Mr. Goyles on deck. He was
a stout man, and had a fatherly way with him. I told him my
idea, which was to take the outly<strong>in</strong>g Dutch islands and then
creep up to Norway. He said, “Aye, aye, sir,” and appeared quite
enthusiastic about the trip; said he should enjoy it himself.
We came to the question of victuall<strong>in</strong>g, and he grew more
enthusiastic. The amount of food suggested by Mr. Goyles, I
confess, surprised me. Had we been liv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the days of Drake
and the Spanish Ma<strong>in</strong>, I should have feared he was arrang<strong>in</strong>g
for someth<strong>in</strong>g illegal. However, he laughed <strong>in</strong> his fatherly way,
and assured me we were not overdo<strong>in</strong>g it. Anyth<strong>in</strong>g left the
crew would divide and take home with them — it seemed this
was the custom. It appeared to me that I was provid<strong>in</strong>g for this
crew for the w<strong>in</strong>ter, but I did not like to appear st<strong>in</strong>gy, and said
no more. The amount of dr<strong>in</strong>k required also surprised me. I
arranged for what I thought we should need for ourselves, and
then Mr. Goyles spoke up for the crew. I must say that for him,
he did th<strong>in</strong>k of his men.
“We don’t want anyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the nature of an orgie, Mr.
Goyles,” I suggested.
“Orgie!” replied Mr. Goyles; “why they’ll take that little
drop <strong>in</strong> their tea.”
He expla<strong>in</strong>ed to me that his motto was, Get good men and
treat them well.

— 207 —
“They work better for you,” said Mr. Goyles; “and they come
aga<strong>in</strong>.”
Personally, I didn’t feel I wanted them to come aga<strong>in</strong>. I was
beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to take a dislike to them before I had seen them; I
regarded them as a greedy and guzzl<strong>in</strong>g crew. But Mr. Goyles
was so cheerfully emphatic, and I was so <strong>in</strong>experienced, that
aga<strong>in</strong> I let him have his way. He also promised that even <strong>in</strong>
this department he would see to it personally that noth<strong>in</strong>g was
wasted.
I also left him to engage the crew. He said he could do the
th<strong>in</strong>g, and would, for me, with the help two men and a boy. If
he was allud<strong>in</strong>g to the clear<strong>in</strong>g up of the victuals and dr<strong>in</strong>k, I
th<strong>in</strong>k he was mak<strong>in</strong>g an under-estimate; but possibly he may
have been speak<strong>in</strong>g of the sail<strong>in</strong>g of the yacht.
I called at my tailors on the way home and ordered a yacht<strong>in</strong>g
suit, with a white hat, which they promised to bustle up
and have ready <strong>in</strong> time; and then I went home and told Ethelbertha
all I had done. Her delight was clouded by only one
reflection — would the dressmaker be able to f<strong>in</strong>ish a yacht<strong>in</strong>g
costume for her <strong>in</strong> time? That is so like a woman.
Our honeymoon, which had taken place not very long before,
had been somewhat curtailed, so we decided we would
<strong>in</strong>vite nobody, but have the yacht to ourselves. And thankful
I am to Heaven that we did so decide. On Monday we put on
all our clothes and started. I forget what Ethelbertha wore, but,
whatever it may have been, it looked very fetch<strong>in</strong>g. My own
costume was a dark blue trimmed with a narrow white braid,
which, I th<strong>in</strong>k, was rather effective.
Mr. Goyles met us on deck, and told us that lunch was
ready. I must admit Goyles had secured the services of a very
fair cook. The capabilities of the other members of the crew I
had no opportunity of judg<strong>in</strong>g. Speak<strong>in</strong>g of them <strong>in</strong> a state of
rest, however, I can say of them they appeared to be a cheerful
crew.
My idea had been that so soon as the men had f<strong>in</strong>ished
their d<strong>in</strong>ner we would weigh anchor, while I, smok<strong>in</strong>g a cigar,

— 208 —
with Ethelbertha by my side, would lean over the gunwale and
watch the white cliffs of the Fatherland s<strong>in</strong>k imperceptibly <strong>in</strong>to
the horizon. Ethelbertha and I carried out our part of the programme,
and waited, with the deck to ourselves.
“They seem to be tak<strong>in</strong>g their time,” said Ethelbertha.
“If, <strong>in</strong> the course of fourteen days,” I said, “they eat half of
what is on this yacht, they will want a fairly long time for every
meal. We had better not hurry them, or they won’t get through
a quarter of it.”
“They must have gone to sleep,” said Ethelbertha, later on.
“It will be tea-time soon.”
They were certa<strong>in</strong>ly very quiet. I went for’ard, and hailed
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles down the ladder. I hailed him three times;
then he came up slowly. He appeared to be a heavier and older
man than when I had seen him last. He had a cold cigar <strong>in</strong> his
mouth.
“When you are ready, Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles,” I said, “we’ll start.”
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles removed the cigar from his mouth.
“Not to-day we won’t, sir,” he replied, “with your permission.”
“Why, what’s the matter with to-day?” I said. I know sailors
are a superstitious folk; I thought maybe a Monday might be
considered unlucky.
“The day’s all right,” answered Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles, “it’s the w<strong>in</strong>d
I’m a-th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of. It don’t look much like chang<strong>in</strong>g.”
“But do we want it to change?” I asked. “It seems to me to be
just where it should be, dead beh<strong>in</strong>d us.”
“Aye, aye,” said Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles, “dead’s the right word to use,
for dead we’d all be, bar Providence, if we was to put out <strong>in</strong> this.
You see, sir,” he expla<strong>in</strong>ed, <strong>in</strong> answer to my look of surprise,
“this is what we call a ‘land w<strong>in</strong>d,’ that is, it’s a-blow<strong>in</strong>g, as one
might say, direct off the land.”
When I came to th<strong>in</strong>k of it the man was right; the w<strong>in</strong>d was
blow<strong>in</strong>g off the land.
“It may change <strong>in</strong> the night,” said Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles, more
hopefully “anyhow, it’s not violent, and she rides well.”

— 209 —
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles resumed his cigar, and I returned aft, and
expla<strong>in</strong>ed to Ethelbertha the reason for the delay. Ethelbertha,
who appeared to be less high spirited than when we first
boarded, wanted to know why we couldn’t sail when the w<strong>in</strong>d
was off the land.
“If it was not blow<strong>in</strong>g off the land,” said Ethelbertha, “it
would be blow<strong>in</strong>g off the sea, and that would send us back
<strong>in</strong>to the shore aga<strong>in</strong>. It seems to me this is just the very w<strong>in</strong>d
we want.”
I said: “That is your <strong>in</strong>experience, love; it seems to be the
very w<strong>in</strong>d we want, but it is not. It’s what we call a land w<strong>in</strong>d,
and a land w<strong>in</strong>d is always very dangerous.”
Ethelbertha wanted to know why a land w<strong>in</strong>d was very dangerous.
Her argumentativeness annoyed me somewhat; maybe I was
feel<strong>in</strong>g a bit cross; the monotonous roll<strong>in</strong>g heave of a small
yacht at anchor depresses an ardent spirit.
“I can’t expla<strong>in</strong> it to you,” I replied, which was true, “but to
set sail <strong>in</strong> this w<strong>in</strong>d would be the height of foolhard<strong>in</strong>ess, and
I care for you too much, dear, to expose you to unnecessary
risks.”
I thought this rather a neat conclusion, but Ethelbertha
merely replied that she wished, under the circumstances, we
hadn’t come on board till Tuesday, and went below.
In the morn<strong>in</strong>g the w<strong>in</strong>d veered round to the north; I was
up early, and observed this to Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he remarked; “it’s unfortunate, but it can’t be
helped.”
“You don’t th<strong>in</strong>k it possible for us to start to-day?” I hazarded.
He did not get angry with me, he only laughed.
“Well, sir,” said he, “if you was a-want<strong>in</strong>g to go to Ipswich,
I should say as it couldn’t be better for us, but our dest<strong>in</strong>ation
be<strong>in</strong>g, as you see, the Dutch coast — why there you are!”
I broke the news to Ethelbertha, and we agreed to spend the
day on shore. Harwich is not a merry town, towards even<strong>in</strong>g

— 210 —
you might call it dull. We had some tea and watercress at Dovercourt,
and then returned to the quay to look for Capta<strong>in</strong>
Goyles and the boat. We waited an hour for him. When he
came he was more cheerful than we were; if he had not told
me himself that he never drank anyth<strong>in</strong>g but one glass of hot
grog before turn<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> for the night, I should have said he was
drunk.
The next morn<strong>in</strong>g the w<strong>in</strong>d was <strong>in</strong> the south, which made
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles rather anxious, it appear<strong>in</strong>g that it was equally
unsafe to move or to stop where we were; our only hope was it
would change before anyth<strong>in</strong>g happened. By this time, Ethelbertha
had taken a dislike to the yacht; she said that, personally,
she would rather be spend<strong>in</strong>g a week <strong>in</strong> a bath<strong>in</strong>g mach<strong>in</strong>e,
see<strong>in</strong>g that a bath<strong>in</strong>g mach<strong>in</strong>e was at least steady.
We passed another day <strong>in</strong> Harwich, and that night and the
next, the w<strong>in</strong>d still cont<strong>in</strong>u<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the south, we slept at the
“K<strong>in</strong>g’s Head.” On Friday the w<strong>in</strong>d was blow<strong>in</strong>g direct from
the east. I met Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles on the quay, and suggested that,
under these circumstances, we might start. He appeared irritated
at my persistence.
“If you knew a bit more, sir,” he said, “you’d see for yourself
that it’s impossible. The w<strong>in</strong>d’s a-blow<strong>in</strong>g direct off the sea.”
I said: “Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles, tell me what is this th<strong>in</strong>g I have
hired? Is it a yacht or a house-boat?”
He seemed surprised at my question.
He said: “It’s a yawl.”
“What I mean is,” I said, “can it be moved at all, or is it a
fixture here? If it is a fixture,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued, “tell me so frankly,
then we will get some ivy <strong>in</strong> boxes and tra<strong>in</strong> over the portholes,
stick some flowers and an awn<strong>in</strong>g on deck, and make the
th<strong>in</strong>g look pretty. If, on the other hand, it can be moved —”
“Moved!” <strong>in</strong>terrupted Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles. “You get the right
w<strong>in</strong>d beh<strong>in</strong>d the Rogue — ”
I said: “What is the right w<strong>in</strong>d?”
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles looked puzzled.
“In the course of this week,” I went on, “we have had w<strong>in</strong>d

— 211 —
from the north, from the south, from the east, from the
west — with variations. If you can th<strong>in</strong>k of any other po<strong>in</strong>t of
the compass from which it can blow, tell me, and I will wait for
it. If not, and if that anchor has not grown <strong>in</strong>to the bottom of
the ocean, we will have it up to-day and see what happens.”
He grasped the fact that I was determ<strong>in</strong>ed.
“Very well, sir,” he said, “you’re master and I’m man. I’ve
only got one child as is still dependent on me, thank God, and
no doubt your executors will feel it their duty to do the right
th<strong>in</strong>g by the old woman.”
His solemnity impressed me.
“Mr. Goyles,” I said, “be honest with me. Is there any hope,
<strong>in</strong> any weather, of gett<strong>in</strong>g away from this damned hole?”
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles’s k<strong>in</strong>dly geniality returned to him.
“You see, sir,” he said, “this is a very peculiar coast. We’d
be all right if we were once out, but gett<strong>in</strong>g away from it <strong>in</strong> a
cockle-shell like that — well, to be frank, sir, it wants do<strong>in</strong>g.”
I left Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles with the assurance that he would watch
the weather as a mother would her sleep<strong>in</strong>g babe; it was his
own simile, and it struck me as rather touch<strong>in</strong>g. I saw him
aga<strong>in</strong> at twelve o’clock; he was watch<strong>in</strong>g it from the w<strong>in</strong>dow of
the “Cha<strong>in</strong> and Anchor.”
At five o’clock that even<strong>in</strong>g a stroke of luck occurred; <strong>in</strong> the
middle of the High Street I met a couple of yacht<strong>in</strong>g friends,
who had had to put <strong>in</strong> by reason of a stra<strong>in</strong>ed rudder. I told
them my story, and they appeared less surprised than amused.
Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles and the two men were still watch<strong>in</strong>g the
weather. I ran <strong>in</strong>to the “K<strong>in</strong>g’s Head,” and prepared Ethelbertha.
The four of us crept quietly down to the quay, where we
found our boat. Only the boy was on board; my two friends
took charge of the yacht, and by six o’clock we were scudd<strong>in</strong>g
merrily up the coast.
We put <strong>in</strong> that night at Aldborough, and the next day
worked up to Yarmouth, where, as my friends had to leave, I
decided to abandon the yacht. We sold the stores by auction
on Yarmouth sands early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g. I made a loss, but

— 212 —
had the satisfaction of “do<strong>in</strong>g” Capta<strong>in</strong> Goyles. I left the Rogue
<strong>in</strong> charge of a local mar<strong>in</strong>er, who, for a couple of sovereigns,
undertook to see to its return to Harwich; and we came back
to London by tra<strong>in</strong>. There may be yachts other than the Rogue,
and skippers other than Mr. Goyles, but that experience has
prejudiced me aga<strong>in</strong>st both.
George also thought a yacht would be a good deal of responsibility,
so we dismissed the idea.
“What about the river?” suggested Harris.
“We have had some pleasant times on that.”
George pulled <strong>in</strong> silence at his cigar, and I cracked another
nut.
“The river is not what it used to be,” said I; “I don’t know
what, but there’s a someth<strong>in</strong>g — a dampness — about the river
air that always starts my lumbago.”
“It’s the same with me,” said George. “I don’t know how it is,
but I never can sleep now <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood of the river. I
spent a week at Joe’s place <strong>in</strong> the spr<strong>in</strong>g, and every night I woke
up at seven o’clock and never got a w<strong>in</strong>k afterwards.”
“I merely suggested it,” observed Harris. “Personally, I don’t
th<strong>in</strong>k it good for me, either; it touches my gout.”
“What suits me best,” I said, “is mounta<strong>in</strong> air. What say you
to a walk<strong>in</strong>g tour <strong>in</strong> Scotland?”
“It’s always wet <strong>in</strong> Scotland,” said George. “I was three weeks
<strong>in</strong> Scotland the year before last, and was never dry once all the
time — not <strong>in</strong> that sense.”
“It’s f<strong>in</strong>e enough <strong>in</strong> Switzerland,” said Harris.
“They would never stand our go<strong>in</strong>g to Switzerland by ourselves,”
I objected. “You know what happened last time. It must
be some place where no delicately nurtured woman or child
could possibly live; a country of bad hotels and comfortless
travell<strong>in</strong>g; where we shall have to rough it, to work hard, to
starve perhaps —”
“Easy!” <strong>in</strong>terrupted George, “easy, there! Don’t forget I’m
com<strong>in</strong>g with you.”
“I have it!” exclaimed Harris; “a bicycle tour!”

— 213 —
George looked doubtful.
“There’s a lot of uphill about a bicycle tour,” said he, “and the
w<strong>in</strong>d is aga<strong>in</strong>st you.”
“So there is downhill, and the w<strong>in</strong>d beh<strong>in</strong>d you,” said Harris.
“I’ve never noticed it,” said George.
“You won’t th<strong>in</strong>k of anyth<strong>in</strong>g better than a bicycle tour,”
persisted Harris.
I was <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to agree with him.
“And I’ll tell you where,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued he; “through the Black
Forest.”
“Why, that’s all uphill,” said George.
“Not all,” retorted Harris; “say two-thirds. And there’s one
th<strong>in</strong>g you’ve forgotten.”
He looked round cautiously, and sunk his voice to a whisper.
“There are little railways go<strong>in</strong>g up those hills, little cogwheel
th<strong>in</strong>gs that —”
The door opened, and Mrs. Harris appeared. She said that
Ethelbertha was putt<strong>in</strong>g on her bonnet, and that Muriel, after
wait<strong>in</strong>g, had given “The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party” without us.
“Club, to-morrow, at four,” whispered Harris to me, as he
rose, and I passed it on to George as we went upstairs

— 214 —
CHAPTER II
A delicate bus<strong>in</strong>ess — What Ethelbertha might have said — What
she did say — What Mrs. Harris said — What we told George — We
will start on Wednesday — George suggests the possibility of improv<strong>in</strong>g
our m<strong>in</strong>ds — Harris and I are doubtful — Which man
on a tandem does the most work? — The op<strong>in</strong>ion of the man <strong>in</strong>
front — Views of the man beh<strong>in</strong>d — How Harris lost his wife — The
luggage question — The wisdom of my late Uncle Podger — Beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g
of story about a man who had a bag.
I OPENED the ball with Ethelbertha that same even<strong>in</strong>g. I commenced
by be<strong>in</strong>g purposely a little irritable. My idea was that
Ethelbertha would remark upon this. I should admit it, and
account for it by over bra<strong>in</strong> pressure. This would naturally
lead to talk about my health <strong>in</strong> general, and the evident necessity
there was for my tak<strong>in</strong>g prompt and vigorous measures. I
thought that with a little tact I might even manage so that the
suggestion should come from Ethelbertha herself. I imag<strong>in</strong>ed
her say<strong>in</strong>g: “No, dear, it is change you want; complete change.
Now be persuaded by me, and go away for a month. No, do
not ask me to come with you. I know you would rather that
I did, but I will not. It is the society of other men you need.
Try and persuade George and Harris to go with you. Believe
me, a highly strung bra<strong>in</strong> such as yours demands occasional
relaxation from the stra<strong>in</strong> of domestic surround<strong>in</strong>gs. Forget
for a little while that children want music lessons, and boots,
and bicycles, with t<strong>in</strong>cture of rhubarb three times a day; forget
there are such th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> life as cooks, and house decorators,
and next-door dogs, and butchers’ bills. Go away to some green
corner of the earth, where all is new and strange to you, where
your over-wrought m<strong>in</strong>d will gather peace and fresh ideas. Go
away for a space and give me time to miss you, and to reflect
upon your goodness and virtue, which, cont<strong>in</strong>ually present
with me, I may, human-like, be apt to forget, as one, through
use, grows <strong>in</strong>different to the bless<strong>in</strong>g of the sun and the beauty
of the moon. Go away, and come back refreshed <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d and

— 215 —
body, a brighter, better man — if that be possible — than when
you went away.”
But even when we obta<strong>in</strong> our desires they never come to us
garbed as we would wish. To beg<strong>in</strong> with, Ethelbertha did not
seem to remark that I was irritable; I had to draw her attention
to it. I said:
“You must forgive me, I’m not feel<strong>in</strong>g quite myself tonight.”
She said: “Oh! I have not noticed anyth<strong>in</strong>g different; what’s
the matter with you?”
“I can’t tell you what it is,” I said; “I’ve felt it com<strong>in</strong>g on for
weeks.”
“It’s that whisky,” said Ethelbertha. “You never touch it except
when we go to the Harris’s. You know you can’t stand it;
you have not a strong head.”
“It isn’t the whisky,” I replied; “it’s deeper than that. I fancy
it’s more mental than bodily.”
“You’ve been read<strong>in</strong>g those criticisms aga<strong>in</strong>,” said Ethelbertha,
more sympathetically; “why don’t you take my advice and
put them on the fire?”
“And it isn’t the criticisms,” I answered; “they’ve been quite
flatter<strong>in</strong>g of late — one or two of them.”
“Well, what is it?” said Ethelbertha; “there must be someth<strong>in</strong>g
to account for it.”
“No, there isn’t,” I replied; “that’s the remarkable th<strong>in</strong>g about
it; I can only describe it as a strange feel<strong>in</strong>g of unrest that
seems to have taken possession of me.”
Ethelbertha glanced across at me with a somewhat curious
expression, I thought; but as she said noth<strong>in</strong>g, I cont<strong>in</strong>ued the
argument myself.
“This ach<strong>in</strong>g monotony of life, these days of peaceful, uneventful
felicity, they appal one.”
“I should not grumble at them,” said Ethelbertha; “we might
get some of the other sort, and like them still less.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” I replied. “In a life of cont<strong>in</strong>uous
joy, I can imag<strong>in</strong>e even pa<strong>in</strong> com<strong>in</strong>g as a welcome variation.

— 216 —
I wonder sometimes whether the sa<strong>in</strong>ts <strong>in</strong> heaven do not occasionally
feel the cont<strong>in</strong>ual serenity a burden. To myself a life
of endless bliss, un<strong>in</strong>terrupted by a s<strong>in</strong>gle contrast<strong>in</strong>g note,
would, I feel, grow madden<strong>in</strong>g. I suppose,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued, “I am a
strange sort of man; I can hardly understand myself at times.
There are moments,” I added, “when I hate myself.”
Often a little speech like this, h<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g at hidden depths of <strong>in</strong>describable
emotion has touched Ethelbertha, but to-night she
appeared strangely unsympathetic. With regard to heaven and
its possible effect upon me, she suggested my not worry<strong>in</strong>g
myself about that, remark<strong>in</strong>g it was always foolish to go halfway
to meet trouble that might never come; while as to my
be<strong>in</strong>g a strange sort of fellow, that, she supposed, I could not
help, and if other people were will<strong>in</strong>g to put up with me, there
was an end of the matter. The monotony of life, she added, was
a common experience; there she could sympathise with me.
“You don’t know I long,” said Ethelbertha, “to get away occasionally,
even from you; but I know it can never be, so I do
not brood upon it.”
I had never heard Ethelbertha speak like this before; it astonished
and grieved me beyond measure.
“That’s not a very k<strong>in</strong>d remark to make,” I said, “not a wifely
remark.”
“I know it isn’t,” she replied; “that is why I have never said
it before. You men never can understand,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Ethelbertha,
“that, however fond a woman may be of a man, there are
times when he palls upon her. You don’t know how I long to be
able sometimes to put on my bonnet and go out, with nobody
to ask me where I am go<strong>in</strong>g, why I am go<strong>in</strong>g, how long I am
go<strong>in</strong>g to be, and when I shall be back. You don’t know how I
sometimes long to order a d<strong>in</strong>ner that I should like and that
the children would like, but at the sight of which you would put
on your hat and be off to the Club. You don’t know how much I
feel <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed sometimes to <strong>in</strong>vite some woman here that I like,
and that I know you don’t; to go and see the people that I want
to see, to go to bed when I am tired, and to get up when I feel

— 217 —
I want to get up. Two people liv<strong>in</strong>g together are bound both to
be cont<strong>in</strong>ually sacrific<strong>in</strong>g their own desires to the other one. It
is sometimes a good th<strong>in</strong>g to slacken the stra<strong>in</strong> a bit.”
On th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g over Ethelbertha’s words afterwards, have come
to see their wisdom; but at the time I admit I was hurt and
<strong>in</strong>dignant.
“If your desire,” I said, “is to get rid of me —”
“Now, don’t be an old goose,” said Ethelbertha; “I only want
to get rid of you for a little while, just long enough to forget
there are one or two corners about you that are not perfect, just
long enough to let me remember what a dear fellow you are <strong>in</strong>
other respects, and to look forward to your return, as I used to
look forward to your com<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the old days when I did not see
you so often as to become, perhaps, a little <strong>in</strong>different to you,
as one grows <strong>in</strong>different to the glory of the sun, just because
he is there every day.”
I did not like the tone that Ethelbertha took. There seemed
to be a frivolity about her, unsuited to the theme <strong>in</strong>to which we
had drifted. That a woman should contemplate cheerfully an
absence of three or four weeks from her husband appeared to
me to be not altogether nice, not what I call womanly; it was
not like Ethelbertha at all. I was worried, I felt I didn’t want
to go this trip at all. If it had not been for George and Harris,
I would have abandoned it. As it was, I could not see how to
change my m<strong>in</strong>d with dignity.
“Very well, Ethelbertha,” I replied, “it shall be as you wish. If
you desire a holiday from my presence, you shall enjoy it; but
if it be not impert<strong>in</strong>ent curiosity on the part of a husband, I
should like to know what you propose do<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> my absence?”
“We will take that house at Folkestone,” answered Ethelbertha,
“and I’ll go down there with Kate. And if you want to do
Clara Harris a good turn,” added Ethelbertha, “you’ll persuade
Harris to go with you, and then Clara can jo<strong>in</strong> us. We three
used to have some very jolly times together before you men
ever came along, and it would be just delightful to renew them.

— 218 —
Do you th<strong>in</strong>k,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Ethelbertha, “that you could persuade
Mr. Harris to go with you?”
I said I would try.
“There’s a dear boy,” said Ethelbertha; “try hard. You might
get George to jo<strong>in</strong> you.”
I replied there was not much advantage <strong>in</strong> George’s com<strong>in</strong>g,
see<strong>in</strong>g he was a bachelor, and that therefore nobody would
be much benefited by his absence. But a woman never understands
satire. Ethelbertha merely remarked it would look
unk<strong>in</strong>d leav<strong>in</strong>g him beh<strong>in</strong>d. I promised to put it to him.
I met Harris at the Club <strong>in</strong> the afternoon, and asked him
how he had got on.
He said, “Oh, that’s all right; there’s no difficulty about gett<strong>in</strong>g
away.”
But there was that about his tone that suggested <strong>in</strong>complete
satisfaction, so I pressed him for further details.
“She was as sweet as milk about it,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued; “said it
was an excellent idea of George’s, and that she thought it would
do me good.”
“That seems all right,” I said; “what’s wrong about that?”
“There’s noth<strong>in</strong>g wrong about that,” he answered, “but that
wasn’t all. She went on to talk of other th<strong>in</strong>gs.”
“I understand,” I said.
“There’s that bathroom fad of hers,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued.
“I’ve heard of it,” I said; “she has started Ethelbertha on the
same idea.”
“Well, I’ve had to agree to that be<strong>in</strong>g put <strong>in</strong> hand at once; I
couldn’t argue any more when she was so nice about the other
th<strong>in</strong>g. That will cost me a hundred pounds, at the very least.”
“As much as that?” I asked.
“Every penny of it,” said Harris; “the estimate alone is
sixty.”
I was sorry to hear him say this.
“Then there’s the kitchen stove,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Harris; “everyth<strong>in</strong>g
that has gone wrong <strong>in</strong> the house for the last two years
has been the fault of that kitchen stove.”

— 219 —
“I know,” I said. “We have been <strong>in</strong> seven houses s<strong>in</strong>ce we
were married, and every kitchen stove has been worse than the
last. Our present one is not only <strong>in</strong>competent; it is spiteful. It
knows when we are giv<strong>in</strong>g a party, and goes out of its way to
do its worst.”
“We are go<strong>in</strong>g to have a new one,” said Harris, but he did not
say it proudly. “Clara thought it would be such a sav<strong>in</strong>g of expense,
hav<strong>in</strong>g the two th<strong>in</strong>gs done at the same time. I believe,”
said Harris, “if a woman wanted a diamond tiara, she would
expla<strong>in</strong> that it was to save the expense of a bonnet.”
“How much do you reckon the stove is go<strong>in</strong>g to cost you?” I
asked. I felt <strong>in</strong>terested <strong>in</strong> the subject.
“I don’t know,” answered Harris; “another twenty, I suppose.
Then we talked about the piano. Could you ever notice,” said
Harris, “any difference between one piano and another?”
“Some of them seem to be a bit louder than others,” I answered;
“but one gets used to that.”
“Ours is all wrong about the treble,” said Harris. “By the way,
what is the treble?”
“It’s the shrill end of the th<strong>in</strong>g,” I expla<strong>in</strong>ed; “the part that
sounds as if you’d trod on its tail. The brilliant selections always
end up with a flourish on it.”
“They want more of it,” said Harris; “our old one hasn’t got
enough of it. I’ll have to put it <strong>in</strong> the nursery, and get a new one
for the draw<strong>in</strong>g-room.”
“Anyth<strong>in</strong>g else?” I asked.
“No,” said Harris; “she didn’t seem able to th<strong>in</strong>k of anyth<strong>in</strong>g
else.”
“You’ll f<strong>in</strong>d when you get home,” I said, “she has thought of
one other th<strong>in</strong>g.”
“What’s that?” said Harris.
“A house at Folkestone for the season.”
“What should she want a house at Folkestone for?” said
Harris.
“To live <strong>in</strong>,” I suggested, “dur<strong>in</strong>g the summer months.”

— 220 —
“She’s go<strong>in</strong>g to her people <strong>in</strong> Wales,” said Harris, “for the
holidays, with the children; we’ve had an <strong>in</strong>vitation.”
“Possibly,” I said, “she’ll go to Wales before she goes to
Folkestone, or maybe she’ll take Wales on her way home; but
she’ll want a house at Folkestone for the season, notwithstand<strong>in</strong>g.
I may be mistaken — I hope for your sake that I am — but I
feel a presentiment that I’m not.”
“This trip,” said Harris, “is go<strong>in</strong>g to be expensive.”
“It was an idiotic suggestion,” I said, “from the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g.”
“It was foolish of us to listen to him,” said Harris; “he’ll get
us <strong>in</strong>to real trouble one of these days.”
“He always was a muddler,” I agreed.
“So headstrong,” added Harris.
We heard his voice at that moment <strong>in</strong> the hall, ask<strong>in</strong>g for
letters.
“Better not say anyth<strong>in</strong>g to him,” I suggested; “it’s too late
to go back now.”
“There would be no advantage <strong>in</strong> do<strong>in</strong>g so,” replied Harris.
“I should have to get that bathroom and piano <strong>in</strong> any case
now.”
He came <strong>in</strong> look<strong>in</strong>g very cheerful.
“Well,” he said, “is it all right? Have you managed it?”
There was that about his tone I did not altogether like; I
noticed Harris resented it also.
“Managed what?” I said.
“Why, to get off,” said George.
I felt the time was come to expla<strong>in</strong> th<strong>in</strong>gs to George.
“In married life,” I said, “the man proposes, the woman submits.
It is her duty; all religion teaches it.”
George folded his hands and fixed his eyes on the ceil<strong>in</strong>g.
“We may chaff and joke a little about these th<strong>in</strong>gs,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued;
“but when it comes to practice, that is what always
happens. We have mentioned to our wives that we are go<strong>in</strong>g.
Naturally, they are grieved; they would prefer to come with us;
fail<strong>in</strong>g that, they would have us rema<strong>in</strong> with them. But we have

— 221 —
expla<strong>in</strong>ed to them our wishes on the subject, and — there’s an
end of the matter.”
George said, “Forgive me; I did not understand. I am only a
bachelor. People tell me this, that, and the other, and I listen.”
I said, “That is where you do wrong. When you want <strong>in</strong>formation
come to Harris or myself; we will tell you the truth
about these questions.”
George thanked us, and we proceeded with the bus<strong>in</strong>ess <strong>in</strong>
hand.
“When shall we start?” said George.
“So far as I am concerned,” replied Harris, “the sooner the
better.”
His idea, I fancy, was to get away before Mrs. H. thought of
other th<strong>in</strong>gs. We fixed the follow<strong>in</strong>g Wednesday.
“What about route?” said Harris.
“I have an idea,” said George. “I take it you fellows are naturally
anxious to improve your m<strong>in</strong>ds?”
I said, “We don’t want to become monstrosities. To a reasonable
degree, yes, if it can be done without much expense and
with little personal trouble.”
“It can,” said George. “We know Holland and the Rh<strong>in</strong>e.
Very well, my suggestion is that we take the boat to Hamburg,
see Berl<strong>in</strong> and Dresden, and work our way to the Schwarzwald,
through Nuremberg and Stuttgart.”
“There are some pretty bits <strong>in</strong> Mesopotamia, so I’ve been
told,” murmured Harris.
George said Mesopotamia was too much out of our way, but
that the Berl<strong>in</strong>-Dresden route was quite practicable. For good
or evil, he persuaded us <strong>in</strong>to it.
“The mach<strong>in</strong>es, I suppose,” said George, “as before. Harris
and I on the tandem, J. —”
“I th<strong>in</strong>k not,” <strong>in</strong>terrupted Harris, firmly. “You and J. on the
tandem, I on the s<strong>in</strong>gle.”
“All the same to me,” agreed George. “J. and I on the tandem,
Harris —”
“I do not m<strong>in</strong>d tak<strong>in</strong>g my turn,” I <strong>in</strong>terrupted, “but I am

— 222 —
not go<strong>in</strong>g to carry George all the way; the burden should be
divided.”
“Very well,” agreed Harris, “we’ll divide it. But it must be on
the dist<strong>in</strong>ct understand<strong>in</strong>g that he works.”
“That he what?” said George.
“That he works,” repeated Harris, firmly; “at all events, uphill.”
“Great Scott!” said George; “don’t you want any exercise?”
There is always unpleasantness about this tandem. It is the
theory of the man <strong>in</strong> front that the man beh<strong>in</strong>d does noth<strong>in</strong>g;
it is equally the theory of the man beh<strong>in</strong>d that he alone is the
motive power, the man <strong>in</strong> front merely do<strong>in</strong>g the puff<strong>in</strong>g. The
mystery will never be solved. It is annoy<strong>in</strong>g when Prudence is
whisper<strong>in</strong>g to you on the one side not to overdo your strength
and br<strong>in</strong>g on heart disease; while Justice <strong>in</strong>to the other ear is
remark<strong>in</strong>g, “Why should you do it all? This isn’t a cab. He’s not
your passenger:” to hear him grunt out:
“What’s the matter — lost your pedals?”
Harris, <strong>in</strong> his early married days, made much trouble for
himself on one occasion, ow<strong>in</strong>g to this impossibility of know<strong>in</strong>g
what the person beh<strong>in</strong>d is do<strong>in</strong>g. He was rid<strong>in</strong>g with his
wife through Holland. The roads were stony, and the mach<strong>in</strong>e
jumped a good deal.
“Sit tight,” said Harris, without turn<strong>in</strong>g his head.
What Mrs. Harris thought he said was, “Jump off.” Why
she should have thought he said “Jump off,” when he said “Sit
tight,” neither of them can expla<strong>in</strong>.
Mrs. Harris puts it <strong>in</strong> this way, “If you had said, ‘Sit tight,’
why should I have jumped off ?”
Harris puts it, “If I had wanted you to jump off, why should
I have said ‘Sit tight!’?”
The bitterness is past, but they argue about the matter to
this day.
Be the explanation what it may, however, noth<strong>in</strong>g alters the
fact that Mrs. Harris did jump off, while Harris pedalled away
hard, under the impression she was still beh<strong>in</strong>d him. It appears

— 223 —
that at first she thought he was rid<strong>in</strong>g up the hill merely to
show off. They were both young <strong>in</strong> those days, and he used
to do that sort of th<strong>in</strong>g. She expected him to spr<strong>in</strong>g to earth
on reach<strong>in</strong>g the summit, and lean <strong>in</strong> a careless and graceful
attitude aga<strong>in</strong>st the mach<strong>in</strong>e, wait<strong>in</strong>g for her. When, on the
contrary, she saw him pass the summit and proceed rapidly
down a long and steep <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>e, she was seized, first with surprise,
secondly with <strong>in</strong>dignation, and lastly with alarm. She
ran to the top of the hill and shouted, but he never turned his
head. She watched him disappear <strong>in</strong>to a wood a mile and a half
distant, and then sat down and cried. They had had a slight
difference that morn<strong>in</strong>g, and she wondered if he had taken it
seriously and <strong>in</strong>tended desertion. She had no money; she knew
no Dutch. People passed, and seemed sorry for her; she tried
to make them understand what had happened. They gathered
that she had lost someth<strong>in</strong>g, but could not grasp what. They
took her to the nearest village, and found a policeman for her.
He concluded from her pantomime that some man had stolen
her bicycle. They put the telegraph <strong>in</strong>to operation, and discovered
<strong>in</strong> a village four miles off an unfortunate boy rid<strong>in</strong>g
a lady’s mach<strong>in</strong>e of an obsolete pattern. They brought him to
her <strong>in</strong> a cart, but as she did not appear to want either him or
his bicycle they let him go aga<strong>in</strong>, and resigned themselves to
bewilderment.
Meanwhile, Harris cont<strong>in</strong>ued his ride with much enjoyment.
It seemed to him that he had suddenly become a stronger, and
<strong>in</strong> every way a more capable cyclist. Said he to what he thought
was Mrs. Harris:
“I haven’t felt this mach<strong>in</strong>e so light for months. It’s this air, I
th<strong>in</strong>k; it’s do<strong>in</strong>g me good.”
Then he told her not to be afraid, and he would show her
how fast he could go. He bent down over the handles, and put
his heart <strong>in</strong>to his work. The bicycle bounded over the road like
a th<strong>in</strong>g of life; farmhouses and churches, dogs and chickens
came to him and passed. Old folks stood and gazed at him, the
children cheered him.

— 224 —
In this way he sped merrily onward for about five miles.
Then, as he expla<strong>in</strong>s it, the feel<strong>in</strong>g began to grow upon him
that someth<strong>in</strong>g was wrong. He was not surprised at the silence;
the w<strong>in</strong>d was blow<strong>in</strong>g strongly, and the mach<strong>in</strong>e was rattl<strong>in</strong>g
a good deal. It was a sense of void that came upon him. He
stretched out his hand beh<strong>in</strong>d him, and felt; there was noth<strong>in</strong>g
there but space. He jumped, or rather fell off, and looked
back up the road; it stretched white and straight through the
dark wood, and not a liv<strong>in</strong>g soul could be seen upon it. He remounted,
and rode back up the hill. In ten m<strong>in</strong>utes he came to
where the road broke <strong>in</strong>to four; there he dismounted and tried
to remember which fork he had come down.
While he was deliberat<strong>in</strong>g a man passed, sitt<strong>in</strong>g sideways
on a horse. Harris stopped him, and expla<strong>in</strong>ed to him that he
had lost his wife. The man appeared to be neither surprised
nor sorry for him. While they were talk<strong>in</strong>g another farmer
came along, to whom the first man expla<strong>in</strong>ed the matter, not
as an accident, but as a good story. What appeared to surprise
the second man most was that Harris should be mak<strong>in</strong>g a fuss
about the th<strong>in</strong>g. He could get no sense out of either of them,
and curs<strong>in</strong>g them he mounted his mach<strong>in</strong>e aga<strong>in</strong>, and took the
middle road on chance. Half-way up, he came upon a party of
two young women with one young man between them. They
appeared to be mak<strong>in</strong>g the most of him. He asked them if they
had seen his wife. They asked him what she was like. He did
not know enough Dutch to describe her properly; all he could
tell them was she was a very beautiful woman, of medium size.
Evidently this did not satisfy them, the description was too
general; any man could say that, and by this means perhaps
get possession of a wife that did not belong to him. They asked
him how she was dressed; for the life of him he could not recollect.
I doubt if any man could tell how any woman was dressed
ten m<strong>in</strong>utes after he had left her. He recollected a blue skirt,
and then there was someth<strong>in</strong>g that carried the dress on, as it
were, up to the neck. Possibly, this may have been a blouse; he

— 225 —
reta<strong>in</strong>ed a dim vision of a belt; but what sort of a blouse? Was it
green, or yellow, or blue? Had it a collar, or was it fastened with
a bow? Were there feathers <strong>in</strong> her hat, or flowers? Or was it a
hat at all? He dared not say, for fear of mak<strong>in</strong>g a mistake and
be<strong>in</strong>g sent miles after the wrong party. The two young women
giggled, which <strong>in</strong> his then state of m<strong>in</strong>d irritated Harris. The
young man, who appeared anxious to get rid of him, suggested
the police station at the next town. Harris made his way there.
The police gave him a piece of paper, and told him to write
down a full description of his wife, together with details of
when and where he had lost her. He did not know where he
had lost her; all he could tell them was the name of the village
where he had lunched. He knew he had her with him then, and
that they had started from there together.
The police looked suspicious; they were doubtful about
three matters: Firstly, was she really his wife? Secondly, had he
really lost her? Thirdly, why had he lost her? With the aid of a
hotel-keeper, however, who spoke a little English, he overcame
their scruples. They promised to act, and <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g they
brought her to him <strong>in</strong> a covered wagon, together with a bill for
expenses. The meet<strong>in</strong>g was not a tender one. Mrs. Harris is not
a good actress, and always has great difficulty <strong>in</strong> disguis<strong>in</strong>g her
feel<strong>in</strong>gs. On this occasion, she frankly admits, she made no attempt
to disguise them.
The wheel bus<strong>in</strong>ess settled, there arose the ever-last<strong>in</strong>g luggage
question.
“The usual list, I suppose,” said George, prepar<strong>in</strong>g to write.
That was wisdom I had taught them; I had learned it myself
years ago from my Uncle Podger.
“Always before beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to pack,” my Uncle would say,
“make a list.”
He was a methodical man.
“Take a piece of paper” — he always began at the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g
— “put down on it everyth<strong>in</strong>g you can possibly require,
then go over it and see that it conta<strong>in</strong>s noth<strong>in</strong>g you can possibly
do without. Imag<strong>in</strong>e yourself <strong>in</strong> bed; what have you got

— 226 —
on? Very well, put it down — together with a change. You get
up; what do you do? Wash yourself. What do you wash yourself
with? Soap; put down soap. Go on till you have f<strong>in</strong>ished.
Then take your clothes. Beg<strong>in</strong> at your feet; what do you wear
on your feet? Boots, shoes, socks; put them down. Work up till
you get to your head. What else do you want besides clothes? A
little brandy; put it down. A corkscrew, put it down. Put down
everyth<strong>in</strong>g, then you don’t forget anyth<strong>in</strong>g.”
That is the plan he always pursued himself. The list made,
he would go over it carefully, as he always advised, to see that
he had forgotten noth<strong>in</strong>g. Then he would go over it aga<strong>in</strong>, and
strike out everyth<strong>in</strong>g it was possible to dispense with.
Then he would lose the list.
Said George: “Just sufficient for a day or two we will take
with us on our bikes. The bulk of our luggage we must send on
from town to town.”
“We must be careful,” I said; “I knew a man once —”
Harris looked at his watch.
“We’ll hear about him on the boat,” said Harris; “I have got
to meet Clara at Waterloo Station <strong>in</strong> half an hour.”
“It won’t take half an hour,” I said; “it’s a true story, and —”
“Don’t waste it,” said George: “I am told there are ra<strong>in</strong>y even<strong>in</strong>gs
<strong>in</strong> the Black Forest; we may he glad of it. What we have
to do now is to f<strong>in</strong>ish this list.”
Now I come to th<strong>in</strong>k of it, I never did get off that story;
someth<strong>in</strong>g always <strong>in</strong>terrupted it. And it really was true.

— 227 —
CHAPTER III
Harris’s one fault — Harris and the Angel — A patent bicycle
lamp — The ideal saddle — The “Overhauler” — His eagle eye —
His method — His cheery confidence — His simple and <strong>in</strong>expensive
tastes — His appearance — How to get rid of him — George as
prophet — The gentle art of mak<strong>in</strong>g oneself disagreeable <strong>in</strong> a foreign
tongue — George as a student of human nature — He proposes
an experiment — His Prudence — Harris’s support secured, upon
conditions.
ON Monday afternoon Harris came round; he had a cycl<strong>in</strong>g
paper <strong>in</strong> his hand.
I said: “If you take my advice, you will leave it alone.”
Harris said: “Leave what alone?”
I said: “That brand-new, patent, revolution <strong>in</strong> cycl<strong>in</strong>g,
record-break<strong>in</strong>g, Tomfoolishness, whatever it may be, the advertisement
of which you have there <strong>in</strong> your hand.”
He said: “Well, I don’t know; there will be some steep hills
for us to negotiate; I guess we shall want a good brake.”
I said: “We shall want a brake, I agree; what we shall not
want is a mechanical surprise that we don’t understand, and
that never acts when it is wanted.”
“This th<strong>in</strong>g,” he said, “acts automatically.”
“You needn’t tell me,” I said. “I know exactly what it will do,
by <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct. Go<strong>in</strong>g uphill it will jamb the wheel so effectively
that we shall have to carry the mach<strong>in</strong>e bodily. The air at the
top of the hill will do it good, and it will suddenly come right
aga<strong>in</strong>. Go<strong>in</strong>g downhill it will start reflect<strong>in</strong>g what a nuisance
it has been. This will lead to remorse, and f<strong>in</strong>ally to despair.
It will say to itself: ‘I’m not fit to be a brake. I don’t help these
fellows; I only h<strong>in</strong>der them. I’m a curse, that’s what I am;’ and,
without a word of warn<strong>in</strong>g, it will ‘chuck’ the whole bus<strong>in</strong>ess.
That is what that brake will do. Leave it alone. You are a good
fellow,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued, “but you have one fault.”
“What?” he asked, <strong>in</strong>dignantly.
“You have too much faith,” I answered. “If you read an advertisement,
you go away and believe it. Every experiment that

— 228 —
every fool has thought of <strong>in</strong> connection with cycl<strong>in</strong>g you have
tried. Your guardian angel appears to be a capable and conscientious
spirit, and hitherto she has seen you through; take my
advice and don’t try her too far. She must have had a busy time
s<strong>in</strong>ce you started cycl<strong>in</strong>g. Don’t go on till you make her mad.”
He said: “If every man talked like that there would be no
advancement made <strong>in</strong> any department of life. If nobody ever
tried a new th<strong>in</strong>g the world would come to a standstill. It is
by —”
“I know all that can be said on that side of the argument,” I
<strong>in</strong>terrupted. “I agree <strong>in</strong> try<strong>in</strong>g new experiments up to thirtyfive;
after thirty-five I consider a man is entitled to th<strong>in</strong>k of
himself. You and I have done our duty <strong>in</strong> this direction, you
especially. You have been blown up by a patent gas lamp —”
He said: “I really th<strong>in</strong>k, you know, that was my fault; I th<strong>in</strong>k
I must have screwed it up too tight.”
I said: “I am quite will<strong>in</strong>g to believe that if there was a wrong
way of handl<strong>in</strong>g the th<strong>in</strong>g that is the way you handle it. You
should take that tendency of yours <strong>in</strong>to consideration; it bears
upon the argument. Myself, I did not notice what you did; I
only know we were rid<strong>in</strong>g peacefully and pleasantly along the
Whitby Road, discuss<strong>in</strong>g the Thirty Years’ War, when your
lamp went off like a pistol-shot. The start sent me <strong>in</strong>to the
ditch; and your wife’s face, when I told her there was noth<strong>in</strong>g
the matter and that she was not to worry, because the two
men would carry you upstairs, and the doctor would be round
<strong>in</strong> a m<strong>in</strong>ute br<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g the nurse with him, still l<strong>in</strong>gers <strong>in</strong> my
memory.”
He said: “I wish you had thought to pick up the lamp. I
should like to have found out what was the cause of its go<strong>in</strong>g
off like that.”
I said: “There was not time to pick up the lamp. I calculate it
would have taken two hours to have collected it. As to its ‘go<strong>in</strong>g
off,’ the mere fact of its be<strong>in</strong>g advertised as the safest lamp ever
<strong>in</strong>vented would of itself, to anyone but you, have suggested accident.
Then there was that electric lamp,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued.

— 229 —
“Well, that really did give a f<strong>in</strong>e light,” he replied; “you said
so yourself.”
I said: “It gave a brilliant light <strong>in</strong> the K<strong>in</strong>g’s Road, Brighton,
and frightened a horse. The moment we got <strong>in</strong>to the dark beyond
Kemp Town it went out, and you were summoned for
rid<strong>in</strong>g without a light. You may remember that on sunny afternoons
you used to ride about with that lamp sh<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g for all it
was worth. When light<strong>in</strong>g-up time came it was naturally tired,
and wanted a rest.”
“It was a bit irritat<strong>in</strong>g, that lamp,” he murmured; “I remember
it.”
I said: “It irritated me; it must have been worse for you.
Then there are saddles,” I went on — I wished to get this lesson
home to him. “Can you th<strong>in</strong>k of any saddle ever advertised
that you have not tried?”
He said: “It has been an idea of m<strong>in</strong>e that the right saddle is
to be found.”
I said: “You give up that idea; this is an imperfect world of
joy and sorrow m<strong>in</strong>gled. There may be a better land where
bicycle saddles are made out of ra<strong>in</strong>bow, stuffed with cloud;
<strong>in</strong> this world the simplest th<strong>in</strong>g is to get used to someth<strong>in</strong>g
hard. There was that saddle you bought <strong>in</strong> Birm<strong>in</strong>gham; it was
divided <strong>in</strong> the middle, and looked like a pair of kidneys.”
He said: “You mean that one constructed on anatomical
pr<strong>in</strong>ciples.”
“Very likely,” I replied. “The box you bought it <strong>in</strong> had a picture
on the cover, represent<strong>in</strong>g a sitt<strong>in</strong>g skeleton — or rather
that part of a skeleton which does sit.”
He said: “It was quite correct; it showed you the true position
of the —”
I said: “We will not go <strong>in</strong>to details; the picture always
seemed to me <strong>in</strong>delicate.”
He said: “Medically speak<strong>in</strong>g, it was right.”
“Possibly,” I said, “for a man who rode <strong>in</strong> noth<strong>in</strong>g but his
bones. I only know that I tried it myself, and that to a man who
wore flesh it was agony. Every time you went over a stone or a

— 230 —
rut it nipped you; it was like rid<strong>in</strong>g on an irritable lobster. You
rode that for a month.”
“I thought it only right to give it a fair trial,” he answered.
I said: “You gave your family a fair trial also; if you will allow
me the use of slang. Your wife told me that never <strong>in</strong> the
whole course of your married life had she known you so bad
tempered, so un-Christian like, as you were that month. Then
you remember that other saddle, the one with the spr<strong>in</strong>g under
it.”
He said: “You mean ‘the Spiral.’”
I said: “I mean the one that jerked you up and down like
a Jack-<strong>in</strong>-the-box; sometimes you came down aga<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> the
right place, and sometimes you didn’t. I am not referr<strong>in</strong>g to
these matters merely to recall pa<strong>in</strong>ful memories, but I want to
impress you with the folly of try<strong>in</strong>g experiments at your time
of life.”
He said. “I wish you wouldn’t harp so much on my age. A
man at thirty-four —”
“A man at what?”
He said: “If you don’t want the th<strong>in</strong>g, don’t have it. If your
mach<strong>in</strong>e runs away with you down a mounta<strong>in</strong>, and you and
George get flung through a church roof, don’t blame me.”
“I cannot promise for George,” I said; “a little th<strong>in</strong>g will
sometimes irritate him, as you know. If such an accident as
you suggest happen, he may be cross, but I will undertake to
expla<strong>in</strong> to him that it was not your fault.”
“Is the th<strong>in</strong>g all right?” he asked.
“The tandem,” I replied, “is well.”
He said: “Have you overhauled it?”
I said: “I have not, nor is anyone else go<strong>in</strong>g to overhaul it.
The th<strong>in</strong>g is now <strong>in</strong> work<strong>in</strong>g order, and it is go<strong>in</strong>g to rema<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong>
work<strong>in</strong>g order till we start.”
I have had experience of this “overhaul<strong>in</strong>g.” There was a
man at Folkestone; I used to meet him on the Lees. He proposed
one even<strong>in</strong>g we should go for a long bicycle ride together
on the follow<strong>in</strong>g day, and I agreed. I got up early, for me;

— 231 —
I made an effort, and was pleased with myself. He came half an
hour late: I was wait<strong>in</strong>g for him <strong>in</strong> the garden. It was a lovely
day. He said: —
“That’s a good-look<strong>in</strong>g mach<strong>in</strong>e of yours. How does it
run?”
“Oh, like most of them!” I answered; “easily enough <strong>in</strong> the
morn<strong>in</strong>g; goes a little stiffly after lunch.”
He caught hold of it by the front wheel and the fork and
shook it violently.
I said: “Don’t do that; you’ll hurt it.”
I did not see why he should shake it; it had not done anyth<strong>in</strong>g
to him. Besides, if it wanted shak<strong>in</strong>g, I was the proper
person to shake it. I felt much as I should had he started
whack<strong>in</strong>g my dog.
He said: “This front wheel wobbles.”
I said: “It doesn’t if you don’t wobble it.” It didn’t wobble, as
a matter of fact — noth<strong>in</strong>g worth call<strong>in</strong>g a wobble.
He said: “This is dangerous; have you got a screw-hammer?”
I ought to have been firm, but I thought that perhaps he
really did know someth<strong>in</strong>g about the bus<strong>in</strong>ess. I went to the
tool shed to see what I could f<strong>in</strong>d. When I came back he was
sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the ground with the front wheel between his legs. He
was play<strong>in</strong>g with it, twiddl<strong>in</strong>g it round between his f<strong>in</strong>gers; the
remnant of the mach<strong>in</strong>e was ly<strong>in</strong>g on the gravel path beside
him.
He said: “Someth<strong>in</strong>g has happened to this front wheel of
yours.”
“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” I answered. But he was the sort
of man that never understands satire.
He said: “It looks to me as if the bear<strong>in</strong>gs were all wrong.”
I said: “Don’t you trouble about it any more; you will make
yourself tired. Let us put it back and get off.”
He said: “We may as well see what is the matter with it, now
it is out.” He talked as though it had dropped out by accident.
Before I could stop him he had unscrewed someth<strong>in</strong>g some-

— 232 —
where, and out rolled all over the path some dozen or so little
balls.
“Catch ’em!” he shouted; “catch ’em! We mustn’t lose any of
them.” He was quite excited about them.
We grovelled round for half an hour, and found sixteen. He
said he hoped we had got them all, because, if not, it would
make a serious difference to the mach<strong>in</strong>e. He said there was
noth<strong>in</strong>g you should be more careful about <strong>in</strong> tak<strong>in</strong>g a bicycle
to pieces than see<strong>in</strong>g you did not lose any of the balls. He expla<strong>in</strong>ed
that you ought to count them as you took them out,
and see that exactly the same number went back <strong>in</strong> each place.
I promised, if ever I took a bicycle to pieces I would remember
his advice.
I put the balls for safety <strong>in</strong> my hat, and I put my hat upon
the doorstep. It was not a sensible th<strong>in</strong>g to do, I admit. As a
matter of fact, it was a silly th<strong>in</strong>g to do. I am not as a rule addle-headed;
his <strong>in</strong>fluence must have affected me.
He then said that while he was about it he would see to the
cha<strong>in</strong> for me, and at once began tak<strong>in</strong>g off the gear-case. I did
try to persuade him from that. I told him what an experienced
friend of m<strong>in</strong>e once said to me solemnly: —
“If anyth<strong>in</strong>g goes wrong with your gear-case, sell the mach<strong>in</strong>e
and buy a new one; it comes cheaper.”
He said: “People talk like that who understand noth<strong>in</strong>g
about mach<strong>in</strong>es. Noth<strong>in</strong>g is easier than tak<strong>in</strong>g off a gearcase.”
I had to confess he was right. In less than five m<strong>in</strong>utes he
had the gear-case <strong>in</strong> two pieces, ly<strong>in</strong>g on the path, and was
grovell<strong>in</strong>g for screws. He said it was always a mystery to him
the way screws disappeared.
We were still look<strong>in</strong>g for the screws when Ethelbertha
came out. She seemed surprised to f<strong>in</strong>d us there; she said she
thought we had started hours ago.
He said: “We shan’t be long now. I’m just help<strong>in</strong>g your husband
to overhaul this mach<strong>in</strong>e of his. It’s a good mach<strong>in</strong>e; but
they all want go<strong>in</strong>g over occasionally.”

— 233 —
Ethelbertha said: “If you want to wash yourselves when you
have done you might go <strong>in</strong>to the back kitchen, if you don’t
m<strong>in</strong>d; the girls have just f<strong>in</strong>ished the bedrooms.”
She told me that if she met Kate they would probably go
for a sail; but that <strong>in</strong> any case she would be back to lunch. I
would have given a sovereign to be go<strong>in</strong>g with her. I was gett<strong>in</strong>g
heartily sick of stand<strong>in</strong>g about watch<strong>in</strong>g this fool break<strong>in</strong>g
up my bicycle.
Common sense cont<strong>in</strong>ued to whisper to me: “Stop him,
before he does any more mischief. You have a right to protect
your own property from the ravages of a lunatic. Take him by
the scruff of the neck, and kick him out of the gate!”
But I am weak when it comes to hurt<strong>in</strong>g other people’s feel<strong>in</strong>gs,
and I let him muddle on.
He gave up look<strong>in</strong>g for the rest of the screws. He said screws
had a knack of turn<strong>in</strong>g up when you least expected them; and
that now he would see to the cha<strong>in</strong>. He tightened it till it would
not move; next he loosened it until it was twice as loose as it
was before. Then he said we had better th<strong>in</strong>k about gett<strong>in</strong>g the
front wheel back <strong>in</strong>to its place aga<strong>in</strong>.
I held the fork open, and he worried with the wheel. At the
end of ten m<strong>in</strong>utes I suggested he should hold the forks, and
that I should handle the wheel; and we changed places. At the
end of his first m<strong>in</strong>ute he dropped the mach<strong>in</strong>e, and took a
short walk round the croquet lawn, with his hands pressed
together between his thighs. He expla<strong>in</strong>ed as he walked that
the th<strong>in</strong>g to be careful about was to avoid gett<strong>in</strong>g your f<strong>in</strong>gers
p<strong>in</strong>ched between the forks and the spokes of the wheel. I
replied I was conv<strong>in</strong>ced, from my own experience, that there
was much truth <strong>in</strong> what he said. He wrapped himself up <strong>in</strong> a
couple of dusters, and we commenced aga<strong>in</strong>. At length we did
get the th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to position; and the moment it was <strong>in</strong> position
he burst out laugh<strong>in</strong>g.
I said: “What’s the joke?”
He said: “Well, I am an ass!”

— 234 —
It was the first th<strong>in</strong>g he had said that made me respect him.
I asked him what had led him to the discovery.
He said: “We’ve forgotten the balls!”
I looked for my hat; it was ly<strong>in</strong>g topsy-turvy <strong>in</strong> the middle
of the path, and Ethelbertha’s favourite hound was swallow<strong>in</strong>g
the balls as fast as he could pick them up.
“He will kill himself,” said Ebbson — I have never met him
s<strong>in</strong>ce that day, thank the Lord; but I th<strong>in</strong>k his name was Ebbson
— “they are solid steel.”
I said: “I am not troubl<strong>in</strong>g about the dog. He has had a bootlace
and a packet of needles already this week. Nature’s the best
guide; puppies seem to require this k<strong>in</strong>d of stimulant. What I
am th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g about is my bicycle.”
He was of a cheerful disposition. He said: “Well, we must put
back all we can f<strong>in</strong>d, and trust to Providence.”
We found eleven. We fixed six on one side and five on the
other, and half an hour later the wheel was <strong>in</strong> its place aga<strong>in</strong>.
It need hardly be added that it really did wobble now; a child
might have noticed it. Ebbson said it would do for the present.
He appeared to be gett<strong>in</strong>g a bit tired himself. If I had let him,
he would, I believe, at this po<strong>in</strong>t have gone home. I was determ<strong>in</strong>ed
now, however, that he should stop and f<strong>in</strong>ish; I had
abandoned all thoughts of a ride. My pride <strong>in</strong> the mach<strong>in</strong>e he
had killed. My only <strong>in</strong>terest lay now <strong>in</strong> see<strong>in</strong>g him scratch and
bump and p<strong>in</strong>ch himself. I revived his droop<strong>in</strong>g spirits with a
glass of beer and some judicious praise. I said:
“Watch<strong>in</strong>g you do this is of real use to me. It is not only
your skill and dexterity that fasc<strong>in</strong>ates me, it is your cheery
confidence <strong>in</strong> yourself, your <strong>in</strong>explicable hopefulness, that
does me good.”
Thus encouraged, he set to work to refix the gear-case. He
stood the bicycle aga<strong>in</strong>st the house, and worked from the off
side. Then he stood it aga<strong>in</strong>st a tree, and worked from the near
side. Then I held it for him, while he lay on the ground with
his head between the wheels, and worked at it from below, and
dropped oil upon himself. Then he took it away from me, and

— 235 —
doubled himself across it like a pack-saddle, till he lost his balance
and slid over on to his head. <strong>Three</strong> times he said:
“Thank Heaven, that’s right at last!”
And twice he said:
“No, I’m damned if it is after all!”
What he said the third time I try to forget.
Then he lost his temper and tried bully<strong>in</strong>g the th<strong>in</strong>g. The bicycle,
I was glad to see, showed spirit; and the subsequent proceed<strong>in</strong>gs
degenerated <strong>in</strong>to little else than a rough-and-tumble
fight between him and the mach<strong>in</strong>e. One moment the bicycle
would be on the gravel path, and he on top of it; the next, the
position would be reversed — he on the gravel path, the bicycle
on him. Now he would be stand<strong>in</strong>g flushed with victory, the
bicycle firmly fixed between his legs. But his triumph would be
short-lived. By a sudden, quick movement it would free itself,
and, turn<strong>in</strong>g upon him, hit him sharply over the head with one
of its handles.
At a quarter to one, dirty and dishevelled, cut and breed<strong>in</strong>g,
he said: “I th<strong>in</strong>k that will do;” and rose and wiped his brow.
The bicycle looked as if it also had had enough of it. Which
had received most punishment it would have been difficult to
say. I took him <strong>in</strong>to the back kitchen, where, so far as was possible
without soda and proper tools, he cleaned himself, and
sent him home.
The bicycle I put <strong>in</strong>to a cab and took round to the nearest
repair<strong>in</strong>g shop. The foreman of the works came up and looked
at it.
“What do you want me to do with that?” said he.
“I want you,” I said, “so far as is possible, to restore it.”
“It’s a bit far gone,” said he; “but I’ll do my best.”
He did his best, which came to two pounds ten. But it was
never the same mach<strong>in</strong>e aga<strong>in</strong>; and at the end of the season I
left it <strong>in</strong> an agent’s hands to sell. I wished to deceive nobody; I
<strong>in</strong>structed the man to advertise it as a last year’s mach<strong>in</strong>e. The
agent advised me not to mention any date. He said:
“In this bus<strong>in</strong>ess it isn’t a question of what is true and what

— 236 —
isn’t; it’s a question of what you can get people to believe. Now,
between you and me, it don’t look like a last year’s mach<strong>in</strong>e; so
far as looks are concerned, it might be a ten-year old. We’ll say
noth<strong>in</strong>g about date; we’ll just get what we can.”
I left the matter to him, and he got me five pounds, which he
said was more than he had expected.
There are two ways you can get exercise out of a bicycle: you
can “overhaul” it, or you can ride it. On the whole, I am not
sure that a man who takes his pleasure overhaul<strong>in</strong>g does not
have the best of the barga<strong>in</strong>. He is <strong>in</strong>dependent of the weather
and the w<strong>in</strong>d; the state of the roads troubles him not. Give him
a screw-hammer, a bundle of rags, an oil-can, and someth<strong>in</strong>g
to sit down upon, and he is happy for the day. He has to put up
with certa<strong>in</strong> disadvantages, of course; there is no joy without
alloy. He himself always looks like a t<strong>in</strong>ker, and his mach<strong>in</strong>e
always suggests the idea that, hav<strong>in</strong>g stolen it, he has tried to
disguise it; but as he rarely gets beyond the first milestone with
it, this, perhaps, does not much matter. The mistake some people
make is <strong>in</strong> th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g they can get both forms of sport out of
the same mach<strong>in</strong>e. This is impossible; no mach<strong>in</strong>e will stand
the double stra<strong>in</strong>. You must make up your m<strong>in</strong>d whether you
are go<strong>in</strong>g to be an “overhauler” or a rider. Personally, I prefer
to ride, therefore I take care to have near me noth<strong>in</strong>g that can
tempt me to overhaul. When anyth<strong>in</strong>g happens to my mach<strong>in</strong>e
I wheel it to the nearest repair<strong>in</strong>g shop. If I am too far from
the town or village to walk, I sit by the roadside and wait till
a cart comes along. My chief danger, I always f<strong>in</strong>d, is from the
wander<strong>in</strong>g overhauler. The sight of a broken-down mach<strong>in</strong>e
is to the overhauler as a wayside corpse to a crow; he swoops
down upon it with a friendly yell of triumph. At first I used to
try politeness. I would say:
“It is noth<strong>in</strong>g; don’t you trouble. You ride on, and enjoy
yourself, I beg it of you as a favour; please go away.”
Experience has taught me, however, that courtesy is of no
use <strong>in</strong> such an extremity. Now I say:

— 237 —
“You go away and leave the th<strong>in</strong>g alone, or I will knock your
silly head off.”
And if you look determ<strong>in</strong>ed, and have a good stout cudgel <strong>in</strong>
your hand, you can generally drive him off.
George came <strong>in</strong> later <strong>in</strong> the day. He said:
“Well, do you th<strong>in</strong>k everyth<strong>in</strong>g will be ready?”
I said: “Everyth<strong>in</strong>g will be ready by Wednesday, except, perhaps,
you and Harris.”
He said: “Is the tandem all right?”
“The tandem,” I said, “is well.”
He said: “You don’t th<strong>in</strong>k it wants overhaul<strong>in</strong>g?”
I replied: “Age and experience have taught me that there are
few matters concern<strong>in</strong>g which a man does well to be positive.
Consequently, there rema<strong>in</strong> to me now but a limited number
of questions upon which I feel any degree of certa<strong>in</strong>ty. Among
such still-unshaken beliefs, however, is the conviction that that
tandem does not want overhaul<strong>in</strong>g. I also feel a presentiment
that, provided my life is spared, no human be<strong>in</strong>g between now
and Wednesday morn<strong>in</strong>g is go<strong>in</strong>g to overhaul it.”
George said: “I should not show temper over the matter, if I
were you. There will come a day, perhaps not far distant, when
that bicycle, with a couple of mounta<strong>in</strong>s between it and the
nearest repair<strong>in</strong>g shop, will, <strong>in</strong> spite of your chronic desire for
rest, have to be overhauled. Then you will clamour for people
to tell you where you put the oil-can, and what you have done
with the screw-hammer. Then, while you exert yourself hold<strong>in</strong>g
the th<strong>in</strong>g steady aga<strong>in</strong>st a tree, you will suggest that somebody
else should clean the cha<strong>in</strong> and pump the back wheel.”
I felt there was justice <strong>in</strong> George’s rebuke — also a certa<strong>in</strong>
amount of prophetic wisdom. I said:
“Forgive me if I seemed unresponsive. The truth is, Harris
was round here this morn<strong>in</strong>g —”
George said: “Say no more; I understand. Besides, what I
came to talk to you about was another matter. Look at that.”
He handed me a small book bound <strong>in</strong> red cloth. It was a
guide to English conversation for the use of German travel-

— 238 —
lers. It commenced “On a Steam-boat,” and term<strong>in</strong>ated “At the
Doctor’s”; its longest chapter be<strong>in</strong>g devoted to conversation
<strong>in</strong> a railway carriage, among, apparently, a compartment load
of quarrelsome and ill-mannered lunatics: “Can you not get
further away from me, sir?” — “It is impossible, madam; my
neighbour, here, is very stout” — “Shall we not endeavour to
arrange our legs?” — “Please have the goodness to keep your
elbows down” — “Pray do not <strong>in</strong>convenience yourself, madam,
if my shoulder is of any accommodation to you,” whether
<strong>in</strong>tended to be said sarcastically or not, there was noth<strong>in</strong>g to
<strong>in</strong>dicate — “I really must request you to move a little, madam,
I can hardly breathe,” the author’s idea be<strong>in</strong>g, presumably, that
by this time the whole party was mixed up together on the
floor. The chapter concluded with the phrase, “Here we are
at our dest<strong>in</strong>ation, God be thanked! (Gott sei dank!)” a pious
exclamation, which under the circumstances must have taken
the form of a chorus.
At the end of the book was an appendix, giv<strong>in</strong>g the German
traveller h<strong>in</strong>ts concern<strong>in</strong>g the preservation of his health and
comfort dur<strong>in</strong>g his sojourn <strong>in</strong> English towns, chief among
such h<strong>in</strong>ts be<strong>in</strong>g advice to him to always travel with a supply of
dis<strong>in</strong>fectant powder, to always lock his bedroom door at night,
and to always carefully count his small change.
“It is not a brilliant publication,” I remarked, hand<strong>in</strong>g the
book back to George; “it is not a book that personally I would
recommend to any German about to visit England; I th<strong>in</strong>k it
would get him disliked. But I have read books published <strong>in</strong>
London for the use of English travellers abroad every whit as
foolish. Some educated idiot, misunderstand<strong>in</strong>g seven languages,
would appear to go about writ<strong>in</strong>g these books for the
mis<strong>in</strong>formation and false guidance of modern Europe.”
“You cannot deny,” said George, “that these books are <strong>in</strong>
large request. They are bought by the thousand, I know. In
every town <strong>in</strong> Europe there must be people go<strong>in</strong>g about talk<strong>in</strong>g
this sort of th<strong>in</strong>g.”
“Maybe,” I replied; “but fortunately nobody understands

— 239 —
them. I have noticed, myself, men stand<strong>in</strong>g on railway platforms
and at street corners read<strong>in</strong>g aloud from such books.
Nobody knows what language they are speak<strong>in</strong>g; nobody has
the slightest knowledge of what they are say<strong>in</strong>g. This is, perhaps,
as well; were they understood they would probably be
assaulted.”
George said: “Maybe you are right; my idea is to see what
would happen if they were understood. My proposal is to get
to London early on Wednesday morn<strong>in</strong>g, and spend an hour or
two go<strong>in</strong>g about and shopp<strong>in</strong>g with the aid of this book. There
are one or two little th<strong>in</strong>gs I want — a hat and a pair of bedroom
slippers, among other articles. Our boat does not leave
Tilbury till twelve, and that just gives us time. I want to try this
sort of talk where I can properly judge of its effect. I want to
see how the foreigner feels when he is talked to <strong>in</strong> this way.”
It struck me as a sport<strong>in</strong>g idea. In my enthusiasm I offered
to accompany him, and wait outside the shop. I said I thought
that Harris would like to be <strong>in</strong> it, too — or rather outside.
George said that was not quite his scheme. His proposal was
that Harris and I should accompany him <strong>in</strong>to the shop. With
Harris, who looks formidable, to support him, and myself at
the door to call the police if necessary, he said he was will<strong>in</strong>g
to adventure the th<strong>in</strong>g.
We walked round to Harris’s, and put the proposal before
him. He exam<strong>in</strong>ed the book, especially the chapters deal<strong>in</strong>g
with the purchase of shoes and hats. He said:
“If George talks to any bootmaker or any hatter the th<strong>in</strong>gs
that are put down here, it is not support he will want; it is carry<strong>in</strong>g
to the hospital that he will need.”
That made George angry.
“You talk,” said George, “as though I were a foolhardy boy
without any sense. I shall select from the more polite and less
irritat<strong>in</strong>g speeches; the grosser <strong>in</strong>sults I shall avoid.”
This be<strong>in</strong>g clearly understood, Harris gave <strong>in</strong> his adhesion;
and our start was fixed for early Wednesday morn<strong>in</strong>g.

— 240 —
CHAPTER IV
Why Harris considers alarm clocks unnecessary <strong>in</strong> a family — Social
<strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct of the young — A child’s thoughts about the morn<strong>in</strong>g
— The sleepless watchman — The mystery of him — His over
anxiety — Night thoughts — The sort of work one does before
breakfast — The good sheep and the bad — Disadvantages of be<strong>in</strong>g
virtuous — Harris’s new stove beg<strong>in</strong>s badly — The daily out-go<strong>in</strong>g
of my Uncle Podger — The elderly city man considered as a racer —
We arrive <strong>in</strong> London — We talk the language of the traveller.
GEORGE came down on Tuesday even<strong>in</strong>g, and slept at Harris’s
place. We thought this a better arrangement than his own suggestion,
which was that we should call for him on our way and
“pick him up.” Pick<strong>in</strong>g George up <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g means pick<strong>in</strong>g
him out of bed to beg<strong>in</strong> with, and shak<strong>in</strong>g him awake — <strong>in</strong>
itself an exhaust<strong>in</strong>g effort with which to commence the day;
help<strong>in</strong>g him f<strong>in</strong>d his th<strong>in</strong>gs and f<strong>in</strong>ish his pack<strong>in</strong>g; and then
wait<strong>in</strong>g for him while he eats his breakfast, a tedious enterta<strong>in</strong>ment
from the spectator’s po<strong>in</strong>t of view, full of wearisome
repetition.
I knew that if he slept at “Beggarbush” he would be up <strong>in</strong>
time; I have slept there myself, and I know what happens.
About the middle of the night, as you judge, though <strong>in</strong> reality it
may be somewhat later, you are startled out of your first sleep
by what sounds like a rush of cavalry along the passage, just
outside your door. Your half-awakened <strong>in</strong>telligence fluctuates
between burglars, the Day of Judgment, and a gas explosion.
You sit up <strong>in</strong> bed and listen <strong>in</strong>tently. You are not kept wait<strong>in</strong>g
long; the next moment a door is violently slammed, and
somebody, or someth<strong>in</strong>g, is evidently com<strong>in</strong>g downstairs on
a tea-tray.
“I told you so,” says a voice outside, and immediately some
hard substance, a head one would say from the r<strong>in</strong>g of it, rebounds
aga<strong>in</strong>st the panel of your door.
By this time you are charg<strong>in</strong>g madly round the room for
your clothes. Noth<strong>in</strong>g is where you put it overnight, the articles
most essential have disappeared entirely; and meanwhile the

— 241 —
murder, or revolution, or whatever it is, cont<strong>in</strong>ues unchecked.
You pause for a moment, with your head under the wardrobe,
where you th<strong>in</strong>k you can see your slippers, to listen to a steady,
monotonous thump<strong>in</strong>g upon a distant door. The victim, you
presume, has taken refuge there; they mean to have him out
and f<strong>in</strong>ish him. Will you be <strong>in</strong> time? The knock<strong>in</strong>g ceases,
and a voice, sweetly reassur<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> its gentle pla<strong>in</strong>tiveness, asks
meekly:
“Pa, may I get up?”
You do not hear the other voice, but the responses are:
“No, it was only the bath — no, she a<strong>in</strong>’t really hurt, — only
wet, you know. Yes, ma, I’ll tell ’em what you say. No, it was a
pure accident. Yes; good-night, papa.”
Then the same voice, exert<strong>in</strong>g itself so as to be heard <strong>in</strong> a
distant part of the house, remarks:
“You’ve got to come upstairs aga<strong>in</strong>. Pa says it isn’t time yet
to get up.”
You return to bed, and lie listen<strong>in</strong>g to somebody be<strong>in</strong>g
dragged upstairs, evidently aga<strong>in</strong>st their will. By a thoughtful
arrangement the spare rooms at “Beggarbush” are exactly
underneath the nurseries. The same somebody, you conclude,
still offer<strong>in</strong>g the most creditable opposition, is be<strong>in</strong>g put back
<strong>in</strong>to bed. You can follow the contest with much exactitude, because
every time the body is flung down upon the spr<strong>in</strong>g mattress,
the bedstead, just above your head, makes a sort of jump;
while every time the body succeeds <strong>in</strong> struggl<strong>in</strong>g out aga<strong>in</strong>,
you are aware by the thud upon the floor. After a time the
struggle wanes, or maybe the bed collapses; and you drift back
<strong>in</strong>to sleep. But the next moment, or what seems to be the next
moment, you aga<strong>in</strong> open your eyes under the consciousness of
a presence. The door is be<strong>in</strong>g held ajar, and four solemn faces,
piled one on top of the other, are peer<strong>in</strong>g at you, as though
you were some natural curiosity kept <strong>in</strong> this particular room.
See<strong>in</strong>g you awake, the top face, walk<strong>in</strong>g calmly over the other
three, comes <strong>in</strong> and sits on the bed <strong>in</strong> a friendly attitude.

— 242 —
“Oh!” it says, “we didn’t know you were awake. I’ve been
awake some time.”
“So I gather,” you reply, shortly.
“Pa doesn’t like us to get up too early,” it cont<strong>in</strong>ues. “He says
everybody else <strong>in</strong> the house is liable to be disturbed if we get
up. So, of course, we mustn’t.”
The tone is that of gentle resignation. It is <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct with the
spirit of virtuous pride, aris<strong>in</strong>g from the consciousness of selfsacrifice.
“Don’t you call this be<strong>in</strong>g up?” you suggest.
“Oh, no; we’re not really up, you know, because we’re not
properly dressed.” The fact is self-evident. “Pa’s always very
tired <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g,” the voice cont<strong>in</strong>ues; “of course, that’s
because he works hard all day. Are you ever tired <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g?”
At this po<strong>in</strong>t he turns and notices, for the first time, that
the three other children have also entered, and are sitt<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a
semi-circle on the floor. From their attitude it is clear they have
mistaken the whole th<strong>in</strong>g for one of the slower forms of enterta<strong>in</strong>ment,
some comic lecture or conjur<strong>in</strong>g exhibition, and are
wait<strong>in</strong>g patiently for you to get out of bed and do someth<strong>in</strong>g. It
shocks him, the idea of their be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the guest’s bedchamber.
He peremptorily orders them out. They do not answer him,
they do not argue; <strong>in</strong> dead silence, and with one accord they
fall upon him. All you can see from the bed is a confused tangle
of wav<strong>in</strong>g arms and legs, suggestive of an <strong>in</strong>toxicated octopus
try<strong>in</strong>g to f<strong>in</strong>d bottom. Not a word is spoken; that seems to be
the etiquette of the th<strong>in</strong>g. If you are sleep<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> your pyjamas,
you spr<strong>in</strong>g from the bed, and only add to the confusion; if you
are wear<strong>in</strong>g a less showy garment, you stop where you are and
shout commands, which are utterly unheeded. The simplest
plan is to leave it to the eldest boy. He does get them out after a
while, and closes the door upon them. It re-opens immediately,
and one, generally Muriel, is shot back <strong>in</strong>to the room. She enters
as from a catapult. She is handicapped by hav<strong>in</strong>g long hair,
which can be used as a convenient handle. Evidently aware of

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this natural disadvantage, she clutches it herself tightly <strong>in</strong> one
hand, and punches with the other. He opens the door aga<strong>in</strong>,
and cleverly uses her as a batter<strong>in</strong>g-ram aga<strong>in</strong>st the wall of
those without. You can hear the dull crash as her head enters
among them, and scatters them. When the victory is complete,
he comes back and resumes his seat on the bed. There is no bitterness
about him; he has forgotten the whole <strong>in</strong>cident.
“I like the morn<strong>in</strong>g,” he says, “don’t you?”
“Some morn<strong>in</strong>gs,” you agree, “are all right; others are not so
peaceful.”
He takes no notice of your exception; a far-away look steals
over his somewhat ethereal face.
“I should like to die <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g,” he says; “everyth<strong>in</strong>g is
so beautiful then.”
“Well,” you answer, “perhaps you will, if your father ever
<strong>in</strong>vites an irritable man to come and sleep here, and doesn’t
warn him beforehand.”
He descends from his contemplative mood, and becomes
himself aga<strong>in</strong>.
“It’s jolly <strong>in</strong> the garden,” he suggests; “you wouldn’t like to
get up and have a game of cricket, would you?”
It was not the idea with which you went to bed, but now, as
th<strong>in</strong>gs have turned out, it seems as good a plan as ly<strong>in</strong>g there
hopelessly awake; and you agree.
You learn, later <strong>in</strong> the day, that the explanation of the
proceed<strong>in</strong>g is that you, unable to sleep, woke up early <strong>in</strong> the
morn<strong>in</strong>g, and thought you would like a game of cricket. The
children, taught to be ever courteous to guests, felt it their
duty to humour you. Mrs. Harris remarks at breakfast that at
least you might have seen to it that the children were properly
dressed before you took them out; while Harris po<strong>in</strong>ts out to
you, pathetically, how, by your one morn<strong>in</strong>g’s example and encouragement,
you have undone his labour of months.
On this Wednesday morn<strong>in</strong>g, George, it seems, clamoured
to get up at a quarter-past five, and persuaded them to let
him teach them cycl<strong>in</strong>g tricks round the cucumber frames on

— 244 —
Harris’s new wheel. Even Mrs. Harris, however, did not blame
George on this occasion; she felt <strong>in</strong>tuitively the idea could not
have been entirely his.
It is not that the Harris children have the fa<strong>in</strong>test notion
of avoid<strong>in</strong>g blame at the expense of a friend and comrade.
One and all they are honesty itself <strong>in</strong> accept<strong>in</strong>g responsibility
for their own misdeeds. It simply is, that is how the th<strong>in</strong>g
presents itself to their understand<strong>in</strong>g. When you expla<strong>in</strong> to
them that you had no orig<strong>in</strong>al <strong>in</strong>tention of gett<strong>in</strong>g up at five
o’clock <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g to play cricket on the croquet lawn, or
to mimic the history of the early Church by shoot<strong>in</strong>g with a
cross-bow at dolls tied to a tree; that as a matter of fact, left to
your own <strong>in</strong>itiative, you would have slept peacefully till roused
<strong>in</strong> Christian fashion with a cup of tea at eight, they are firstly
astonished, secondly apologetic, and thirdly s<strong>in</strong>cerely contrite.
In the present <strong>in</strong>stance, waiv<strong>in</strong>g the purely academic question
whether the awaken<strong>in</strong>g of George at a little before five was due
to natural <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct on his part, or to the accidental pass<strong>in</strong>g of
a home-made boomerang through his bedroom w<strong>in</strong>dow, the
dear children frankly admitted that the blame for his upris<strong>in</strong>g
was their own. As the eldest boy said:
“We ought to have remembered that Uncle George had a
long day, before him, and we ought to have dissuaded him
from gett<strong>in</strong>g up. I blame myself entirely.”
But an occasional change of habit does nobody any harm;
and besides, as Harris and I agreed, it was good tra<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g for
George. In the Black Forest we should be up at five every
morn<strong>in</strong>g; that we had determ<strong>in</strong>ed on. Indeed, George himself
had suggested half-past four, but Harris and I had argued that
five would be early enough as an average; that would enable
us to be on our mach<strong>in</strong>es by six, and to break the back of our
journey before the heat of the day set <strong>in</strong>. Occasionally we
might start a little earlier, but not as a habit.
I myself was up that morn<strong>in</strong>g at five. This was earlier than
I had <strong>in</strong>tended. I had said to myself on go<strong>in</strong>g to sleep, “Six
o’clock, sharp!”

— 245 —
There are men I know who can wake themselves at any
time to the m<strong>in</strong>ute. They say to themselves literally, as they lay
their heads upon the pillow, “Four-thirty,” “Four-forty-five,” or
“Five-fifteen,” as the case may be; and as the clock strikes they
open their eyes. It is very wonderful this; the more one dwells
upon it, the greater the mystery grows. Some Ego with<strong>in</strong> us,
act<strong>in</strong>g quite <strong>in</strong>dependently of our conscious self, must be capable
of count<strong>in</strong>g the hours while we sleep. Unaided by clock
or sun, or any other medium known to our five senses, it keeps
watch through the darkness. At the exact moment it whispers
“Time!” and we awake. The work of an old riverside fellow I
once talked with called him to be out of bed each morn<strong>in</strong>g half
an hour before high tide. He told me that never once had he
overslept himself by a m<strong>in</strong>ute. Latterly, he never even troubled
to work out the tide for himself. He would lie down tired, and
sleep a dreamless sleep, and each morn<strong>in</strong>g at a different hour
this ghostly watchman, true as the tide itself, would silently
call him. Did the man’s spirit haunt through the darkness the
muddy river stairs; or had it knowledge of the ways of Nature?
Whatever the process, the man himself was unconscious of it.
In my own case my <strong>in</strong>ward watchman is, perhaps, somewhat
out of practice. He does his best; but he is over-anxious; he
worries himself, and loses count. I say to him, maybe, “Fivethirty,
please;” and he wakes me with a start at half-past two. I
look at my watch. He suggests that, perhaps, I forgot to w<strong>in</strong>d it
up. I put it to my ear; it is still go<strong>in</strong>g. He th<strong>in</strong>ks, maybe, someth<strong>in</strong>g
has happened to it; he is confident himself it is half-past
five, if not a little later. To satisfy him, I put on a pair of slippers
and go downstairs to <strong>in</strong>spect the d<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g-room clock.
What happens to a man when he wanders about the house <strong>in</strong>
the middle of the night, clad <strong>in</strong> a dress<strong>in</strong>g-gown and a pair
of slippers, there is no need to recount; most men know by
experience. Everyth<strong>in</strong>g — especially everyth<strong>in</strong>g with a sharp
corner — takes a cowardly delight <strong>in</strong> hitt<strong>in</strong>g him. When you are
wear<strong>in</strong>g a pair of stout boots, th<strong>in</strong>gs get out of your way; when
you venture among furniture <strong>in</strong> woolwork slippers and no

— 246 —
socks, it comes at you and kicks you. I return to bed bad tempered,
and refus<strong>in</strong>g to listen to his further absurd suggestion
that all the clocks <strong>in</strong> the house have entered <strong>in</strong>to a conspiracy
aga<strong>in</strong>st me, take half an hour to get to sleep aga<strong>in</strong>. From four
to five he wakes me every ten m<strong>in</strong>utes. I wish I had never said
a word to him about the th<strong>in</strong>g. At five o’clock he goes to sleep
himself, worn out, and leaves it to the girl, who does it half an
hour later than usual.
On this particular Wednesday he worried me to such an
extent, that I got up at five simply to be rid of him. I did not
know what to do with myself. Our tra<strong>in</strong> did not leave till eight;
all our luggage had been packed and sent on the night before,
together with the bicycles, to Fenchurch Street Station. I went
<strong>in</strong>to my study; I thought I would put <strong>in</strong> an hour’s writ<strong>in</strong>g. The
early morn<strong>in</strong>g, before one has breakfasted, is not, I take it, a
good season for literary effort. I wrote three paragraphs of a
story, and then read them over to myself. Some unk<strong>in</strong>d th<strong>in</strong>gs
have been said about my work; but noth<strong>in</strong>g has yet been written
which would have done justice to those three paragraphs.
I threw them <strong>in</strong>to the waste-paper basket, and sat try<strong>in</strong>g to remember
what, if any, charitable <strong>in</strong>stitutions provided pensions
for decayed authors.
To escape from this tra<strong>in</strong> of reflection, I put a golf-ball <strong>in</strong> my
pocket, and select<strong>in</strong>g a driver, strolled out <strong>in</strong>to the paddock. A
couple of sheep were brows<strong>in</strong>g there, and they followed and
took a keen <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> my practice. The one was a k<strong>in</strong>dly, sympathetic
old party. I do not th<strong>in</strong>k she understood the game; I
th<strong>in</strong>k it was my do<strong>in</strong>g this <strong>in</strong>nocent th<strong>in</strong>g so early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g
that appealed to her. At every stroke I made she bleated:
“Go-o-o-d, go-o-o-d <strong>in</strong>d-e-e-d!”
She seemed as pleased as if she had done it herself.
As for the other one, she was a cantankerous, disagreeable
old th<strong>in</strong>g, as discourag<strong>in</strong>g to me as her friend was helpful.
“Ba-a-ad, da-a-a-m ba-a-a-d!” was her comment on almost
every stroke. As a matter of fact, some were really excellent

— 247 —
strokes; but she did it just to be contradictory, and for the sake
of irritat<strong>in</strong>g. I could see that.
By a most regrettable accident, one of my swiftest balls
struck the good sheep on the nose. And at that the bad sheep
laughed — laughed dist<strong>in</strong>ctly and undoubtedly, a husky, vulgar
laugh; and, while her friend stood glued to the ground, too
astonished to move, she changed her note for the first time
and bleated:
“Go-o-o-d, ve-e-ry go-o-o-d! Be-e-e-est sho-o-o-ot he-e-e’s
ma-a-a-de!”
I would have given half-a-crown if it had been she I had hit
<strong>in</strong>stead of the other one. It is ever the good and amiable who
suffer <strong>in</strong> this world.
I had wasted more time than I had <strong>in</strong>tended <strong>in</strong> the paddock,
and when Ethelbertha came to tell me it was half-past seven,
and the breakfast was on the table, I remembered that I had
not shaved. It vexes Ethelbertha my shav<strong>in</strong>g quickly. She fears
that to outsiders it may suggest a poor-spirited attempt at suicide,
and that <strong>in</strong> consequence it may get about the neighbourhood
that we are not happy together. As a further argument,
she has also h<strong>in</strong>ted that my appearance is not of the k<strong>in</strong>d that
can be trifled with.
On the whole, I was just as glad not to be able to take a long
farewell of Ethelbertha; I did not want to risk her break<strong>in</strong>g
down. But I should have liked more opportunity to say a few
farewell words of advice to the children, especially as regards
my fish<strong>in</strong>g rod, which they will persist <strong>in</strong> us<strong>in</strong>g for cricket
stumps; and I hate hav<strong>in</strong>g to run for a tra<strong>in</strong>. Quarter of a mile
from the station I overtook George and Harris; they were also
runn<strong>in</strong>g. In their case — so Harris <strong>in</strong>formed me, jerkily, while
we trotted side by side — it was the new kitchen stove that was
to blame. This was the first morn<strong>in</strong>g they had tried it, and from
some cause or other it had blown up the kidneys and scalded
the cook. He said he hoped that by the time we returned they
would have got more used to it.
We caught the tra<strong>in</strong> by the sk<strong>in</strong> of our teeth, as the say<strong>in</strong>g is,

— 248 —
and reflect<strong>in</strong>g upon the events of the morn<strong>in</strong>g, as we sat gasp<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> the carriage, there passed vividly before my m<strong>in</strong>d the
panorama of my Uncle Podger, as on two hundred and fifty
days <strong>in</strong> the year he would start from Eal<strong>in</strong>g Common by the
n<strong>in</strong>e-thirteen tra<strong>in</strong> to Moorgate Street.
From my Uncle Podger’s house to the railway station was
eight m<strong>in</strong>utes’ walk. What my uncle always said was:
“Allow yourself a quarter of an hour, and take it easily.”
What he always did was to start five m<strong>in</strong>utes before the time
and run. I do not know why, but this was the custom of the
suburb. Many stout City gentlemen lived at Eal<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> those
days — I believe some live there still — and caught early tra<strong>in</strong>s
to Town. They all started late; they all carried a black bag and
a newspaper <strong>in</strong> one hand, and an umbrella <strong>in</strong> the other; and
for the last quarter of a mile to the station, wet or f<strong>in</strong>e, they
all ran.
Folks with noth<strong>in</strong>g else to do, nursemaids chiefly and errand
boys, with now and then a perambulat<strong>in</strong>g costermonger added,
would gather on the common of a f<strong>in</strong>e morn<strong>in</strong>g to watch
them pass, and cheer the most deserv<strong>in</strong>g. It was not a showy
spectacle. They did not run well, they did not even run fast;
but they were earnest, and they did their best. The exhibition
appealed less to one’s sense of art than to one’s natural admiration
for conscientious effort.
Occasionally a little harmless bett<strong>in</strong>g would take place
among the crowd.
“Two to one ag<strong>in</strong> the old gent <strong>in</strong> the white weskit!”
“Ten to one on old Blowpipes, bar he don’t roll over hisself
’fore ’e gets there!”
“Heven money on the Purple Hemperor!” — a nickname
bestowed by a youth of entomological tastes upon a certa<strong>in</strong>
retired military neighbour of my uncle’s, — a gentleman of
impos<strong>in</strong>g appearance when stationary, but apt to colour highly
under exercise.
My uncle and the others would write to the Eal<strong>in</strong>g Press
compla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g bitterly concern<strong>in</strong>g the sup<strong>in</strong>eness of the local

— 249 —
police; and the editor would add spirited leaders upon the Decay
of Courtesy among the Lower Orders, especially throughout
the Western Suburbs. But no good ever resulted.
It was not that my uncle did not rise early enough; it was
that troubles came to him at the last moment. The first th<strong>in</strong>g
he would do after breakfast would be to lose his newspaper. We
always knew when Uncle Podger had lost anyth<strong>in</strong>g, by the expression
of astonished <strong>in</strong>dignation with which, on such occasions,
he would regard the world <strong>in</strong> general. It never occurred
to my Uncle Podger to say to himself:
“I am a careless old man. I lose everyth<strong>in</strong>g: I never know
where I have put anyth<strong>in</strong>g. I am quite <strong>in</strong>capable of f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g it
aga<strong>in</strong> for myself. In this respect I must be a perfect nuisance to
everybody about me. I must set to work and reform myself.”
On the contrary, by some peculiar course of reason<strong>in</strong>g, he
had conv<strong>in</strong>ced himself that whenever he lost a th<strong>in</strong>g it was
everybody else’s fault <strong>in</strong> the house but his own.
“I had it <strong>in</strong> my hand here not a m<strong>in</strong>ute ago!” he would exclaim.
From his tone you would have thought he was liv<strong>in</strong>g surrounded
by conjurers, who spirited away th<strong>in</strong>gs from him
merely to irritate him.
“Could you have left it <strong>in</strong> the garden?” my aunt would suggest.
“What should I want to leave it <strong>in</strong> the garden for? I don’t
want a paper <strong>in</strong> the garden; I want the paper <strong>in</strong> the tra<strong>in</strong> with
me.”
“You haven’t put it <strong>in</strong> your pocket?”
“God bless the woman! Do you th<strong>in</strong>k I should be stand<strong>in</strong>g
here at five m<strong>in</strong>utes to n<strong>in</strong>e look<strong>in</strong>g for it if I had it <strong>in</strong> my
pocket all the while? Do you th<strong>in</strong>k I’m a fool?”
Here somebody would expla<strong>in</strong>, “What’s this?” and hand him
from somewhere a paper neatly folded.
“I do wish people would leave my th<strong>in</strong>gs alone,” he would
growl, snatch<strong>in</strong>g at it savagely.

— 250 —
He would open his bag to put it <strong>in</strong>, and then glanc<strong>in</strong>g at it,
he would pause, speechless with sense of <strong>in</strong>jury.
“What’s the matter?” aunt would ask.
“The day before yesterday’s!” he would answer, too hurt
even to shout, throw<strong>in</strong>g the paper down upon the table.
If only sometimes it had been yesterday’s it would have been
a change. But it was always the day before yesterday’s; except
on Tuesday; then it would be Saturday’s.
We would f<strong>in</strong>d it for him eventually; as often as not he was
sitt<strong>in</strong>g on it. And then he would smile, not genially, but with
the wear<strong>in</strong>ess that comes to a man who feels that fate has cast
his lot among a band of hopeless idiots.
“All the time, right <strong>in</strong> front of your noses — !” He would not
f<strong>in</strong>ish the sentence; he prided himself on his self-control.
This settled, he would start for the hall, where it was the
custom of my Aunt Maria to have the children gathered, ready
to say good-bye to him.
My aunt never left the house herself, if only to make a call
next door, without tak<strong>in</strong>g a tender farewell of every <strong>in</strong>mate.
One never knew, she would say, what might happen.
One of them, of course, was sure to be miss<strong>in</strong>g, and the moment
this was noticed all the other six, without an <strong>in</strong>stant’s
hesitation, would scatter with a whoop to f<strong>in</strong>d it. Immediately
they were gone it would turn up by itself from somewhere
quite near, always with the most reasonable explanation for
its absence; and would at once start off after the others to
expla<strong>in</strong> to them that it was found. In this way, five m<strong>in</strong>utes at
least would be taken up <strong>in</strong> everybody’s look<strong>in</strong>g for everybody
else, which was just sufficient time to allow my uncle to f<strong>in</strong>d
his umbrella and lose his hat. Then, at last, the group reassembled
<strong>in</strong> the hall, the draw<strong>in</strong>g-room clock would commence to
strike n<strong>in</strong>e. It possessed a cold, penetrat<strong>in</strong>g chime that always
had the effect of confus<strong>in</strong>g my uncle. In his excitement he
would kiss some of the children twice over, pass by others,
forget whom he had kissed and whom he hadn’t, and have to
beg<strong>in</strong> all over aga<strong>in</strong>. He used to say he believed they mixed

— 251 —
themselves up on purpose, and I am not prepared to ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>
that the charge was altogether false. To add to his troubles, one
child always had a sticky face; and that child would always be
the most affectionate.
If th<strong>in</strong>gs were go<strong>in</strong>g too smoothly, the eldest boy would
come out with some tale about all the clocks <strong>in</strong> the house be<strong>in</strong>g
five m<strong>in</strong>utes slow, and of his hav<strong>in</strong>g been late for school
the previous day <strong>in</strong> consequence. This would send my uncle
rush<strong>in</strong>g impetuously down to the gate, where he would recollect
that he had with him neither his bag nor his umbrella. All
the children that my aunt could not stop would charge after
him, two of them struggl<strong>in</strong>g for the umbrella, the others surg<strong>in</strong>g
round the bag. And when they returned we would discover
on the hall table the most important th<strong>in</strong>g of all that he had
forgotten, and wondered what he would say about it when he
came home.
We arrived at Waterloo a little after n<strong>in</strong>e, and at once proceeded
to put George’s experiment <strong>in</strong>to operation. Open<strong>in</strong>g
the book at the chapter entitled “At the Cab Rank,” we walked
up to a hansom, raised our hats, and wished the driver “Goodmorn<strong>in</strong>g.”
This man was not to be outdone <strong>in</strong> politeness by any foreigner,
real or imitation. Call<strong>in</strong>g to a friend named “Charles”
to “hold the steed,” he sprang from his box, and returned to us
a bow, that would have done credit to Mr. Turveydrop himself.
Speak<strong>in</strong>g apparently <strong>in</strong> the name of the nation, he welcomed
us to England, add<strong>in</strong>g a regret that Her Majesty was not at the
moment <strong>in</strong> London.
We could not reply to him <strong>in</strong> k<strong>in</strong>d. Noth<strong>in</strong>g of this sort had
been anticipated by the book. We called him “coachman,” at
which he aga<strong>in</strong> bowed to the pavement, and asked him if he
would have the goodness to drive us to the Westm<strong>in</strong>ster Bridge
road.
He laid his hand upon his heart, and said the pleasure would
be his.

— 252 —
Tak<strong>in</strong>g the third sentence <strong>in</strong> the chapter, George asked him
what his fare would be.
The question, as <strong>in</strong>troduc<strong>in</strong>g a sordid element <strong>in</strong>to the conversation,
seemed to hurt his feel<strong>in</strong>gs. He said he never took
money from dist<strong>in</strong>guished strangers; he suggested a souvenir
— a diamond scarf p<strong>in</strong>, a gold snuffbox, some little trifle of
that sort by which he could remember us.
As a small crowd had collected, and as the joke was drift<strong>in</strong>g
rather too far <strong>in</strong> the cabman’s direction, we climbed <strong>in</strong> without
further parley, and were driven away amid cheers. We stopped
the cab at a boot shop a little past Astley’s Theatre that looked
the sort of place we wanted. It was one of those overfed shops
that the moment their shutters are taken down <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g
disgorge their goods all round them. Boxes of boots stood
piled on the pavement or <strong>in</strong> the gutter opposite. Boots hung
<strong>in</strong> festoons about its doors and w<strong>in</strong>dows. Its sun-bl<strong>in</strong>d was as
some grimy v<strong>in</strong>e, bear<strong>in</strong>g bunches of black and brown boots.
Inside, the shop was a bower of boots. The man, when we entered,
was busy with a chisel and hammer open<strong>in</strong>g a new crate
full of boots.
George raised his hat, and said “Good-morn<strong>in</strong>g.”
The man did not even turn round. He struck me from the
first as a disagreeable man. He grunted someth<strong>in</strong>g which
might have been “Good-morn<strong>in</strong>g,” or might not, and went on
with his work.
George said: “I have been recommended to your shop by my
friend, Mr. X.”
In response, the man should have said: “Mr. X. is a most
worthy gentleman; it will give me the greatest pleasure to serve
any friend of his.”
What he did say was: “Don’t know him; never heard of
him.”
This was disconcert<strong>in</strong>g. The book gave three or four methods
of buy<strong>in</strong>g boots; George had carefully selected the one
centred round “Mr. X,” as be<strong>in</strong>g of all the most courtly. You
talked a good deal with the shopkeeper about this “Mr. X,” and

— 253 —
then, when by this means friendship and understand<strong>in</strong>g had
been established, you slid naturally and gracefully <strong>in</strong>to the immediate
object of your com<strong>in</strong>g, namely, your desire for boots,
“cheap and good.” This gross, material man cared, apparently,
noth<strong>in</strong>g for the niceties of retail deal<strong>in</strong>g. It was necessary with
such an one to come to bus<strong>in</strong>ess with brutal directness. George
abandoned “Mr. X,” and turn<strong>in</strong>g back to a previous page, took
a sentence at random. It was not a happy selection; it was a
speech that would have been superfluous made to any bootmaker.
Under the present circumstances, threatened and stifled
as we were on every side by boots, it possessed the dignity
of positive imbecilitiy. It ran: — “One has told me that you have
here boots for sale.”
For the first time the man put down his hammer and chisel,
and looked at us. He spoke slowly, <strong>in</strong> a thick and husky voice.
He said:
“What d’ye th<strong>in</strong>k I keep boots for — to smell ’em?”
He was one of those men that beg<strong>in</strong> quietly and grow more
angry as they proceed, their wrongs apparently work<strong>in</strong>g with<strong>in</strong>
them like yeast.
“What d’ye th<strong>in</strong>k I am,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued, “a boot collector?
What d’ye th<strong>in</strong>k I’m runn<strong>in</strong>g this shop for — my health? D’ye
th<strong>in</strong>k I love the boots, and can’t bear to part with a pair? D’ye
th<strong>in</strong>k I hang ’em about here to look at ’em? A<strong>in</strong>’t there enough
of ’em? Where d’ye th<strong>in</strong>k you are — <strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>ternational exhibition
of boots? What d’ye th<strong>in</strong>k these boots are — a historical
collection? Did you ever hear of a man keep<strong>in</strong>g a boot shop
and not sell<strong>in</strong>g boots? D’ye th<strong>in</strong>k I decorate the shop with
’em to make it look pretty? What d’ye take me for — a prize
idiot?”
I have always ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>ed that these conversation books
are never of any real use. What we wanted was some English
equivalent for the well-known German idiom: “Behalten Sie
Ihr Haar auf.”
Noth<strong>in</strong>g of the sort was to be found <strong>in</strong> the book from beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g
to end. However, I will do George the credit to admit he

— 254 —
chose the very best sentence that was to be found there<strong>in</strong> and
applied it. He said:.
“I will come aga<strong>in</strong>, when, perhaps, you will have some more
boots to show me. Till then, adieu!”
With that we returned to our cab and drove away, leav<strong>in</strong>g
the man stand<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the centre of his boot-bedecked doorway
address<strong>in</strong>g remarks to us. What he said, I did not hear, but the
passers-by appeared to f<strong>in</strong>d it <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g.
George was for stopp<strong>in</strong>g at another boot shop and try<strong>in</strong>g
the experiment afresh; he said he really did want a pair of
bedroom slippers. But we persuaded him to postpone their
purchase until our arrival <strong>in</strong> some foreign city, where the
tradespeople are no doubt more <strong>in</strong>ured to this sort of talk, or
else more naturally amiable. On the subject of the hat, however,
he was adamant. He ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>ed that without that he could
not travel, and, accord<strong>in</strong>gly, we pulled up at a small shop <strong>in</strong> the
Blackfriars Road.
The proprietor of this shop was a cheery, bright-eyed little
man, and he helped us rather than h<strong>in</strong>dered us.
When George asked him <strong>in</strong> the words of the book, “Have
you any hats?” he did not get angry; he just stopped and
thoughtfully scratched his ch<strong>in</strong>.
“Hats,” said he. “Let me th<strong>in</strong>k. Yes” — here a smile of positive
pleasure broke over his genial countenance — “yes, now I
come to th<strong>in</strong>k of it, I believe I have a hat. But, tell me, why do
you ask me?”
George expla<strong>in</strong>ed to him that he wished to purchase a cap,
a travell<strong>in</strong>g cap, but the essence of the transaction was that it
was to be a “good cap.”
The man’s face fell.
“Ah,” he remarked, “there, I am afraid, you have me. Now, if
you had wanted a bad cap, not worth the price asked for it; a
cap good for noth<strong>in</strong>g but to clean w<strong>in</strong>dows with, I could have
found you the very th<strong>in</strong>g. But a good cap — no; we don’t keep
them. But wait a m<strong>in</strong>ute,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued, — on see<strong>in</strong>g the disappo<strong>in</strong>tment
that spread over George’s expressive countenance,

— 255 —
“don’t be <strong>in</strong> a hurry. I have a cap here” — he went to a drawer
and opened it — “it is not a good cap, but it is not so bad as
most of the caps I sell.”
He brought it forward, extended on his palm.
“What do you th<strong>in</strong>k of that?” he asked. “Could you put up
with that?”
George fitted it on before the glass, and, choos<strong>in</strong>g another
remark from the book, said:
“This hat fits me sufficiently well, but, tell me, do you consider
that it becomes me?”
The man stepped back and took a bird’s-eye view.
“Candidly,” he replied, “I can’t say that it does.”
He turned from George, and addressed himself to Harris
and myself.
“Your friend’s beauty,” said he, “I should describe as elusive.
It is there, but you can easily miss it. Now, <strong>in</strong> that cap, to my
m<strong>in</strong>d, you do miss it.”
At that po<strong>in</strong>t it occurred to George that he had had sufficient
fun with this particular man. He said:
“That is all right. We don’t want to lose the tra<strong>in</strong>. How
much?”
Answered the man: “The price of that cap, sir, which, <strong>in</strong> my
op<strong>in</strong>ion, is twice as much as it is worth, is four-and-six. Would
you like it wrapped up <strong>in</strong> brown paper, sir, or <strong>in</strong> white?”
George said he would take it as it was, paid the man fourand-six
<strong>in</strong>-silver, and went out. Harris and I followed.
At Fenchurch Street we compromised with our cabman for
five shill<strong>in</strong>gs. He made us another courtly bow, and begged us
to remember him to the Emperor of Austria.
Compar<strong>in</strong>g views <strong>in</strong> the tra<strong>in</strong>, we agreed that we had lost
the game by two po<strong>in</strong>ts to one; and George, who was evidently
disappo<strong>in</strong>ted, threw the book out of w<strong>in</strong>dow.
We found our luggage and the bicycles safe on the boat, and
with the tide at twelve dropped down the river.

— 256 —
CHAPTER V
A necessary digression — Introduced by story conta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g moral
— One of the charms of this book — The Journal that did not
command success — Its boast: “Instruction comb<strong>in</strong>ed with Amusement”
— Problem: say what should be considered <strong>in</strong>structive and
what amus<strong>in</strong>g — A popular game — Expert op<strong>in</strong>ion on English
law — Another of the charms of this book — A hackneyed tune —
Yet a third charm of this book — The sort of wood it was where the
maiden lived — Description of the Black Forest.
A STORY is told of a Scotchman who, lov<strong>in</strong>g a lassie, desired
her for his wife. But he possessed the prudence of his race. He
had noticed <strong>in</strong> his circle many an otherwise promis<strong>in</strong>g union
result <strong>in</strong> disappo<strong>in</strong>tment and dismay, purely <strong>in</strong> consequence of
the false estimate formed by bride or bridegroom concern<strong>in</strong>g
the imag<strong>in</strong>ed perfectability of the other. He determ<strong>in</strong>ed that <strong>in</strong>
his own case no collapsed ideal should be possible. Therefore,
it was that his proposal took the follow<strong>in</strong>g form:
“I’m but a puir lad, Jennie; I hae nae siller to offer ye, and
nae land.”
“Ah, but ye hae yoursel’, Davie!”
“An’ I’m wishfu’ it wa’ onyth<strong>in</strong>g else, lassie. I’m nae but a puir
ill-seasoned loon, Jennie.”
“Na, na; there’s mony a lad mair ill-look<strong>in</strong>g than yoursel’,
Davie.”
“I hae na seen him, lass, and I’m just a-th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>’ I shouldna’
care to.”
“Better a pla<strong>in</strong> man, Davie, that ye can depend a’ than ane
that would be a speir<strong>in</strong>’ at the lassies, a-br<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>’ trouble <strong>in</strong>to the
hame wi’ his flout<strong>in</strong>g ways.”
“D<strong>in</strong>na ye reckon on that, Jennie; it’s nae the bonniest Bubbly
Jock that mak’s the most feathers to fly <strong>in</strong> the kailyard. I
was ever a lad to run after the petticoats, as is weel kent; an’ it’s
a weary handfu’ I’ll be to ye, I’m th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>’.”
“Ah, but ye hae a k<strong>in</strong>d heart, Davie! an’ ye love me weel. I’m
sure on’t.”
“I like ye weel enoo’, Jennie, though I canna say how long the

— 257 —
feel<strong>in</strong>g may bide wi’ me; an’ I’m k<strong>in</strong>d enoo’ when I hae my a<strong>in</strong>
way, an’ naeth<strong>in</strong>’ happens to put me oot. But I hae the deevil’s
a<strong>in</strong> temper, as my mither call tell ye, an’ like my puir fayther,
I’m a-th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>’, I’ll grow nae better as I grow mair auld.”
“Ay, but ye’re sair hard upon yersel’, Davie. Ye’re an honest
lad. I ken ye better than ye ken yersel’, an’ ye’ll mak a guid hame
for me.”
“Maybe, Jennie! But I hae my doots. It’s a sair th<strong>in</strong>g for
wife an’ bairns when the guid man canna keep awa’ frae the
glass; an’ when the scent of the whusky comes to me it’s just
as though I hae’d the throat o’ a Loch Tay salmon; it just gaes
doon an’ doon, an’ there’s nae fill<strong>in</strong>g o’ me.”
“Ay, but ye’re a guid man when ye’re sober, Davie.”
“Maybe I’ll be that, Jennie, if I’m nae disturbed.”
“An’ ye’ll bide wi’ me, Davie, an’ work for me?”
“I see nae reason why I shouldna bide wi’ yet Jennie; but
d<strong>in</strong>na ye clack aboot work to me, for I just canna bear the
thoct o’t.”
“Anyhow, ye’ll do your best, Davie? As the m<strong>in</strong>ister says, nae
man can do mair than that.”
“An’ it’s a puir best that m<strong>in</strong>e’ll be, Jennie, and I’m nae sae
sure ye’ll hae ower muckle even o’ that. We’re a’ weak, s<strong>in</strong>fu’
creatures, Jennie, an’ ye’d hae some deefficulty to f<strong>in</strong>d a man
weaker or mair s<strong>in</strong>fu’ than mysel’.”
“Weel, weel, ye hae a truthfu’ tongue, Davie. Mony a lad will
mak f<strong>in</strong>e promises to a puir lassie, only to break ’em an’ her
heart wi’ ’em. Ye speak me fair, Davie, and I’m th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>’ I’ll just
tak ye, an’ see what comes o’t.”
Concern<strong>in</strong>g what did come of it, the story is silent, but one
feels that under no circumstances had the lady any right to
compla<strong>in</strong> of her barga<strong>in</strong>. Whether she ever did or did not — for
women do not <strong>in</strong>variably order their tongues accord<strong>in</strong>g to
logic, nor men either for the matter of that — Davie, himself,
must have had the satisfaction of reflect<strong>in</strong>g that all reproaches
were undeserved.
I wish to be equally frank with the reader of this book. I

— 258 —
wish here conscientiously to let forth its shortcom<strong>in</strong>gs. I wish
no one to read this book under a misapprehension.
There will be no useful <strong>in</strong>formation <strong>in</strong> this book.
Anyone who should th<strong>in</strong>k that with the aid of this book he
would be able to make a tour through Germany and the Black
Forest would probably lose himself before he got to the Nore.
That, at all events, would be the best th<strong>in</strong>g that could happen
to him. The farther away from home he got, the greater only
would be his difficulties.
I do not regard the conveyance of useful <strong>in</strong>formation as my
forte. This belief was not <strong>in</strong>born with me; it has been driven
home upon me by experience.
In my early journalistic days, I served upon a paper, the
forerunner of many very popular periodicals of the present
day. Our boast was that we comb<strong>in</strong>ed <strong>in</strong>struction with amusement;
as to what should be regarded as afford<strong>in</strong>g amusement
and what <strong>in</strong>struction, the reader judged for himself. We gave
advice to people about to marry — long, earnest advice that
would, had they followed it, have made our circle of readers
the envy of the whole married world. We told our subscribers
how to make fortunes by keep<strong>in</strong>g rabbits, giv<strong>in</strong>g facts and
figures. The th<strong>in</strong>g that must have surprised them was that we
ourselves did not give up journalism and start rabbit-farm<strong>in</strong>g.
Often and often have I proved conclusively from authoritative
sources how a man start<strong>in</strong>g a rabbit farm with twelve selected
rabbits and a little judgment must, at the end of three years,
be <strong>in</strong> receipt of an <strong>in</strong>come of two thousand a year, ris<strong>in</strong>g rapidly;
he simply could not help himself. He might not want the
money. He might not know what to do with it when he had
it. But there it was for him. I have never met a rabbit farmer
myself worth two thousand a year, though I have known many
start with the twelve necessary, assorted rabbits. Someth<strong>in</strong>g
has always gone wrong somewhere; maybe the cont<strong>in</strong>ued atmosphere
of a rabbit farm saps the judgment.
We told our readers how many bald-headed men there were
<strong>in</strong> Iceland, and for all we knew our figures may have been cor-

— 259 —
rect; how many red herr<strong>in</strong>gs placed tail to mouth it would take
to reach from London to Rome, which must have been useful
to anyone desirous of lay<strong>in</strong>g down a l<strong>in</strong>e of red herr<strong>in</strong>gs from
London to Rome, enabl<strong>in</strong>g him to order <strong>in</strong> the right quantity
at the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g; how many words the average woman spoke
<strong>in</strong> a day; and other such like items of <strong>in</strong>formation calculated
to make them wise and great beyond the readers of other
journals.
We told them how to cure fits <strong>in</strong> cats. Personally I do not
believe, and I did not believe then, that you can cure fits <strong>in</strong>
cats. If I had a cat subject to fits I should advertise it for sale,
or even give it away. But our duty was to supply <strong>in</strong>formation
when asked for. Some fool wrote, clamour<strong>in</strong>g to know; and I
spent the best part of a morn<strong>in</strong>g seek<strong>in</strong>g knowledge on the
subject. I found what I wanted at length at the end of an old
cookery book. What it was do<strong>in</strong>g there I have never been able
to understand. It had noth<strong>in</strong>g to do with the proper subject
of the book whatever; there was no suggestion that you could
make anyth<strong>in</strong>g savoury out of a cat, even when you had cured
it of its fits. The authoress had just thrown <strong>in</strong> this paragraph
out of pure generosity. I can only say that I wish she had left it
out; it was the cause of a deal of angry correspondence and of
the loss of four subscribers to the paper, if not more. The man
said the result of follow<strong>in</strong>g our advice had been two pounds
worth of damage to his kitchen crockery, to say noth<strong>in</strong>g of
a broken w<strong>in</strong>dow and probable blood poison<strong>in</strong>g to himself;
added to which the cat’s fits were worse than before. And yet
it was a simple enough recipe. You held the cat between your
legs, gently, so as not to hurt it, and with a pair of scissors made
a sharp, clean cut <strong>in</strong> its tail. You did not cut off any part of the
tail; you were to be careful not to do that; you only made an
<strong>in</strong>cision.
As we expla<strong>in</strong>ed to the man, the garden or the coal cellar
would have been the proper place for the operation; no one
but an idiot would have attempted to perform it <strong>in</strong> a kitchen,
and without help.

— 260 —
We gave them h<strong>in</strong>ts on etiquette. We told them how to address
peers and bishops; also how to eat soup. We <strong>in</strong>structed
shy young men how to acquire easy grace <strong>in</strong> draw<strong>in</strong>g-rooms.
We taught danc<strong>in</strong>g to both sexes by the aid of diagrams. We
solved their religious doubts for them, and supplied them with
a code of morals that would have done credit to a sta<strong>in</strong>ed-glass
w<strong>in</strong>dow.
The paper was not a f<strong>in</strong>ancial success, it was some years
before its time, and the consequence was that our staff was
limited. My own apartment, I remember, <strong>in</strong>cluded “Advice to
Mothers” — I wrote that with the assistance of my landlady,
who, hav<strong>in</strong>g divorced one husband and buried four children,
was, I considered, a reliable authority on all domestic matters;
“H<strong>in</strong>ts on Furnish<strong>in</strong>g and Household Decorations — with
Designs” a column of “Literary Counsel to Beg<strong>in</strong>ners” — I
s<strong>in</strong>cerely hope my guidance was of better service to them than
it has ever proved to myself; and our weekly article, “Straight
Talks to Young <strong>Men</strong>,” signed “Uncle Henry.” A k<strong>in</strong>dly, genial
old fellow was “Uncle Henry,” with wide and varied experience,
and a sympathetic attitude towards the ris<strong>in</strong>g generation.
He had been through trouble himself <strong>in</strong> his far back youth, and
knew most th<strong>in</strong>gs. Even to this day I read of “Uncle Henry’s”
advice, and, though I say it who should not, it still seems to me
good, sound advice. I often th<strong>in</strong>k that had I followed “Uncle
Henry’s” counsel closer I would have been wiser, made fewer
mistakes, felt better satisfied with myself than is now the case.
A quiet, weary little woman, who lived <strong>in</strong> a bed-sitt<strong>in</strong>g
room off the Tottenham Court Road, and who had a husband
<strong>in</strong> a lunatic asylum, did our “Cook<strong>in</strong>g Column,” “H<strong>in</strong>ts on
Education” — we were full of h<strong>in</strong>ts, — and a page and a half
of “Fashionable Intelligence,” written <strong>in</strong> the pertly personal
style which even yet has not altogether disappeared, so I am
<strong>in</strong>formed, from modern journalism: “I must tell you about the
div<strong>in</strong>e frock I wore at ‘Glorious Goodwood’ last week. Pr<strong>in</strong>ce
C. — but there, I really must not repeat all the th<strong>in</strong>gs the silly

— 261 —
fellow says; he is too foolish — and the dear Countess, I fancy,
was just the weeish bit jealous” — and so on.
Poor little woman! I see her now <strong>in</strong> the shabby grey alpaca,
with the <strong>in</strong>ksta<strong>in</strong>s on it. Perhaps a day at “Glorious Goodwood,”
or anywhere else <strong>in</strong> the fresh air, might have put some
colour <strong>in</strong>to her cheeks.
Our proprietor — one of the most unashamedly ignorant
men I ever met — I remember his gravely <strong>in</strong>form<strong>in</strong>g a correspondent
once that Ben Jonson had written Rabelais to pay for
his mother’s funeral, and only laugh<strong>in</strong>g good-naturedly when
his mistakes were po<strong>in</strong>ted out to him — wrote with the aid of
a cheap encyclopedia the pages devoted to “General Information,”
and did them on the whole remarkably well; while our
office boy, with an excellent pair of scissors for his assistant,
was responsible for our supply of “Wit and Humour.”
It was hard work, and the pay was poor, what susta<strong>in</strong>ed us
was the consciousness that we were <strong>in</strong>struct<strong>in</strong>g and improv<strong>in</strong>g
our fellow men and women. Of all games <strong>in</strong> the world,
the one most universally and eternally popular is the game of
school. You collect six children, and put them on a doorstep,
while you walk up and down with the book and cane. We play
it when babies, we play it when boys and girls, we play it when
men and women, we play it as, lean and slippered, we totter
towards the grave. It never palls upon, it never wearies us. Only
one th<strong>in</strong>g mars it: the tendency of one and all of the other six
children to clamour for their turn with the book and the cane.
The reason, I am sure, that journalism is so popular a call<strong>in</strong>g,
<strong>in</strong> spite of its many drawbacks, is this: each journalist feels he
is the boy walk<strong>in</strong>g up and down with the cane. The Government,
the Classes, and the Masses, Society, Art, and Literature,
are the other children sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the doorstep. He <strong>in</strong>structs and
improves them.
But I digress. It was to excuse my present permanent dis<strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ation
to be the vehicle of useful <strong>in</strong>formation that I recalled
these matters. Let us now return.
Somebody, sign<strong>in</strong>g himself “Balloonist,” had written to ask

— 262 —
concern<strong>in</strong>g the manufacture of hydrogen gas. It is an easy
th<strong>in</strong>g to manufacture — at least, so I gathered after read<strong>in</strong>g up
the subject at the British Museum; yet I did warn “Balloonist,”
whoever he might be, to take all necessary precaution aga<strong>in</strong>st
accident. What more could I have done? Ten days afterwards a
florid-faced lady called at the office, lead<strong>in</strong>g by the hand what,
she expla<strong>in</strong>ed, was her son, aged twelve. The boy’s face was
unimpressive to a degree positively remarkable. His mother
pushed him forward and took off his hat, and then I perceived
the reason for this. He had no eyebrows whatever, and of his
hair noth<strong>in</strong>g rema<strong>in</strong>ed but a scrubby dust, giv<strong>in</strong>g to his head
the appearance of a hard-boiled egg, sk<strong>in</strong>ned and spr<strong>in</strong>kled
with black pepper.
“That was a handsome lad this time last week, with naturally
curly hair,” remarked the lady. She spoke with a ris<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong>flection, suggestive of the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g of th<strong>in</strong>gs.
“What has happened to him?” asked our chief.
“This is what’s happened to him,” retorted the lady. She
drew from her muff a copy of our last week’s issue, with my
article on hydrogen gas scored <strong>in</strong> pencil, and flung it before his
eyes. Our chief took it and read it through.
“He was ‘Balloonist’?” queried the chief.
“He was ‘Balloonist,’” admitted the lady, “the poor <strong>in</strong>nocent
child, and now look at him!”
“Maybe it’ll grow aga<strong>in</strong>,” suggested our chief.
“Maybe it will,” retorted the lady, her key cont<strong>in</strong>u<strong>in</strong>g to rise,
“and maybe it won’t. What I want to know is what you are go<strong>in</strong>g
to do for him.”
Our chief suggested a hair wash. I thought at first she was
go<strong>in</strong>g to fly at him; but for the moment she conf<strong>in</strong>ed herself
to words. It appears she was not th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of a hair wash, but
of compensation. She also made observations on the general
character of our paper, its utility, its claim to public support,
the sense and wisdom of its contributors.
“I really don’t see that it is our fault,” urged the chief — he

— 263 —
was a mild-mannered man; “he asked for <strong>in</strong>formation, and he
got it.”
“Don’t you try to be funny about it,” said the lady (he had
not meant to be funny, I am sure; levity was not his fail<strong>in</strong>g) “or
you’ll get someth<strong>in</strong>g that you haven’t asked for. Why, for two
p<strong>in</strong>s,” said the lady, with a suddenness that sent us both fly<strong>in</strong>g
like scuttled chickens beh<strong>in</strong>d our respective chairs, “I’d come
round and make your head like it!” I take it, she meant like the
boy’s. She also added observations upon our chief ’s personal
appearance, that were dist<strong>in</strong>ctly <strong>in</strong> bad taste. She was not a nice
woman by any means.
Myself, I am of op<strong>in</strong>ion that had she brought the action she
threatened, she would have had no case; but our chief was a
man who had had experience of the law, and his pr<strong>in</strong>ciple was
always to avoid it. I have heard him say:
“If a man stopped me <strong>in</strong> the street and demanded of me
my watch, I should refuse to give it to him. If he threatened to
take it by force, I feel I should, though not a fight<strong>in</strong>g man, do
my best to protect it. If, on the other hand, he should assert his
<strong>in</strong>tention of try<strong>in</strong>g to obta<strong>in</strong> it by means of an action <strong>in</strong> any
court of law, I should take it out of my pocket and hand it to
him, and th<strong>in</strong>k I had got off cheaply.”
He squared the matter with the florid-faced lady for a fivepound
note, which must have represented a month’s profits on
the paper; and she departed, tak<strong>in</strong>g her damaged offspr<strong>in</strong>g
with her. After she was gone, our chief spoke k<strong>in</strong>dly to me. He
said:
“Don’t th<strong>in</strong>k I am blam<strong>in</strong>g you <strong>in</strong> the least; it is not your
fault, it is Fate. Keep to moral advice and criticism — there you
are dist<strong>in</strong>ctly good; but don’t try your hand any more on ‘Useful
Information.’ As I have said, it is not your fault. Your <strong>in</strong>formation
is correct enough — there is noth<strong>in</strong>g to be said aga<strong>in</strong>st
that; it simply is that you are not lucky with it.”
I would that I had followed his advice always; I would have
saved myself and other people much disaster. I see no reason
why it should be, but so it is. If I <strong>in</strong>struct a man as to the best

— 264 —
route between London and Rome, he loses his luggage <strong>in</strong> Switzerland,
or is nearly shipwrecked off Dover. If I counsel him <strong>in</strong>
the purchase of a camera, he gets run <strong>in</strong> by the German police
for photograph<strong>in</strong>g fortresses. I once took a deal of trouble to
expla<strong>in</strong> to a man how to marry his deceased wife’s sister at
Stockholm. I found out for him the time the boat left Hull and
the best hotels to stop at. There was not a s<strong>in</strong>gle mistake from
beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to end <strong>in</strong> the <strong>in</strong>formation with which I supplied
him; no hitch occurred anywhere; yet now he never speaks
to me.
Therefore it is that I have come to restra<strong>in</strong> my passion for
the giv<strong>in</strong>g of <strong>in</strong>formation; therefore it is that noth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the
nature of practical <strong>in</strong>struction will be found, if I can help it,
with<strong>in</strong> these pages.
There will be no description of towns, no historical rem<strong>in</strong>iscences,
no architecture, no morals.
I once asked an <strong>in</strong>telligent foreigner what he thought of
London.
He said: “It is a very big town.”
I said: “What struck you most about it?”
He replied: “The people.”
I said: “Compared with other towns — Paris, Rome, Berl<strong>in</strong>,
— what did you th<strong>in</strong>k of it?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It is bigger,” he said; “what
more can one say?”
One anthill is very much like another. So many avenues,
wide or narrow, where the little creatures swarm <strong>in</strong> strange
confusion; these bustl<strong>in</strong>g by, important; these halt<strong>in</strong>g to powwow
with one another. These struggl<strong>in</strong>g with big burdens;
those but bask<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the sun. So many granaries stored with
food; so many cells where the little th<strong>in</strong>gs sleep, and eat, and
love; the corner where lie their little white bones. This hive is
larger, the next smaller. This nest lies on the sand, and another
under the stones. This was built but yesterday, while that was
fashioned ages ago, some say even before the swallows came;
who knows?

— 265 —
Nor will there be found here<strong>in</strong> folk-lore or story.
Every valley where lie homesteads has its song. I will tell
you the plot; you can turn it <strong>in</strong>to verse and set it to music of
your own.
There lived a lass, and there came a lad, who loved and rode
away.
It is a monotonous song, written <strong>in</strong> many languages; for
the young man seems to have been a mighty traveller. Here
<strong>in</strong> sentimental Germany they remember him well. So also the
dwellers of the Blue Alsatian Mounta<strong>in</strong>s remember his com<strong>in</strong>g
among them; while, if my memory serves me truly, he likewise
visited the Banks of Allan Water. A veritable Wander<strong>in</strong>g Jew
is he; for still the foolish girls listen, so they say, to the dy<strong>in</strong>g
away of his hoof-beats.
In this land of many ru<strong>in</strong>s, that long while ago were voicefilled
homes, l<strong>in</strong>ger many legends; and here aga<strong>in</strong>, giv<strong>in</strong>g you
the essentials, I leave you to cook the dish for yourself. Take a
human heart or two, assorted; a bundle of human passions —
there are not many of them, half a dozen at the most; season
with a mixture of good and evil; flavour the whole with the
sauce of death, and serve up where and when you will. “The
Sa<strong>in</strong>t’s Cell,” “The Haunted Keep,” “The Dungeon Grave,” “The
Lover’s Leap” — call it what you will, the stew’s the same.
Lastly, <strong>in</strong> this book there will be no scenery. This is not laz<strong>in</strong>ess
on my part; it is self-control. Noth<strong>in</strong>g is easier to write
than scenery; noth<strong>in</strong>g more difficult and unnecessary to read.
When Gibbon had to trust to travellers’ tales for a description
of the Hellespont, and the Rh<strong>in</strong>e was chiefly familiar to English
students through the medium of Caesar’s Commentaries, it behoved
every globe-trotter, for whatever distance, to describe to
the best of his ability the th<strong>in</strong>gs that he had seen. Dr. Johnson,
familiar with little else than the view down Fleet Street, could
read the description of a Yorkshire moor with pleasure and
with profit. To a cockney who had never seen higher ground
than the Hog’s Back <strong>in</strong> Surrey, an account of Snowdon must
have appeared excit<strong>in</strong>g. But we, or rather the steam-eng<strong>in</strong>e and

— 266 —
the camera for us, have changed all that. The man who plays
tennis every year at the foot of the Matterhorn, and billiards
on the summit of the Rigi, does not thank you for an elaborate
and pa<strong>in</strong>stak<strong>in</strong>g description of the Grampian Hills. To the
average man, who has seen a dozen oil pa<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>gs, a hundred
photographs, a thousand pictures <strong>in</strong> the illustrated journals,
and a couple of panoramas of Niagara, the word-pa<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g of a
waterfall is tedious.
An American friend of m<strong>in</strong>e, a cultured gentleman, who
loved poetry well enough for its own sake, told me that he had
obta<strong>in</strong>ed a more correct and more satisfy<strong>in</strong>g idea of the Lake
district from an eighteenpenny book of photographic views
than from all the works of Coleridge, Southey, and Wordsworth
put together. I also remember his say<strong>in</strong>g concern<strong>in</strong>g
this subject of scenery <strong>in</strong> literature, that he would thank an
author as much for writ<strong>in</strong>g an eloquent description of what he
had just had for d<strong>in</strong>ner. But this was <strong>in</strong> reference to another
argument; namely, the proper prov<strong>in</strong>ce of each art. My friend
ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>ed that just as canvas and colour were the wrong mediums
for story tell<strong>in</strong>g, so word-pa<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g was, at its best, but
a clumsy method of convey<strong>in</strong>g impressions that could much
better be received through the eye.
As regards the question, there also l<strong>in</strong>gers <strong>in</strong> my memory
very dist<strong>in</strong>ctly a hot school afternoon. The class was for English
literature, and the proceed<strong>in</strong>gs commenced with the read<strong>in</strong>g
of a certa<strong>in</strong> lengthy, but otherwise unobjectionable, poem.
The author’s name, I am ashamed to say, I have forgotten,
together with the title of the poem. The read<strong>in</strong>g f<strong>in</strong>ished, we
closed our books, and the Professor, a k<strong>in</strong>dly, white-haired old
gentleman, suggested our giv<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> our own words an account
of what we had just read.
“Tell me,” said the Professor, encourag<strong>in</strong>gly, “what it is all
about.”
“Please, sir,” said the first boy — he spoke with bowed head
and evident reluctance, as though the subject were one which,

— 267 —
left to himself, he would never have mentioned, — “it is about
a maiden.”
“Yes,” agreed the Professor; “but I want you to tell me <strong>in</strong>
your own words. We do not speak of a maiden, you know; we
say a girl. Yes, it is about a girl. Go on.”
“A girl,” repeated the top boy, the substitution apparently
<strong>in</strong>creas<strong>in</strong>g his embarrassment, “who lived <strong>in</strong> a wood.”
“What sort of a wood?” asked the Professor.
The first boy exam<strong>in</strong>ed his <strong>in</strong>kpot carefully, and then looked
at the ceil<strong>in</strong>g.
“Come,” urged the Professor, grow<strong>in</strong>g impatient, “you have
been read<strong>in</strong>g about this wood for the last ten m<strong>in</strong>utes. Surely
you can tell me someth<strong>in</strong>g concern<strong>in</strong>g it.”
“The gnarly trees, their twisted branches” — recommenced
the top boy.
“No, no,” <strong>in</strong>terrupted the Professor; “I do not want you to
repeat the poem. I want you to tell me <strong>in</strong> your own words what
sort of a wood it was where the girl lived.”
The Professor tapped his foot impatiently; the top boy made
a dash for it.
“Please, sir, it was the usual sort of a wood.”
“Tell him what sort of a wood,” said he, po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g to the
second lad.
The second boy said it was a “green wood.” This annoyed
the Professor still more; he called the second boy a blockhead,
though really I cannot see why, and passed on to the third,
who, for the last m<strong>in</strong>ute, had been sitt<strong>in</strong>g apparently on hot
plates, with his right arm wav<strong>in</strong>g up and down like a distracted
semaphore signal. He would have had to say it the next second,
whether the Professor had asked him or not; he was red <strong>in</strong> the
face, hold<strong>in</strong>g his knowledge <strong>in</strong>.
“A dark and gloomy wood,” shouted the third boy, with
much relief to his feel<strong>in</strong>gs.
“A dark and gloomy wood,” repeated the Professor, with evident
approval. “And why was it dark and gloomy?”
The third boy was still equal to the occasion.

— 268 —
“Because the sun could not get <strong>in</strong>side it.”
The Professor felt he had discovered the poet of the class.
“Because the sun could not get <strong>in</strong>to it, or, better, because the
sunbeams could not penetrate. And why could not the sunbeams
penetrate there?”
“Please, sir, because the leaves were too thick.”
“Very well,” said the Professor. “The girl lived <strong>in</strong> a dark and
gloomy wood, through the leafy canopy of which the sunbeams
were unable to pierce. Now, what grew <strong>in</strong> this wood?”
He po<strong>in</strong>ted to the fourth boy.
“Please, sir, trees, sir.”
“And what else?”
“Toadstools, sir.” This after a pause.
The Professor was not quite sure about the toadstools, but
on referr<strong>in</strong>g to the text he found that the boy was right; toadstools
had been mentioned.
“Quite right,” admitted the Professor, “toadstools grew
there. And what else? What do you f<strong>in</strong>d underneath trees <strong>in</strong>
a wood?”
“Please, sir, earth, sir.”
“No; no; what grows <strong>in</strong> a wood besides trees?”
“Oh, please, sir, bushes, sir.”
“Bushes; very good. Now we are gett<strong>in</strong>g on. In this wood
there were trees and bushes. And what else?”
He po<strong>in</strong>ted to a small boy near the bottom, who hav<strong>in</strong>g decided
that the wood was too far off to be of any annoyance to
him, <strong>in</strong>dividually, was occupy<strong>in</strong>g his leisure play<strong>in</strong>g noughts
and crosses aga<strong>in</strong>st himself. Vexed and bewildered, but feel<strong>in</strong>g
it necessary to add someth<strong>in</strong>g to the <strong>in</strong>ventory, he hazarded
blackberries. This was a mistake; the poet had not mentioned
blackberries.
“Of course, Klobstock would th<strong>in</strong>k of someth<strong>in</strong>g to eat,”
commented the Professor, who prided himself on his ready
wit. This raised a laugh aga<strong>in</strong>st Klobstock, and pleased the
Professor.

— 269 —
“You,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued he, po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g to a boy <strong>in</strong> the middle; “what
else was there <strong>in</strong> this wood besides trees and bushes?”
“Please, sir, there was a torrent there.”
“Quite right; and what did the torrent do?”
“Please, sir, it gurgled.”
“No; no. Streams gurgle, torrents — ?”
“Roar, sir.”
“It roared. And what made it roar?”
This was a poser. One boy — he was not our prize <strong>in</strong>tellect,
I admit — suggested the girl. To help us the Professor put his
question <strong>in</strong> another form:
“When did it roar?”
Our third boy, aga<strong>in</strong> com<strong>in</strong>g to the rescue, expla<strong>in</strong>ed that it
roared when it fell down among the rocks. I th<strong>in</strong>k some of us
had a vague idea that it must have been a cowardly torrent to
make such a noise about a little th<strong>in</strong>g like this; a pluckier torrent,
we felt, would have got up and gone on, say<strong>in</strong>g noth<strong>in</strong>g
about it. A torrent that roared every time it fell upon a rock we
deemed a poor spirited torrent; but the Professor seemed quite
content with it.
“And what lived <strong>in</strong> this wood beside the girl?” was the next
question.
“Please, sir, birds, sir.”
“Yes, birds lived <strong>in</strong> this wood. What else?”
Birds seemed to have exhausted our ideas.
“Come,” said the Professor, “what are those animals with
tails, that run up trees?”
We thought for a while, then one of us suggested cats.
This was an error; the poet had said noth<strong>in</strong>g about cats;
squirrels was what the Professor was try<strong>in</strong>g to get.
I do not recall much more about this wood <strong>in</strong> detail. I only
recollect that the sky was <strong>in</strong>troduced <strong>in</strong>to it. In places where
there occurred an open<strong>in</strong>g among the trees you could by look<strong>in</strong>g
up see the sky above you; very often there were clouds <strong>in</strong>
this sky, and occasionally, if I remember rightly, the girl got
wet.

— 270 —
I have dwelt upon this <strong>in</strong>cident, because it seems to me suggestive
of the whole question of scenery <strong>in</strong> literature. I could
not at the time, I cannot now, understand why the top boy’s
summary was not sufficient. With all due deference to the
poet, whoever he may have been, one cannot but acknowledge
that his wood was, and could not be otherwise than, “the usual
sort of a wood.”
I could describe the Black Forest to you at great length. I
could translate to you Hebel, the poet of the Black Forest. I
could write pages concern<strong>in</strong>g its rocky gorges and its smil<strong>in</strong>g
valleys, its p<strong>in</strong>e-clad slopes, its rock-crowned summits, its
foam<strong>in</strong>g rivulets (where the tidy German has not condemned
them to flow respectably through wooden troughs or dra<strong>in</strong>pipes),
its white villages, its lonely farmsteads.
But I am haunted by the suspicion you might skip all
this. Were you sufficiently conscientious — or weak-m<strong>in</strong>ded
enough — not to do so, I should, all said and done, succeed <strong>in</strong>
convey<strong>in</strong>g to you only an impression much better summed up
<strong>in</strong> the simple words of the unpretentious guide book:
“A picturesque, mounta<strong>in</strong>ous district, bounded on the south
and the west by the pla<strong>in</strong> of the Rh<strong>in</strong>e, towards which its spurs
descend precipitately. Its geological formation consists chiefly
of variegated sandstone and granite; its lower heights be<strong>in</strong>g
covered with extensive p<strong>in</strong>e forests. It is well watered with numerous
streams, while its populous valleys are fertile and well
cultivated. The <strong>in</strong>ns are good; but the local w<strong>in</strong>es should be
partaken of by the stranger with discretion.”

— 271 —
CHAPTER VI
Why we went to Hanover — Someth<strong>in</strong>g they do better abroad — The
art of polite foreign conversation, as taught <strong>in</strong> English schools — A
true history, now told for the first time — The French joke, as provided
for the amusement of British youth — Fatherly <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>cts of
Harris — The road-waterer, considered as an artist — Patriotism
of George — What Harris ought to have done — What he did — We
save Harris’s life — A sleepless city — The cab-horse as a critic.
WE arrived <strong>in</strong> Hamburg on Friday after a smooth and uneventful
voyage; and from Hamburg we travelled to Berl<strong>in</strong> by way of
Hanover. It is not the most direct route. I can only account for
our visit to Hanover as the nigger accounted to the magistrate
for his appearance <strong>in</strong> the Deacon’s poultry-yard.
“Well?”
“Yes, sar, what the constable sez is quite true, sar; I was dar,
sar.”
“Oh, so you admit it? And what were you do<strong>in</strong>g with a sack,
pray, <strong>in</strong> Deacon Abraham’s poultry-yard at twelve o’clock at
night?”
“I’se gw<strong>in</strong>e ter tell yer, sar; yes, sar. I’d been to Massa Jordan’s
wid a sack of melons. Yes, sar; an’ Massa Jordan he wuz very
’greeable, an’ axed me for ter come <strong>in</strong>.”
“Yes, sar, very ’greeable man is Massa Jordan. An’ dar we sat
a talk<strong>in</strong>g an’ a talk<strong>in</strong>g — ”
“Very likely. What we want to know is what you were do<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> the Deacon’s poultry-yard?”
“Yes, sar, dat’s what I’se cumm<strong>in</strong>g to. It wuz ver’ late ’fore I
left Massa Jordan’s, an’ den I sez ter mysel’, sez I, now yer jest
step out with yer best leg foremost, Ulysses, case yer gets <strong>in</strong>to
trouble wid de ole woman. Ver’ talkative woman she is, sar,
very — ”
“Yes, never m<strong>in</strong>d her; there are other people very talkative
<strong>in</strong> this town besides your wife. Deacon Abraham’s house is half
a mile out of your way home from Mr. Jordan’s. How did you
get there?”
“Dat’s what I’m a-gw<strong>in</strong>e ter expla<strong>in</strong>, sar.”

— 272 —
“I am glad of that. And how do you propose to do it?”
“Well, I’se th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>’, sar, I must ha’ digressed.”
I take it we digressed a little.
At first, from some reason or other, Hanover strikes you as
an un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g town, but it grows upon you. It is <strong>in</strong> reality
two towns; a place of broad, modern, handsome streets and
tasteful gardens; side by side with a sixteenth-century town,
where old timbered houses overhang the narrow lanes; where
through low archways one catches glimpses of galleried courtyards,
once often thronged, no doubt, with troops of horse, or
blocked with lumber<strong>in</strong>g coach and six, wait<strong>in</strong>g its rich merchant
owner, and his fat placid Frau, but where now children
and chickens scuttle at their will; while over the carved balconies
hang d<strong>in</strong>gy clothes a-dry<strong>in</strong>g.
A s<strong>in</strong>gularly English atmosphere hovers over Hanover, especially
on Sundays, when its shuttered shops and clang<strong>in</strong>g
bells give to it the suggestion of a sunnier London. Nor was
this British Sunday atmosphere apparent only to myself, else
I might have attributed it to imag<strong>in</strong>ation; even George felt it.
Harris and I, return<strong>in</strong>g from a short stroll with our cigars after
lunch on the Sunday afternoon, found him peacefully slumber<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> the smoke-room’s easiest chair.
“After all,” said Harris, “there is someth<strong>in</strong>g about the British
Sunday that appeals to the man with English blood <strong>in</strong> his
ve<strong>in</strong>s. I should be sorry to see it altogether done away with, let
the new generation say what it will.”
And tak<strong>in</strong>g one each end of the ample settee, we kept
George company.
To Hanover one should go, they say, to learn the best German.
The disadvantage is that outside Hanover, which is only
a small prov<strong>in</strong>ce, nobody understands this best German. Thus
you have to decide whether to speak good German and rema<strong>in</strong>
<strong>in</strong> Hanover, or bad German and travel about. Germany be<strong>in</strong>g
separated so many centuries <strong>in</strong>to a dozen pr<strong>in</strong>cipalities, is
unfortunate <strong>in</strong> possess<strong>in</strong>g a variety of dialects. Germans from
Posen wishful to converse with men of Wurtemburg, have to

— 273 —
talk as often as not <strong>in</strong> French or English; and young ladies who
have received an expensive education <strong>in</strong> Westphalia surprise
and disappo<strong>in</strong>t their parents by be<strong>in</strong>g unable to understand
a word said to them <strong>in</strong> Mechlenberg. An English-speak<strong>in</strong>g
foreigner, it is true, would f<strong>in</strong>d himself equally nonplussed
among the Yorkshire wolds, or <strong>in</strong> the purlieus of Whitechapel;
but the cases are not on all fours. Throughout Germany it is
not only <strong>in</strong> the country districts and among the uneducated
that dialects are ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>ed. Every prov<strong>in</strong>ce has practically its
own language, of which it is proud and retentive. An educated
Bavarian will admit to you that, academically speak<strong>in</strong>g, the
North German is more correct; but he will cont<strong>in</strong>ue to speak
South German and to teach it to his children.
In the course of the century, I am <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to th<strong>in</strong>k that
Germany will solve her difficulty <strong>in</strong> this respect by speak<strong>in</strong>g
English. Every boy and girl <strong>in</strong> Germany, above the peasant
class, speaks English. Were English pronunciation less arbitrary,
there is not the slightest doubt but that <strong>in</strong> the course of
a very few years, comparatively speak<strong>in</strong>g, it would become the
language of the world. All foreigners agree that, grammatically,
it is the easiest language of any to learn. A German, compar<strong>in</strong>g
it with his own language, where every word <strong>in</strong> every sentence
is governed by at least four dist<strong>in</strong>ct and separate rules,
tells you that English has no grammar. A good many English
people would seem to have come to the same conclusion; but
they are wrong. As a matter of fact, there is an English grammar,
and one of these days our schools will recognise the fact,
and it will be taught to our children, penetrat<strong>in</strong>g maybe even
<strong>in</strong>to literary and journalistic circles. But at present we appear
to agree with the foreigner that it is a quantity neglectable.
English pronunciation is the stumbl<strong>in</strong>g-block to our progress.
English spell<strong>in</strong>g would seem to have been designed chiefly as
a disguise to pronunciation. It is a clever idea, calculated to
check presumption on the part of the foreigner; but for that he
would learn it <strong>in</strong> a year.
For they have a way of teach<strong>in</strong>g languages <strong>in</strong> Germany that

— 274 —
is not our way, and the consequence is that when the German
youth or maiden leaves the gymnasium or high school
at fifteen, “it” (as <strong>in</strong> Germany one conveniently may say) can
understand and speak the tongue it has been learn<strong>in</strong>g. In England
we have a method that for obta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g the least possible
result at the greatest possible expenditure of time and money
is perhaps unequalled. An English boy who has been through a
good middle-class school <strong>in</strong> England can talk to a Frenchman,
slowly and with difficulty, about female gardeners and aunts;
conversation which, to a man possessed perhaps of neither,
is liable to pall. Possibly, if he be a bright exception, he may
be able to tell the time, or make a few guarded observations
concern<strong>in</strong>g the weather. No doubt he could repeat a goodly
number of irregular verbs by heart; only, as a matter of fact,
few foreigners care to listen to their own irregular verbs, recited
by young Englishmen. Likewise he might be able to remember
a choice selection of grotesquely <strong>in</strong>volved French idioms,
such as no modern Frenchman has ever heard or understands
when he does hear.
The explanation is that, <strong>in</strong> n<strong>in</strong>e cases out of ten, he has
learnt French from an “Ahn’s First-Course.” The history of
this famous work is remarkable and <strong>in</strong>structive. The book was
orig<strong>in</strong>ally written for a joke, by a witty Frenchman who had
resided for some years <strong>in</strong> England. He <strong>in</strong>tended it as a satire
upon the conversational powers of British society. From this
po<strong>in</strong>t of view it was dist<strong>in</strong>ctly good. He submitted it to a London
publish<strong>in</strong>g firm. The manager was a shrewd man. He read
the book through. Then he sent for the author.
“This book of yours,” said he to the author, “is very clever. I
have laughed over it myself till the tears came.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so,” replied the pleased
Frenchman. “I tried to be truthful without be<strong>in</strong>g unnecessarily
offensive.”
“It is most amus<strong>in</strong>g,” concurred the manager; “and yet published
as a harmless joke, I feel it would fail.”
The author’s face fell.

— 275 —
“Its humour,” proceeded the manager, “would be denounced
as forced and extravagant. It would amuse the thoughtful and
<strong>in</strong>telligent, but from a bus<strong>in</strong>ess po<strong>in</strong>t of view that portion of
the public are never worth consider<strong>in</strong>g. But I have an idea,”
cont<strong>in</strong>ued the manager. He glanced round the room to be
sure they were alone, and lean<strong>in</strong>g forward sunk his voice to a
whisper. “My notion is to publish it as a serious work for the
use of schools!”
The author stared, speechless.
“I know the English schoolman,” said the manager; “this
book will appeal to him. It will exactly fit <strong>in</strong> with his method.
Noth<strong>in</strong>g sillier, noth<strong>in</strong>g more useless for the purpose will he
ever discover. He will smack his lips over the book, as a puppy
licks up black<strong>in</strong>g.”
The author, sacrific<strong>in</strong>g art to greed, consented. They altered
the title and added a vocabulary, but left the book otherwise
as it was.
The result is known to every schoolboy. “Ahn” became the
palladium of English philological education. If it no longer
reta<strong>in</strong>s its ubiquity, it is because someth<strong>in</strong>g even less adaptable
to the object <strong>in</strong> view has been s<strong>in</strong>ce <strong>in</strong>vented.
Lest, <strong>in</strong> spite of all, the British schoolboy should obta<strong>in</strong>, even
from the like of “Ahn,” some glimmer<strong>in</strong>g of French, the British
educational method further handicaps him by bestow<strong>in</strong>g upon
him the assistance of, what is termed <strong>in</strong> the prospectus, “A native
gentleman.” This native French gentleman, who, by-the-by,
is generally a Belgian, is no doubt a most worthy person, and
can, it is true, understand and speak his own language with
tolerable fluency. There his qualifications cease. Invariably he
is a man with a quite remarkable <strong>in</strong>ability to teach anybody
anyth<strong>in</strong>g. Indeed, he would seem to be chosen not so much
as an <strong>in</strong>structor as an amuser of youth. He is always a comic
figure. No Frenchman of a dignified appearance would be
engaged for any English school. If he possess by nature a few
harmless peculiarities, calculated to cause merriment, so much
the more is he esteemed by his employers. The class naturally

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regards him as an animated joke. The two to four hours a week
that are deliberately wasted on this ancient farce, are looked
forward to by the boys as a merry <strong>in</strong>terlude <strong>in</strong> an otherwise
monotonous existence. And then, when the proud parent takes
his son and heir to Dieppe merely to discover that the lad does
not know enough to call a cab, he abuses not the system, but
its <strong>in</strong>nocent victim.
I conf<strong>in</strong>e my remarks to French, because that is the only
language we attempt to teach our youth. An English boy who
could speak German would be looked down upon as unpatriotic.
Why we waste time <strong>in</strong> teach<strong>in</strong>g even French accord<strong>in</strong>g to
this method I have never been able to understand. A perfect
unacqua<strong>in</strong>tance with a language is respectable. But putt<strong>in</strong>g
aside comic journalists and lady novelists, for whom it is a
bus<strong>in</strong>ess necessity, this smatter<strong>in</strong>g of French which we are so
proud to possess only serves to render us ridiculous.
In the German school the method is somewhat different.
One hour every day is devoted to the same language. The idea
is not to give the lad time between each lesson to forget what
he learned at the last; the idea is for him to get on. There is
no comic foreigner provided for his amusement. The desired
language is taught by a German school-master who knows it
<strong>in</strong>side and out as thoroughly as he knows his own. Maybe this
system does not provide the German youth with that perfection
of foreign accent for which the British tourist is <strong>in</strong> every
land remarkable, but it has other advantages. The boy does
not call his master “froggy,” or “sausage,” nor prepare for the
French or English hour any exhibition of homely wit whatever.
He just sits there, and for his own sake tries to learn that foreign
tongue with as little trouble to everybody concerned as
possible. When he has left school he can talk, not about penknives
and gardeners and aunts merely, but about European
politics, history, Shakespeare, or the musical glasses, accord<strong>in</strong>g
to the turn the conversation may take.
View<strong>in</strong>g the German people from an Anglo-Saxon standpo<strong>in</strong>t,
it may be that <strong>in</strong> this book I shall f<strong>in</strong>d occasion to criti-

— 277 —
cise them: but on the other hand there is much that we might
learn from them; and <strong>in</strong> the matter of common sense, as applied
to education, they can give us n<strong>in</strong>ety-n<strong>in</strong>e <strong>in</strong> a hundred
and beat us with one hand.
The beautiful wood of the Eilenriede bounds Hanover on
the south and west, and here occurred a sad drama <strong>in</strong> which
Harris took a prom<strong>in</strong>ent part.
We were rid<strong>in</strong>g our mach<strong>in</strong>es through this wood on the
Monday afternoon <strong>in</strong> the company of many other cyclists,
for it is a favourite resort with the Hanoverians on a sunny
afternoon, and its shady pathways are then filled with happy,
thoughtless folk. Among them rode a young and beautiful girl
on a mach<strong>in</strong>e that was new. She was evidently a novice on the
bicycle. One felt <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ctively that there would come a moment
when she would require help, and Harris, with his accustomed
chivalry, suggested we should keep near her. Harris, as he occasionally
expla<strong>in</strong>s to George and to myself, has daughters of his
own, or, to speak more correctly, a daughter, who as the years
progress will no doubt cease practis<strong>in</strong>g cather<strong>in</strong>e wheels <strong>in</strong> the
front garden, and will grow up <strong>in</strong>to a beautiful and respectable
young lady. This naturally gives Harris an <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> all
beautiful girls up to the age of thirty-five or thereabouts; they
rem<strong>in</strong>d him, so he says, of home.
We had ridden for about two miles, when we noticed, a little
ahead of us <strong>in</strong> a space where five ways met, a man with a hose,
water<strong>in</strong>g the roads. The pipe, supported at each jo<strong>in</strong>t by a pair
of t<strong>in</strong>y wheels, writhed after him as he moved, suggest<strong>in</strong>g a
gigantic-worm, from whose open neck, as the man, gripp<strong>in</strong>g it
firmly <strong>in</strong> both hands, po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g it now this way, and now that,
now elevat<strong>in</strong>g it, now depress<strong>in</strong>g it, poured a strong stream of
water at the rate of about a gallon a second.
“What a much better method than ours,” observed Harris,
enthusiastically. Harris is <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to be chronically severe on
all British <strong>in</strong>stitutions. “How much simpler, quicker, and more
economical! You see, one man by this method can <strong>in</strong> five m<strong>in</strong>-

— 278 —
utes water a stretch of road that would take us with our clumsy
lumber<strong>in</strong>g cart half an hour to cover.”
George, who was rid<strong>in</strong>g beh<strong>in</strong>d me on the tandem, said,
“Yes, and it is also a method by which with a little carelessness
a man could cover a good many people <strong>in</strong> a good deal less time
than they could get out of the way.”
George, the opposite to Harris, is British to the core. I remember
George quite patriotically <strong>in</strong>dignant with Harris once
for suggest<strong>in</strong>g the <strong>in</strong>troduction of the guillot<strong>in</strong>e <strong>in</strong>to England.
“It is so much neater,” said Harris.
“I don’t care if it is,” said George; “I’m an Englishman; hang<strong>in</strong>g
is good enough for me.”
“Our water-cart may have its disadvantages,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued
George, “but it can only make you uncomfortable about the
legs, and you can avoid it. This is the sort of mach<strong>in</strong>e with
which a man can follow you round the corner and upstairs.”
“It fasc<strong>in</strong>ates me to watch them,” said Harris. “They are so
skilful. I have seen a man from the corner of a crowded square
<strong>in</strong> Strassburg cover every <strong>in</strong>ch of ground, and not so much
as wet an apron str<strong>in</strong>g. It is marvellous how they judge their
distance. They will send the water up to your toes, and then
br<strong>in</strong>g it over your head so that it falls around your heels. They
can —”
“Ease up a m<strong>in</strong>ute,” said George. I said: “Why?”
He said: “I am go<strong>in</strong>g to get off and watch the rest of this
show from beh<strong>in</strong>d a tree. There may be great performers <strong>in</strong>
this l<strong>in</strong>e, as Harris says; this particular artist appears to me to
lack someth<strong>in</strong>g. He has just soused a dog, and now he’s busy
water<strong>in</strong>g a sign-post. I am go<strong>in</strong>g to wait till he has f<strong>in</strong>ished.”
“Nonsense,” said Harris; “he won’t wet you.”
“That is precisely what I am go<strong>in</strong>g to make sure of,” answered
George, say<strong>in</strong>g which he jumped off, and, tak<strong>in</strong>g up a
position beh<strong>in</strong>d a remarkably f<strong>in</strong>e elm, pulled out and commenced
fill<strong>in</strong>g his pipe.
I did not care to take the tandem on by myself, so I stepped
off and jo<strong>in</strong>ed him, leav<strong>in</strong>g the mach<strong>in</strong>e aga<strong>in</strong>st a tree. Harris

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shouted someth<strong>in</strong>g or other about our be<strong>in</strong>g a disgrace to the
land that gave us birth, and rode on.
The next moment I heard a woman’s cry of distress. Glanc<strong>in</strong>g
round the stem of the tree, I perceived that it proceeded
from the young and elegant lady before mentioned, whom, <strong>in</strong>
our <strong>in</strong>terest concern<strong>in</strong>g the road-waterer, we had forgotten.
She was rid<strong>in</strong>g her mach<strong>in</strong>e steadily and straightly through a
drench<strong>in</strong>g shower of water from the hose. She appeared to be
too paralysed either to get off or turn her wheel aside. Every
<strong>in</strong>stant she was becom<strong>in</strong>g wetter, while the man with the hose,
who was either drunk or bl<strong>in</strong>d, cont<strong>in</strong>ued to pour water upon
her with utter <strong>in</strong>difference. A dozen voices yelled imprecations
upon him, but he took no heed whatever.
Harris, his fatherly nature stirred to its depths, did at this
po<strong>in</strong>t what, under the circumstances, was quite the right and
proper th<strong>in</strong>g to do. Had he acted throughout with the same
coolness and judgment he then displayed, he would have
emerged from that <strong>in</strong>cident the hero of the hour, <strong>in</strong>stead of, as
happened, rid<strong>in</strong>g away followed by <strong>in</strong>sult and threat. Without
a moment’s hesitation he spurted at the man, sprang to the
ground, and, seiz<strong>in</strong>g the hose by the nozzle, attempted to wrest
it away.
What he ought to have done, what any man reta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g his
common sense would have done the moment he got his hands
upon the th<strong>in</strong>g, was to turn off the tap. Then he might have
played foot-ball with the man, or battledore and shuttlecock
as he pleased; and the twenty or thirty people who had rushed
forward to assist would have only applauded. His idea, however,
as he expla<strong>in</strong>ed to us afterwards, was to take away the
hose from the man, and, for punishment, turn it upon the fool
himself. The waterman’s idea appeared to be the same, namely,
to reta<strong>in</strong> the hose as a weapon with which to soak Harris. Of
course, the result was that, between them, they soused every
dead and liv<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>g with<strong>in</strong> fifty yards, except themselves.
One furious man, too drenched to care what more happened
to him, leapt <strong>in</strong>to the arena and also took a hand. The three

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among them proceeded to sweep the compass with that hose.
They po<strong>in</strong>ted it to heaven, and the water descended upon the
people <strong>in</strong> the form of an equ<strong>in</strong>octial storm. They po<strong>in</strong>ted it
downwards, and sent the water <strong>in</strong> rush<strong>in</strong>g streams that took
people off their feet, or caught them about the waist l<strong>in</strong>e, and
doubled them up.
Not one of them would loosen his grip upon the hose, not
one of them thought to turn the water off. You might have
concluded they were struggl<strong>in</strong>g with some primeval force of
nature. In forty-five seconds, so George said, who was tim<strong>in</strong>g
it, they had swept that circus bare of every liv<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>g except
one dog, who, dripp<strong>in</strong>g like a water nymph, rolled over by the
force of water, now on this side, now on that, still gallantly
staggered aga<strong>in</strong> and aga<strong>in</strong> to its feet to bark defiance at what it
evidently regarded as the powers of hell let loose.
<strong>Men</strong> and women left their mach<strong>in</strong>es upon the ground, and
flew <strong>in</strong>to the woods. From beh<strong>in</strong>d every tree of importance
peeped out wet, angry heads.
At last, there arrived upon the scene one man of sense. Brav<strong>in</strong>g
all th<strong>in</strong>gs, he crept to the hydrant, where still stood the iron
key, and screwed it down. And then from forty trees began to
creep more or less soaked human be<strong>in</strong>gs, each one with someth<strong>in</strong>g
to say.
At first I fell to wonder<strong>in</strong>g whether a stretcher or a clothes
basket would be the more useful for the conveyance of Harris’s
rema<strong>in</strong>s back to the hotel. I consider that George’s promptness
on that occasion saved Harris’s life. Be<strong>in</strong>g dry, and therefore
able to run quicker, he was there before the crowd. Harris was
for expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>gs, but George cut him short.
“You get on that,” said George, hand<strong>in</strong>g him his bicycle, “and
go. They don’t know we belong to you, and you may trust us
implicitly not to reveal the secret. We’ll hang about beh<strong>in</strong>d, and
get <strong>in</strong> their way. Ride zig-zag <strong>in</strong> case they shoot.”
I wish this book to be a strict record of fact, unmarred by exaggeration,
and therefore I have shown my description of this
<strong>in</strong>cident to Harris, lest anyth<strong>in</strong>g beyond bald narrative may

— 281 —
have crept <strong>in</strong>to it. Harris ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>s it is exaggerated, but admits
that one or two people may have been “spr<strong>in</strong>kled.” I have
offered to turn a street hose on him at a distance of five-andtwenty
yards, and take his op<strong>in</strong>ion afterwards, as to whether
“spr<strong>in</strong>kled” is the adequate term, but he has decl<strong>in</strong>ed the test.
Aga<strong>in</strong>, he <strong>in</strong>sists there could not have been more than half a
dozen people, at the outside, <strong>in</strong>volved <strong>in</strong> the catastrophe, that
forty is a ridiculous misstatement. I have offered to return with
him to Hanover and make strict <strong>in</strong>quiry <strong>in</strong>to the matter, and
this offer he has likewise decl<strong>in</strong>ed. Under these circumstances,
I ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong> that m<strong>in</strong>e is a true and restra<strong>in</strong>ed narrative of an
event that is, by a certa<strong>in</strong> number of Hanoverians, remembered
with bitterness unto this very day.
We left Hanover that same even<strong>in</strong>g, and arrived at Berl<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong>
time for supper and an even<strong>in</strong>g stroll. Berl<strong>in</strong> is a disappo<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g
town; its centre over-crowded, its outly<strong>in</strong>g parts lifeless; its
one famous street, Unter den L<strong>in</strong>den, an attempt to comb<strong>in</strong>e
Oxford Street with the Champs Elysée, s<strong>in</strong>gularly unimpos<strong>in</strong>g,
be<strong>in</strong>g much too wide for its size; its theatres da<strong>in</strong>ty and charm<strong>in</strong>g,
where act<strong>in</strong>g is considered of more importance than scenery
or dress, where long runs are unknown, successful pieces
be<strong>in</strong>g played aga<strong>in</strong> and aga<strong>in</strong>, but never consecutively, so that
for a week runn<strong>in</strong>g you may go to the same Berl<strong>in</strong> theatre, and
see a fresh play every night; its opera house unworthy of it;
its two music halls, with an unnecessary suggestion of vulgarity
and commonness about them, ill-arranged and much too
large for comfort. In the Berl<strong>in</strong> cafés and restaurants, the busy
time is from midnight on till three. Yet most of the people who
frequent them are up aga<strong>in</strong> at seven. Either the Berl<strong>in</strong>er has
solved the great problem of modern life, how to do without
sleep, or, with Carlyle, he must be look<strong>in</strong>g forward to eternity.
Personally, I know of no other town where such late hours
are the vogue, except St. Petersburg. But your St. Petersburger
does not get up early <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g. At St. Petersburg, the
music halls, which it is the fashionable th<strong>in</strong>g to attend after
the theatre — a drive to them tak<strong>in</strong>g half an hour <strong>in</strong> a swift

— 282 —
sleigh — do not practically beg<strong>in</strong> till twelve. Through the Neva
at four o’clock <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g you have to literally push your
way; and the favourite tra<strong>in</strong>s for travellers are those start<strong>in</strong>g
about five o’clock <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g. These tra<strong>in</strong>s save the
Russian the trouble of gett<strong>in</strong>g up early. He wishes his friends
“Good-night,” and drives down to the station comfortably after
supper, without putt<strong>in</strong>g the house to any <strong>in</strong>convenience.
Potsdam, the Versailles to Berl<strong>in</strong>, is a beautiful little town,
situate among lakes and woods. Here <strong>in</strong> the shady ways of its
quiet, far-stretch<strong>in</strong>g park of Sans Souci, it is easy to imag<strong>in</strong>e
lean, snuffy Frederick “bummel<strong>in</strong>g” with shrill Voltaire.
Act<strong>in</strong>g on my advice, George and Harris consented not to
stay long <strong>in</strong> Berl<strong>in</strong>; but to push on to Dresden. Most that Berl<strong>in</strong>
has to show can be seen better elsewhere, and we decided
to be content with a drive through the town. The hotel porter
<strong>in</strong>troduced us to a droschke driver, under whose guidance, so
he assured us, we should see everyth<strong>in</strong>g worth see<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the
shortest possible time. The man himself, who called for us at
n<strong>in</strong>e o’clock <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, was all that could be desired. He
was bright, <strong>in</strong>telligent, and well-<strong>in</strong>formed; his German was
easy to understand, and he knew a little English with which to
eke it out on occasion. With the man himself there was no fault
to be found, but his horse was the most unsympathetic brute I
have ever sat beh<strong>in</strong>d.
He took a dislike to us the moment he saw us. I was the first
to come out of the hotel. He turned his head, and looked me
up and down with a cold, glassy eye; and then he looked across
at another horse, a friend of his that was stand<strong>in</strong>g fac<strong>in</strong>g him.
I knew what he said. He had an expressive head, and he made
no attempt to disguise his thought.
He said:
“Funny th<strong>in</strong>gs one does come across <strong>in</strong> the summer time,
don’t one?”
George followed me out the next moment, and stood beh<strong>in</strong>d
me. The horse aga<strong>in</strong> turned his head and looked. I have never
known a horse that could twist himself as this horse did. I have

— 283 —
seen a camelopard do trick’s with his neck that compelled one’s
attention, but this animal was more like the th<strong>in</strong>g one dreams
of after a dusty days at Ascot, followed by a d<strong>in</strong>ner with six
old chums. If I had seen his eyes look<strong>in</strong>g at me from between
his own h<strong>in</strong>d legs, I doubt if I should have been surprised. He
seemed more amused with George if anyth<strong>in</strong>g, than with myself.
He turned to his friend aga<strong>in</strong>.
“Extraord<strong>in</strong>ary, isn’t it?” he remarked; “I suppose there
must be some place where they grow them”; and then he
commenced lick<strong>in</strong>g flies off his own left shoulder. I began to
wonder whether he had lost his mother when young, and had
been brought up by a cat.
George and I climbed <strong>in</strong>, and sat wait<strong>in</strong>g for Harris. He
came a moment later. Myself, I thought he looked rather neat.
He wore a white flannel knickerbocker suit, which he had had
made specially for bicycl<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> hot weather; his hat may have
been a trifle out of the common, but it did keep the sun off.
The horse gave one look at him, said “Gott <strong>in</strong> Himmel!” as
pla<strong>in</strong>ly as ever horse spoke, and started off down Friedrich
Strasse at a brisk walk, leav<strong>in</strong>g Harris and the driver stand<strong>in</strong>g
on the pavement. His owner called to him to stop, but he took
no notice. They ran after us, and overtook us at the corner of
the Dorotheen Strasse. I could not catch what the man said to
the horse, he spoke quickly and excitedly; but I gathered a few
phrases, such as:
“Got to earn my liv<strong>in</strong>g somehow, haven’t I? Who asked for
your op<strong>in</strong>ion? Aye, little you care so long as you can guzzle.”
The horse cut the conversation short by turn<strong>in</strong>g up the Dorotheen
Strasse on his own account. I th<strong>in</strong>k what he said was:
“Come on then; don’t talk so much. Let’s get the job over,
and, where possible, let’s keep to the back streets.”
Opposite the Brandenburger Thor our driver hitched the
re<strong>in</strong>s to the whip, climbed down, and came round to expla<strong>in</strong>
th<strong>in</strong>gs to us. He po<strong>in</strong>ted out the Thiergarten, and then descanted
to us of the Reichstag House. He <strong>in</strong>formed us of its exact
height, length, and breadth, after the manner of guides. Then

— 284 —
he turned his attention to the Gate. He said it was constructed
of sandstone, <strong>in</strong> imitation of the “Properleer” <strong>in</strong> Athens.
At this po<strong>in</strong>t the horse, which had been occupy<strong>in</strong>g its leisure
lick<strong>in</strong>g its own legs, turned round its head. It did not say anyth<strong>in</strong>g,
it just looked.
The man began aga<strong>in</strong> nervously. This time he said it was an
imitation of the “Propeyedliar.”
Here the horse proceeded up the L<strong>in</strong>den, and noth<strong>in</strong>g would
persuade him not to proceed up the L<strong>in</strong>den. His owner expostulated
with him, but he cont<strong>in</strong>ued to trot on. From the way
he hitched his shoulders as he moved, I somehow felt he was
say<strong>in</strong>g:
“They’ve seen the Gate, haven’ t they? Very well, that’s
enough. As for the rest, you don’t know what you are talk<strong>in</strong>g
about, and they wouldn’t understand you if you did. You talk
German.”
It was the same throughout the length of the L<strong>in</strong>den. The
horse consented to stand still sufficiently long to enable us to
have a good look at each sight, and to hear the name of it. All
explanation and description he cut short by the simple process
of mov<strong>in</strong>g on.
“What these fellows want,” he seemed to say to himself, “is
to go home and tell people they have seen these th<strong>in</strong>gs. If I am
do<strong>in</strong>g them an <strong>in</strong>justice, if they are more <strong>in</strong>telligent than they
look, they can get better <strong>in</strong>formation than this old fool of m<strong>in</strong>e
is giv<strong>in</strong>g them from the guide book. Who wants to know how
high a steeple is? You don’t remember it the next five m<strong>in</strong>utes
when you are told, and if you do it is because you have got
noth<strong>in</strong>g else <strong>in</strong> your head. He just tires me with his talk. Why
doesn’t he hurry up, and let us all get home to lunch?”
Upon reflection, I am not sure that wall-eyed old brute
had not sense on its side. Anyhow, I know there have been
occasions, with a guide, when I would have been glad of its
<strong>in</strong>terference.
But one is apt to “s<strong>in</strong> one’s mercies,” as the Scotch say, and at
the time we cursed that horse <strong>in</strong>stead of bless<strong>in</strong>g it.

— 285 —
CHAPTER VII
George wonders — German love of order — “The Band of the
Schwarzwald Blackbirds will perform at seven” — The ch<strong>in</strong>a
dog — Its superiority over all other dogs — The German and the
solar system — A tidy country — The mounta<strong>in</strong> valley as it ought
to be, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the German idea — How the waters come
down <strong>in</strong> Germany — The scandal of Dresden — Harris gives an
enterta<strong>in</strong>ment — It is unappreciated — George and the aunt of
him — George, a cushion, and three damsels.
AT a po<strong>in</strong>t between Berl<strong>in</strong> and Dresden, George, who had, for
the last quarter of an hour or so, been look<strong>in</strong>g very attentively
out of the w<strong>in</strong>dow, said:
“Why, <strong>in</strong> Germany, is it the custom to put the letter-box up a
tree? Why do they not fix it to the front door as we do? I should
hate hav<strong>in</strong>g to climb up a tree to get my letters. Besides, it is
not fair to the postman. In addition to be<strong>in</strong>g most exhaust<strong>in</strong>g,
the delivery of letters must to a heavy man, on w<strong>in</strong>dy nights, be
positively dangerous work. If they will fix it to a tree, why not
fix it lower down, why always among the topmost branches?
But, maybe, I am misjudg<strong>in</strong>g the country,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued, a
new idea occurr<strong>in</strong>g to him. “Possibly the Germans, who are <strong>in</strong>
many matters ahead of us, have perfected a pigeon post. Even
so, I cannot help th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g they would have been wiser to tra<strong>in</strong>
the birds, while they were about it, to deliver the letters nearer
the ground. Gett<strong>in</strong>g your letters out of those boxes must be
tricky work even to the average middle-aged German.”
I followed his gaze out of w<strong>in</strong>dow. I said:
“Those are not letter-boxes, they are birds’ nests. You must
understand this nation. The German loves birds, but he likes
tidy birds. A bird left to himself builds his nest just anywhere.
It is not a pretty object, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the German notion of
prett<strong>in</strong>ess. There is not a bit of pa<strong>in</strong>t on it anywhere, not a
plaster image all round, not even a flag. The nest f<strong>in</strong>ished, the
bird proceeds to live outside it. He drops th<strong>in</strong>gs on the grass;
twigs, ends of worms, all sorts of th<strong>in</strong>gs. He is <strong>in</strong>delicate. He
makes love, quarrels with his wife, and feeds the children quite

— 286 —
<strong>in</strong> public. The German householder is shocked. He says to the
bird:
“‘For many th<strong>in</strong>gs I like you. I like to look at you. I like to
hear you s<strong>in</strong>g. But I don’t like your ways. Take this little box,
and put your rubbish <strong>in</strong>side where I can’t see it. Come out
when you want to s<strong>in</strong>g; but let your domestic arrangements be
conf<strong>in</strong>ed to the <strong>in</strong>terior. Keep to the box, and don’t make the
garden untidy.’”
In Germany one breathes <strong>in</strong> love of order with the air,
<strong>in</strong> Germany the babies beat time with their rattles, and the
German bird has come to prefer the box, and to regard with
contempt the few uncivilised outcasts who cont<strong>in</strong>ue to build
their nests <strong>in</strong> trees and hedges. In course of time every German
bird, one is confident, will have his proper place <strong>in</strong> a full
chorus. This promiscuous and desultory warbl<strong>in</strong>g of his must,
one feels, be irritat<strong>in</strong>g to the precise German m<strong>in</strong>d; there is
no method <strong>in</strong> it. The music-lov<strong>in</strong>g German will organise him.
Some stout bird with a specially well-developed crop will be
tra<strong>in</strong>ed to conduct him, and, <strong>in</strong>stead of wast<strong>in</strong>g himself <strong>in</strong> a
wood at four o’clock <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, he will, at the advertised
time, s<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a beer garden, accompanied by a piano. Th<strong>in</strong>gs
are drift<strong>in</strong>g that way.
Your German likes nature, but his idea of nature is a glorified
Welsh Harp. He takes great <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> his garden. He
plants seven rose trees on the north side and seven on the
south, and if they do not grow up all the same size and shape it
worries him so that he cannot sleep of nights. Every flower he
ties to a stick. This <strong>in</strong>terferes with his view of the flower, but he
has the satisfaction of know<strong>in</strong>g it is there, and that it is behav<strong>in</strong>g
itself. The lake is l<strong>in</strong>ed with z<strong>in</strong>c, and once a week he takes
it up, carries it <strong>in</strong>to the kitchen, and scours it. In the geometrical
centre of the grass plot, which is sometimes as large as a
tablecloth and is generally railed round, he places a ch<strong>in</strong>a dog.
The Germans are very fond of dogs, but as a rule they prefer
them of ch<strong>in</strong>a. The ch<strong>in</strong>a dog never digs holes <strong>in</strong> the lawn to
bury bones, and never scatters a flower-bed to the w<strong>in</strong>ds with

— 287 —
his h<strong>in</strong>d legs. From the German po<strong>in</strong>t of view, he is the ideal
dog. He stops where you put him, and he is never where you
do not want him. You can have him perfect <strong>in</strong> all po<strong>in</strong>ts, accord<strong>in</strong>g
to the latest requirements of the Kennel Club; or you
can <strong>in</strong>dulge your own fancy and have someth<strong>in</strong>g unique. You
are not, as with other dogs, limited to breed. In ch<strong>in</strong>a, you can
have a blue dog or a p<strong>in</strong>k dog. For a little extra, you can have a
double-headed dog.
On a certa<strong>in</strong> fixed date <strong>in</strong> the autumn the German stakes
his flowers and bushes to the earth, and covers them with
Ch<strong>in</strong>ese matt<strong>in</strong>g; and on a certa<strong>in</strong> fixed date <strong>in</strong> the spr<strong>in</strong>g he
uncovers them, and stands them up aga<strong>in</strong>. If it happens to be
an exceptionally f<strong>in</strong>e autumn, or an exceptionally late spr<strong>in</strong>g,
so much the worse for the unfortunate vegetable. No true German
would allow his arrangements to be <strong>in</strong>terfered with by
so unruly a th<strong>in</strong>g as the solar system. Unable to regulate the
weather, he ignores it.
Among trees, your German’s favourite is the poplar. Other
disorderly nations may s<strong>in</strong>g the charms of the rugged oak, the
spread<strong>in</strong>g chestnut, or the wav<strong>in</strong>g elm. To the German all such,
with their wilful, untidy ways, are eyesores. The poplar grows
where it is planted, and how it is planted. It has no improper
rugged ideas of its own. It does not want to wave or to spread
itself. It just grows straight and upright as a German tree
should grow; and so gradually the German is root<strong>in</strong>g out all
other trees, and replac<strong>in</strong>g them with poplars.
Your German likes the country, but he prefers it as the lady
thought she would the noble savage — more dressed. He likes
his walk through the wood — to a restaurant. But the pathway
must not be too steep, it must have a brick gutter runn<strong>in</strong>g
down one side of it to dra<strong>in</strong> it, and every twenty yards or so it
must have its seat on which he can rest and mop his brow; for
your German would no more th<strong>in</strong>k of sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the grass than
would an English bishop dream of roll<strong>in</strong>g down One Tree Hill.
He likes his view from the summit of the hill, but he likes to
f<strong>in</strong>d there a stone tablet tell<strong>in</strong>g him what to look at, f<strong>in</strong>d a table

— 288 —
and bench at which he can sit to partake of the frugal beer and
“belegte Semmel” he has been careful to br<strong>in</strong>g with him. If, <strong>in</strong>
addition, he can f<strong>in</strong>d a police notice posted on a tree, forbidd<strong>in</strong>g
him to do someth<strong>in</strong>g or other, that gives him an extra
sense of comfort and security.
Your German is not averse even to wild scenery, provided it
be not too wild. But if he consider it too savage, he sets to work
to tame it. I remember, <strong>in</strong> the neighbourhood of Dresden,
discover<strong>in</strong>g a picturesque and narrow valley lead<strong>in</strong>g down
towards the Elbe. The w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g roadway ran beside a mounta<strong>in</strong>
torrent, which for a mile or so fretted and foamed over
rocks and boulders between wood-covered banks. I followed
it enchanted until, turn<strong>in</strong>g a corner, I suddenly came across a
gang of eighty or a hundred workmen. They were busy tidy<strong>in</strong>g
up that valley, and mak<strong>in</strong>g that stream respectable. All the
stones that were imped<strong>in</strong>g the course of the water they were
carefully pick<strong>in</strong>g out and cart<strong>in</strong>g away. The bank on either
side they were brick<strong>in</strong>g up and cement<strong>in</strong>g. The overhang<strong>in</strong>g
trees and bushes, the tangled v<strong>in</strong>es and creepers they were
root<strong>in</strong>g up and trimm<strong>in</strong>g down. A little further I came upon
the f<strong>in</strong>ished work — the mounta<strong>in</strong> valley as it ought to be, accord<strong>in</strong>g
to German ideas. The water, now a broad, sluggish
stream, flowed over a level, gravelly bed, between two walls
crowned with stone cop<strong>in</strong>g. At every hundred yards it gently
descended down three shallow wooden platforms. For a space
on either side the ground had been cleared, and at regular <strong>in</strong>tervals
young poplars planted. Each sapl<strong>in</strong>g was protected by a
shield of wickerwork and bossed by an iron rod. In the course
of a couple of years it is the hope of the local council to have
“f<strong>in</strong>ished” that valley throughout its entire length, and made it
fit for a tidy-m<strong>in</strong>ded lover of German nature to walk <strong>in</strong>. There
will be a seat every fifty yards, a police notice every hundred,
and a restaurant every half-mile.
They are do<strong>in</strong>g the same from the Memel to the Rh<strong>in</strong>e. They
are just tidy<strong>in</strong>g up the country. I remember well the Wehrthal.
It was once the most romantic rav<strong>in</strong>e to be found <strong>in</strong> the Black

— 289 —
Forest. The last time I walked down it some hundreds of Italian
workmen were encamped there hard at work, tra<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g the
wild little Wehr the way it should go, brick<strong>in</strong>g the banks for it
here, blast<strong>in</strong>g the rocks for it there, mak<strong>in</strong>g cement steps for it
down which it can travel soberly and without fuss.
For <strong>in</strong> Germany there is no nonsense talked about untrammelled
nature. In Germany nature has got to behave herself,
and not set a bad example to the children. A German poet,
notic<strong>in</strong>g waters com<strong>in</strong>g down as Southey describes, somewhat
<strong>in</strong>exactly, the waters com<strong>in</strong>g down at Lodore, would be too
shocked to stop and write alliterative verse about them. He
would hurry away, and at once report them to the police. Then
their foam<strong>in</strong>g and their shriek<strong>in</strong>g would be of short duration.
“Now then, now then, what’s all this about?” the voice of
German authority would say severely to the waters. “We can’t
have this sort of th<strong>in</strong>g, you know. Come down quietly, can’t
you? Where do you th<strong>in</strong>k you are?”
And the local German council would provide those waters
with z<strong>in</strong>c pipes and wooden troughs, and a corkscrew staircase,
and show them how to come down sensibly, <strong>in</strong> the German
manner.
It is a tidy land is Germany.
We reached Dresden on the Wednesday even<strong>in</strong>g, and stayed
there over the Sunday.
Tak<strong>in</strong>g one consideration with another, Dresden, perhaps,
is the most attractive town <strong>in</strong> Germany; but it is a place to be
lived <strong>in</strong> for a while rather than visited. Its museums and galleries,
its palaces and gardens, its beautiful and historically rich
environment, provide pleasure for a w<strong>in</strong>ter, but bewilder for a
week. It has not the gaiety of Paris or Vienna, which quickly
palls; its charms are more solidly German, and more last<strong>in</strong>g. It
is the Mecca of the musician. For five shill<strong>in</strong>gs, <strong>in</strong> Dresden, you
can purchase a stall at the opera house, together, unfortunately,
with a strong dis<strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ation ever aga<strong>in</strong> to take the trouble of
sitt<strong>in</strong>g out a performance <strong>in</strong> any English, French, or, American
opera house.

— 290 —
The chief scandal of Dresden still centres round August the
Strong, “the Man of S<strong>in</strong>,” as Carlyle always called him, who is
popularly reputed to have cursed Europe with over a thousand
children. Castles where he imprisoned this discarded mistress
or that — one of them, who persisted <strong>in</strong> her claim to a better
title, for forty years, it is said, poor lady! The narrow rooms
where she ate her heart out and died are still shown. Châteaux,
shameful for this deed of <strong>in</strong>famy or that, lie scattered round
the neighbourhood like bones about a battlefield; and most of
your guide’s stories are such as the “young person” educated
<strong>in</strong> Germany had best not hear. His life-sized portrait hangs <strong>in</strong>
the f<strong>in</strong>e Zw<strong>in</strong>ger, which he built as an arena for his wild beast
fights when the people grew tired of them <strong>in</strong> the market-place;
a beetle-browed, frankly animal man, but with the culture and
taste that so often wait upon animalism. Modern Dresden undoubtedly
owes much to him.
But what the stranger <strong>in</strong> Dresden stares at most is, perhaps,
its electric trams. These huge vehicles flash through the streets
at from ten to twenty miles an hour, tak<strong>in</strong>g curves and corners
after the manner of an Irish car driver. Everybody travels by
them, except<strong>in</strong>g only officers <strong>in</strong> uniform, who must not. Ladies
<strong>in</strong> even<strong>in</strong>g dress, go<strong>in</strong>g to ball or opera, porters with their
baskets, sit side by side. They are all-important <strong>in</strong> the streets,
and everyth<strong>in</strong>g and everybody makes haste to get out of their
way. If you do not get out of their way, and you still happen to
be alive when picked up, then on your recovery you are f<strong>in</strong>ed
for hav<strong>in</strong>g been <strong>in</strong> their way. This teaches you to be wary of
them.
One afternoon Harris took a “bummel” by himself. In the
even<strong>in</strong>g, as we sat listen<strong>in</strong>g to the band at the Belvedere, Harris
said, a propos of noth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> particular, “These Germans have
no sense of humour.”
“What makes you th<strong>in</strong>k that?” I asked.
“Why, this afternoon,” he answered, “I jumped on one of
those electric tramcars. I wanted to see the town, so I stood
outside on the little platform — what do you call it?”

— 291 —
“The Stehplatz,” I suggested.
“That’s it,” said Harris. “Well, you know the way they shake
you about, and how you have to look out for the corners, and
m<strong>in</strong>d yourself when they stop and when they start?”
I nodded.
“There were about half a dozen of us stand<strong>in</strong>g there,” he
cont<strong>in</strong>ued, “and, of course, I am not experienced. The th<strong>in</strong>g
started suddenly, and that jerked me backwards. I fell aga<strong>in</strong>st
a stout gentleman, just beh<strong>in</strong>d me. He could not have been
stand<strong>in</strong>g very firmly himself, and he, <strong>in</strong> his turn, fell back
aga<strong>in</strong>st a boy who was carry<strong>in</strong>g a trumpet <strong>in</strong> a green baize
case. They never smiled, neither the man nor the boy with the
trumpet; they just stood there and looked sulky. I was go<strong>in</strong>g to
say I was sorry, but before I could get the words out the tram
eased up, for some reason or other, and that, of course, shot
me forward aga<strong>in</strong>, and I butted <strong>in</strong>to a white-haired old chap,
who looked to me like a professor. Well, he never smiled, never
moved a muscle.”
“Maybe, he was th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of someth<strong>in</strong>g else,” I suggested.
“That could not have been the case with them all,” replied
Harris, “and <strong>in</strong> the course of that journey, I must have fallen
aga<strong>in</strong>st every one of them at least three times. You see,” expla<strong>in</strong>ed
Harris, “they knew when the corners were com<strong>in</strong>g,
and <strong>in</strong> which direction to brace themselves. I, as a stranger,
was naturally at a disadvantage. The way I rolled and staggered
about that platform, clutch<strong>in</strong>g wildly now at this man and now
at that, must have been really comic. I don’t say it was highclass
humour, but it would have amused most people. Those
Germans seemed to see no fun <strong>in</strong> it whatever — just seemed
anxious, that was all. There was one man, a little man, who
stood with his back aga<strong>in</strong>st the brake; I fell aga<strong>in</strong>st him five
times, I counted them. You would have expected the fifth time
would have dragged a laugh out of him, but it didn’t; he merely
looked tired. They are a dull lot.”
George also had an adventure at Dresden. There was a shop
near the Altmarkt, <strong>in</strong> the w<strong>in</strong>dow of which were exhibited

— 292 —
some cushions for sale. The proper bus<strong>in</strong>ess of the shop was
handl<strong>in</strong>g of glass and ch<strong>in</strong>a; the cushions appeared to be <strong>in</strong> the
nature of an experiment. They were very beautiful cushions,
hand-embroidered on sat<strong>in</strong>. We often passed the shop, and
every time George paused and exam<strong>in</strong>ed those cushions. He
said he thought his aunt would like one.
George has been very attentive to this aunt of his dur<strong>in</strong>g the
journey. He has written her quite a long letter every day, and
from every town we stop at he sends her off a present. To my
m<strong>in</strong>d, he is overdo<strong>in</strong>g the bus<strong>in</strong>ess, and more than once I have
expostulated with him. His aunt will be meet<strong>in</strong>g other aunts,
and talk<strong>in</strong>g to them; the whole class will become disorganised
and unruly. As a nephew, I object to the impossible standard
that George is sett<strong>in</strong>g up. But he will not listen.
Therefore it was that on the Saturday he left us after lunch,
say<strong>in</strong>g he would go round to that shop and get one of those
cushions for his aunt. He said he would not be long, and suggested
our wait<strong>in</strong>g for him.
We waited for what seemed to me rather a long time. When
he rejo<strong>in</strong>ed us he was empty handed, and looked worried. We
asked him where his cushion was. He said he hadn’t got a cushion,
said he had changed his m<strong>in</strong>d, said he didn’t th<strong>in</strong>k his aunt
would care for a cushion. Evidently someth<strong>in</strong>g was amiss. We
tried to get at the bottom of it, but he was not communicative.
Indeed, his answers after our twentieth question or thereabouts
became quite short.
In the even<strong>in</strong>g, however, when he and I happened to be
alone, he broached the subject himself. He said:
“They are somewhat peculiar <strong>in</strong> some th<strong>in</strong>gs, these Germans.”
I said: “What has happened?”
“Well,” he answered, “there was that cushion I wanted.”
“For your aunt,” I remarked.
“Why not?” he returned. He was huffy <strong>in</strong> a moment; I never
knew a man so touchy about an aunt. “Why shouldn’t I send a
cushion to my aunt?”

— 293 —
“Don’t get excited,” I replied. “I am not object<strong>in</strong>g; I respect
you for it.”
He recovered his temper, and went on:
“There were four <strong>in</strong> the w<strong>in</strong>dow, if you remember, all very
much alike, and each one labelled <strong>in</strong> pla<strong>in</strong> figures twenty
marks. I don’t pretend to speak German fluently, but I can generally
make myself understood with a little effort, and gather
the sense of what is said to me, provided they don’t gabble.
I went <strong>in</strong>to the shop. A young girl came up to me; she was a
pretty, quiet little soul, one might almost say, demure; not at
all the sort of girl from whom you would have expected such a
th<strong>in</strong>g. I was never more surprised <strong>in</strong> all my life.”
“Surprised about what?” I said.
George always assumes you know the end of the story while
he is tell<strong>in</strong>g you the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g; it is an annoy<strong>in</strong>g method.
“At what happened,” replied George; “at what I am tell<strong>in</strong>g
you. She smiled and asked me what I wanted. I understood that
all right; there could have been no mistake about that. I put
down a twenty mark piece on the counter and said:
“‘Please give me a cushion.’”
“She stared at me as if I had asked for a feather bed. I
thought, maybe, she had not heard, so I repeated it louder. If
I had chucked her under the ch<strong>in</strong> she could not have looked
more surprised or <strong>in</strong>dignant.
“She said she thought I must be mak<strong>in</strong>g a mistake.
“I did not want to beg<strong>in</strong> a long conversation and f<strong>in</strong>d myself
stranded. I said there was no mistake. I po<strong>in</strong>ted to my twenty
mark piece, and repeated for the third time that I wanted a
cushion, ‘a twenty mark cushion.’
“Another girl came up, an elder girl; and the first girl repeated
to her what I had just said: she seemed quite excited about
it. The second girl did not believe her — did not th<strong>in</strong>k I looked
the sort of man who would want a cushion. To make sure, she
put the question to me herself.
“‘Did you say you wanted a cushion?’ she asked.

— 294 —
“‘I have said it three times,’ I answered. ‘I will say it aga<strong>in</strong> — I
want a cushion.’
“She said: ‘Then you can’t have one.’
“I was gett<strong>in</strong>g angry by this time. If I hadn’t really wanted
the th<strong>in</strong>g I should have walked out of the shop; but there the
cushions were <strong>in</strong> the w<strong>in</strong>dow, evidently for sale. I didn’t see
why I couldn’t have one.
“I said: ‘I will have one!’ It is a simple sentence. I said it with
determ<strong>in</strong>ation.
“A third girl came up at this po<strong>in</strong>t, the three represent<strong>in</strong>g,
I fancy, the whole force of the shop. She was a bright-eyed,
saucy-look<strong>in</strong>g little wench, this last one. On any other occasion
I might have been pleased to see her; now, her com<strong>in</strong>g
only irritated me. I didn’t see the need of three girls for this
bus<strong>in</strong>ess.
“The first two girls started expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g the th<strong>in</strong>g to the third
girl, and before they were half-way through the third girl began
to giggle — she was the sort of girl who would giggle at
anyth<strong>in</strong>g. That done, they fell to chatter<strong>in</strong>g like Jenny Wrens,
all three together; and between every half-dozen words they
looked across at me; and the more they looked at me the more
the third girl giggled; and before they had f<strong>in</strong>ished they were
all three giggl<strong>in</strong>g, the little idiots; you might have thought I
was a clown, giv<strong>in</strong>g a private performance.
“When she was steady enough to move, the third girl came
up to me; she was still giggl<strong>in</strong>g. She said:
“‘If you get it, will you go?’
“I did not quite understand her at first, and she repeated it.
“‘This cushion. When you’ve got it, will you go — away — at
once?’
“I was only too anxious to go. I told her so. But, I added I
was not go<strong>in</strong>g without it. I had made up my m<strong>in</strong>d to have that
cushion now if I stopped <strong>in</strong> the shop all night for it.
“She rejo<strong>in</strong>ed the other two girls. I thought they were go<strong>in</strong>g
to get me the cushion and have done with the bus<strong>in</strong>ess. Instead
of that, the strangest th<strong>in</strong>g possible happened. The two other

— 295 —
girls got beh<strong>in</strong>d the first girl, all three still giggl<strong>in</strong>g, Heaven
knows what about, and pushed her towards me. They pushed
her close up to me, and then, before I knew what was happen<strong>in</strong>g,
she put her hands on my shoulders, stood up on tiptoe,
and kissed me. After which, bury<strong>in</strong>g her face <strong>in</strong> her apron, she
ran off, followed by the second girl. The third girl opened the
door for me, and so evidently expected me to go, that <strong>in</strong> my
confusion I went, leav<strong>in</strong>g my twenty marks beh<strong>in</strong>d me. I don’t
say I m<strong>in</strong>ded the kiss, though I did not particularly want it,
while I did want the cushion. I don’t like to go back to the shop.
I cannot understand the th<strong>in</strong>g at all.”
I said: “What did you ask for?”
He said: “A cushion”
I said: “That is what you wanted, I know. What I mean is,
what was the actual German word you said.”
He replied: “A kuss.”
I said: “You have noth<strong>in</strong>g to compla<strong>in</strong> of. It is somewhat
confus<strong>in</strong>g. A ‘kuss’ sounds as if it ought to be a cushion, but it
is not; it is a kiss, while a ‘kissen’ is a cushion. You muddled up
the two words — people have done it before. I don’t know much
about this sort of th<strong>in</strong>g myself; but you asked for a twenty
mark kiss, and from your description of the girl some people
might consider the price reasonable. Anyhow, I should not tell
Harris. If I remember rightly, he also has an aunt.”
George agreed with me it would be better not.

— 296 —
CHAPTER VIII
Mr. and Miss Jones, of Manchester — The benefits of cocoa — A
h<strong>in</strong>t to the Peace Society — The w<strong>in</strong>dow as a mediaeval argument
— The favourite Christian recreation — The language of the
guide — How to repair the ravages of time — George tries a bottle
— The fate of the German beer dr<strong>in</strong>ker — Harris and I resolve
to do a good action — The usual sort of statue — Harris and his
friends — A pepperless Paradise — Women and towns.
WE were on our way to Prague, and were wait<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the great
hall of the Dresden Station until such time as the powersthat-be
should permit us on to the platform. George, who had
wandered to the bookstall, returned to us with a wild look <strong>in</strong>
his eyes. He said:
“I’ve seen it.”
I said, “Seen what?”
He was too excited to answer <strong>in</strong>telligently. He said
“It’s here. It’s com<strong>in</strong>g this way, both of them. If you wait,
you’ll see it for yourselves. I’m not jok<strong>in</strong>g; it’s the real th<strong>in</strong>g.”
As is usual about this period, some paragraphs, more or less
serious, had been appear<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the papers concern<strong>in</strong>g the seaserpent,
and I thought for the moment he must be referr<strong>in</strong>g to
this. A moment’s reflection, however, told me that here, <strong>in</strong> the
middle of Europe, three hundred miles from the coast, such a
th<strong>in</strong>g was impossible. Before I could question him further, he
seized me by the arm.
“Look!” he said; “now am I exaggerat<strong>in</strong>g?”
I turned my head and saw what, I suppose, few liv<strong>in</strong>g Englishmen
have ever seen before — the travell<strong>in</strong>g Britisher accord<strong>in</strong>g
to the Cont<strong>in</strong>ental idea, accompanied by his daughter.
They were com<strong>in</strong>g towards us <strong>in</strong> the flesh and blood, unless
we were dream<strong>in</strong>g, alive and concrete — the English “Milor”
and the English “Mees,” as for generations they have been
portrayed <strong>in</strong> the Cont<strong>in</strong>ental comic press and upon the Cont<strong>in</strong>ental
stage. They were perfect <strong>in</strong> every detail. The man was
tall and th<strong>in</strong>, with sandy hair, a huge nose, and long Dundreary
whiskers. Over a pepper-and-salt suit he wore a light overcoat,

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reach<strong>in</strong>g almost to his heels. His white helmet was ornamented
with a green veil; a pair of opera-glasses hung at his side, and <strong>in</strong>
his lavender-gloved hand he carried an alpenstock a little taller
than himself. His daughter was long and angular. Her dress
I cannot describe: my grandfather, poor gentleman, might
have been able to do so; it would have been more familiar to
him. I can only say that it appeared to me unnecessarily short,
exhibit<strong>in</strong>g a pair of ankles — if I may be permitted to refer to
such po<strong>in</strong>ts — that, from an artistic po<strong>in</strong>t of view, called rather
for concealment. Her hat made me th<strong>in</strong>k of Mrs. Hemans; but
why I cannot expla<strong>in</strong>. She wore side-spr<strong>in</strong>g boots — “prunella,”
I believe, used to be the trade name — mittens, and p<strong>in</strong>ce-nez.
She also carried an alpenstock (there is not a mounta<strong>in</strong> with<strong>in</strong>
a hundred miles of Dresden) and a black bag strapped to her
waist. Her teeth stuck out like a rabbit’s, and her figure was that
of a bolster on stilts.
Harris rushed for his camera, and of course could not f<strong>in</strong>d
it; he never can when he wants it. Whenever we see Harris
scuttl<strong>in</strong>g up and down like a lost dog, shout<strong>in</strong>g, “Where’s my
camera? What the dickens have I done with my camera? Don’t
either of you remember where I put my camera?” — then we
know that for the first time that day he has come across someth<strong>in</strong>g
worth photograph<strong>in</strong>g. Later on, he remembered it was <strong>in</strong>
his bag; that is where it would be on an occasion like this.
They were not content with appearance; they acted the
th<strong>in</strong>g to the letter. They walked gap<strong>in</strong>g round them at every
step. The gentleman had an open Baedeker <strong>in</strong> his hand, and the
lady carried a phrase book. They talked French that nobody
could understand, and German that they could not translate
themselves! The man poked at officials with his alpenstock to
attract their attention, and the lady, her eye catch<strong>in</strong>g sight of
an advertisement of somebody’s cocoa, said “Shock<strong>in</strong>g!” and
turned the other way.
Really, there was some excuse for her. One notices, even <strong>in</strong>
England, the home of the proprieties, that the lady who dr<strong>in</strong>ks
cocoa appears, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the poster, to require very little

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else <strong>in</strong> this world; a yard or so of art musl<strong>in</strong> at the most. On the
Cont<strong>in</strong>ent she dispenses, so far as one can judge, with every
other necessity of life. Not only is cocoa food and dr<strong>in</strong>k to her,
it should be clothes also, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the idea of the cocoa
manufacturer. But this by the way.
Of course, they immediately became the centre of attraction.
By be<strong>in</strong>g able to render them some slight assistance, I
ga<strong>in</strong>ed the advantage of five m<strong>in</strong>utes’ conversation with them.
They were very affable. The gentleman told me his name was
Jones, and that he came from Manchester, but he did not seem
to know what part of Manchester, or where Manchester was.
I asked him where he was go<strong>in</strong>g to, but he evidently did not
know. He said it depended. I asked him if he did not f<strong>in</strong>d
an alpenstock a clumsy th<strong>in</strong>g to walk about with through a
crowded town; he admitted that occasionally it did get <strong>in</strong> the
way. I asked him if he did not f<strong>in</strong>d a veil <strong>in</strong>terfere with his
view of th<strong>in</strong>gs; he expla<strong>in</strong>ed that you only wore it when the
flies became troublesome. I enquired of the lady if she did not
f<strong>in</strong>d the w<strong>in</strong>d blow cold; she said she had noticed it, especially
at the corners. I did not ask these questions one after another
as I have here put them down; I mixed them up with general
conversation, and we parted on good terms.
I have pondered much upon the apparition, and have come
to a def<strong>in</strong>ite op<strong>in</strong>ion. A man I met later at Frankfort, and to
whom I described the pair, said he had seen them himself <strong>in</strong>
Paris, three weeks after the term<strong>in</strong>ation of the Fashoda <strong>in</strong>cident;
while a traveller for some English steel works whom we
met <strong>in</strong> Strassburg remembered hav<strong>in</strong>g seen them <strong>in</strong> Berl<strong>in</strong>
dur<strong>in</strong>g the excitement caused by the Transvaal question. My
conclusion is that they were actors out of work, hired to do
this th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the <strong>in</strong>terest of <strong>in</strong>ternational peace. The French
Foreign Office, wishful to allay the anger of the Parisian mob
clamour<strong>in</strong>g for war with England, secured this admirable couple
and sent them round the town. You cannot be amused at a
th<strong>in</strong>g, and at the same time want to kill it. The French nation
saw the English citizen and citizeness — no caricature, but the

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liv<strong>in</strong>g reality — and their <strong>in</strong>dignation exploded <strong>in</strong> laughter.
The success of the stratagem prompted them later on to offer
their services to the German Government, with the beneficial
results that we all know.
Our own Government might learn the lesson. It might be as
well to keep near Down<strong>in</strong>g Street a few small, fat Frenchmen,
to be sent round the country when occasion called for it, shrugg<strong>in</strong>g
their shoulders and eat<strong>in</strong>g frog sandwiches; or a file of
untidy, lank-haired Germans might be reta<strong>in</strong>ed, to walk about,
smok<strong>in</strong>g long pipes, say<strong>in</strong>g “So.” The public would laugh and
exclaim, “War with such? It would be too absurd.” Fail<strong>in</strong>g the
Government, I recommend the scheme to the Peace Society.
Our visit to Prague we were compelled to lengthen somewhat.
Prague is one of the most <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g towns <strong>in</strong> Europe.
Its stones are saturated with history and romance; its every
suburb must have been a battlefield. It is the town that conceived
the Reformation and hatched the Thirty Years’ War.
But half Prague’s troubles, one imag<strong>in</strong>es, might have been
saved to it, had it possessed w<strong>in</strong>dows less large and tempt<strong>in</strong>gly
convenient. The first of these mighty catastrophes it set
roll<strong>in</strong>g by throw<strong>in</strong>g the seven Catholic councillors from the
w<strong>in</strong>dows of its Rathhaus on to the pikes of the Hussites below.
Later, it gave the signal for the second by aga<strong>in</strong> throw<strong>in</strong>g the
Imperial councillors from the w<strong>in</strong>dows of the old Burg <strong>in</strong> the
Hradsch<strong>in</strong> — Prague’s second “Fenstersturz.” S<strong>in</strong>ce, other fateful
questions have been decide <strong>in</strong> Prague, one assumes from
their hav<strong>in</strong>g been concluded without violence that such must
have been discussed <strong>in</strong> cellars. The w<strong>in</strong>dow, as an argument,
one feels, would always have proved too strong a temptation to
any true-born Praguer.
In the Teynkirche stands the worm-eaten pulpit from which
preached John Huss. One may hear from the selfsame desk
to-day the voice of a Papist priest, while <strong>in</strong> far-off Constance
a rude block of stone, half ivy hidden, marks the spot where
Huss and Jerome died burn<strong>in</strong>g at the stake. History is fond
of her little ironies. In this same Teynkirche lies buried Tycho

— 300 —
Brahe, the astronomer, who made the common mistake of
th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g the earth, with its eleven hundred creeds and one humanity,
the centre of the universe; but who otherwise observed
the stars clearly.
Through Prague’s dirty, palace-bordered alleys must have
pressed often <strong>in</strong> hot haste bl<strong>in</strong>d Ziska and open-m<strong>in</strong>ded Wallenste<strong>in</strong>
— they have dubbed him “The Hero” <strong>in</strong> Prague; and
the town is honestly proud of hav<strong>in</strong>g owned him for citizen. In
his gloomy palace <strong>in</strong> the Waldste<strong>in</strong>-Platz they show as a sacred
spot the cab<strong>in</strong>et where he prayed, and seem to have persuaded
themselves he really had a soul. Its steep, w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g ways must
have been choked a dozen times, now by Sigismund’s fly<strong>in</strong>g
legions, followed by fierce-kill<strong>in</strong>g Tarborites, and now by pale
Protestants pursued by the victorious Catholics of Maximilian.
Now Saxons, now Bavarians, and now French; now the sa<strong>in</strong>ts
of Gustavus Adolphus, and now the steel fight<strong>in</strong>g mach<strong>in</strong>es
of Frederick the Great, have thundered at its gates and fought
upon its bridges.
The Jews have always been an important feature of Prague.
Occasionally they have assisted the Christians <strong>in</strong> their favourite
occupation of slaughter<strong>in</strong>g one another, and the great flag
suspended from the vault<strong>in</strong>g of the Altneuschule testifies to
the courage with which they helped Catholic Ferd<strong>in</strong>and to
resist the Protestant Swedes. The Prague Ghetto was one of
the first to be established <strong>in</strong> Europe, and <strong>in</strong> the t<strong>in</strong>y synagogue,
still stand<strong>in</strong>g, the Jew of Prague has worshipped for eight
hundred years, his women folk devoutly listen<strong>in</strong>g, without, at
the ear holes provided for them <strong>in</strong> the massive walls. A Jewish
cemetery adjacent, “Bethchajim, or the House of Life,” seems
as though it were burst<strong>in</strong>g with its dead. With<strong>in</strong> its narrow acre
it was the law of centuries that here or nowhere must the bones
of Israel rest. So the worn and broken tombstones lie piled <strong>in</strong>
close confusion, as though tossed and tumbled by the struggl<strong>in</strong>g
host beneath.
The Ghetto walls have long been levelled, but the liv<strong>in</strong>g
Jews of Prague still cl<strong>in</strong>g to their foetid lanes, though these

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are be<strong>in</strong>g rapidly replaced by f<strong>in</strong>e new streets that promise to
eventually transform this quarter <strong>in</strong>to the handsomest part of
the town.
At Dresden they advised us not to talk German <strong>in</strong> Prague.
For years racial animosity between the German m<strong>in</strong>ority and
the Czech majority has raged throughout Bohemia, and to
be mistaken for a German <strong>in</strong> certa<strong>in</strong> streets of Prague is <strong>in</strong>convenient
to a man whose stay<strong>in</strong>g powers <strong>in</strong> a race are not
what once they were. However, we did talk German <strong>in</strong> certa<strong>in</strong>
streets <strong>in</strong> Prague; it was a case of talk<strong>in</strong>g German or noth<strong>in</strong>g.
The Czech dialect is said to be of great antiquity and of highly
scientific cultivation. Its alphabet conta<strong>in</strong>s forty-two letters,
suggestive to a stranger of Ch<strong>in</strong>ese. It is not a language to
be picked up <strong>in</strong> a hurry. We decided that on the whole there
would be less risk to our constitution <strong>in</strong> keep<strong>in</strong>g to German,
and as a matter of fact no harm came to us. The explanation I
can only surmise. The Praguer is an exceed<strong>in</strong>gly acute person;
some subtle falsity of accent, some slight grammatical <strong>in</strong>accuracy,
may have crept <strong>in</strong>to our German, reveal<strong>in</strong>g to him the
fact that, <strong>in</strong> spite of all appearances to the contrary, we were no
true-born Deutscher. I do not assert this; I put it forward as a
possibility.
To avoid unnecessary danger, however, we did our sight-see<strong>in</strong>g
with the aid of a guide. No guide I have ever come across
is perfect. This one had two dist<strong>in</strong>ct fail<strong>in</strong>gs. His English was
decidedly weak. Indeed, it was not English at all. I do not
know what you would call it. It was not altogether his fault;
he had learnt English from a Scotch lady. I understand Scotch
fairly well — to keep abreast of modern English literature this
is necessary, — but to understand broad Scotch talked with a
Sclavonic accent, occasionally relieved by German modifications,
taxes the <strong>in</strong>telligence. For the first hour it was difficult to
rid one’s self of the conviction that the man was chok<strong>in</strong>g. Every
moment we expected him to die on our hands. In the course
of the morn<strong>in</strong>g we grew accustomed to him, and rid ourselves
of the <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct to throw him on his back every time he opened

— 302 —
his mouth, and tear his clothes from him. Later, we came to
understand a part of what he said, and this led to the discovery
of his second fail<strong>in</strong>g.
It would seem he had lately <strong>in</strong>vented a hair-restorer, which
he had persuaded a local chemist to take up and advertise.
Half his time he had been po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g out to us, not the beauties
of Prague, but the benefits likely to accrue to the human
race from the use of this concoction; and the conventional
agreement with which, under the impression he was wax<strong>in</strong>g
eloquent concern<strong>in</strong>g views and architecture, we had met his
enthusiasm he had attributed to sympathetic <strong>in</strong>terest <strong>in</strong> this
wretched wash of his.
The result was that now there was no keep<strong>in</strong>g him away
from the subject. Ru<strong>in</strong>ed palaces and crumbl<strong>in</strong>g churches he
dismissed with curt reference as mere frivolities, encourag<strong>in</strong>g
a morbid taste for the decadent. His duty, as he saw it, was
not to lead us to dwell upon the ravages of time, but rather to
direct our attention to the means of repair<strong>in</strong>g them. What had
we to do with broken-headed heroes, or bald-headed sa<strong>in</strong>ts?
Our <strong>in</strong>terest should be surely <strong>in</strong> the liv<strong>in</strong>g world; <strong>in</strong> the maidens
with their flow<strong>in</strong>g tresses, or the flow<strong>in</strong>g tresses they might
have, by judicious use of “Kophkeo,” <strong>in</strong> the young men with
their fierce moustaches — as pictured on the label.
Unconsciously, <strong>in</strong> his own m<strong>in</strong>d, he had divided the world
<strong>in</strong>to two sections. The Past (“Before Use”), a sickly, disagreeable-look<strong>in</strong>g,
un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g world. The Future (“After Use”) a
fat, jolly, God-bless-everybody sort of world; and this unfitted
him as a guide to scenes of mediaeval history.
He sent us each a bottle of the stuff to our hotel. It appeared
that <strong>in</strong> the early part of our converse with him we had, unwitt<strong>in</strong>gly,
clamoured for it. Personally, I can neither praise it nor
condemn it. A long series of disappo<strong>in</strong>tments has disheartened
me; added to which a permanent atmosphere of paraff<strong>in</strong>, however
fa<strong>in</strong>t, is apt to cause remark, especially <strong>in</strong> the case of a
married man. Now, I never try even the sample.
I gave my bottle to George. He asked for it to send to a man

— 303 —
he knew <strong>in</strong> Leeds. I learnt later that Harris had given him his
bottle also, to send to the same man.
A suggestion of onions has clung to this tour s<strong>in</strong>ce we left
Prague. George has noticed it himself. He attributes it to the
prevalence of garlic <strong>in</strong> European cook<strong>in</strong>g.
It was <strong>in</strong> Prague that Harris and I did a k<strong>in</strong>d and friendly
th<strong>in</strong>g to George. We had noticed for some time past that
George was gett<strong>in</strong>g too fond of Pilsener beer. This German
beer is an <strong>in</strong>sidious dr<strong>in</strong>k, especially <strong>in</strong> hot weather; but it does
not do to imbibe too freely of it. It does not get <strong>in</strong>to your head,
but after a time it spoils your waist. I always say to myself on
enter<strong>in</strong>g Germany:
“Now, I will dr<strong>in</strong>k no German beer. The white w<strong>in</strong>e of the
country, with a little soda-water; perhaps occasionally a glass
of Ems or potash. But beer, never — or, at all events, hardly
ever.”
It is a good and useful resolution, which I recommend to
all travellers. I only wish I could keep to it myself. George, although
I urged him, refused to b<strong>in</strong>d himself by any such hard
and fast limit. He said that <strong>in</strong> moderation German beer was
good.
“One glass <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g,” said George, “one <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g,
or even two. That will do no harm to anyone.”
Maybe he was right. It was his half-dozen glasses that troubled
Harris and myself.
“We ought to do someth<strong>in</strong>g to stop it,” said Harris; “it is
becom<strong>in</strong>g serious.”
“It’s hereditary, so he has expla<strong>in</strong>ed to me,” I answered. “It
seems his family have always been thirsty.”
“There is Apoll<strong>in</strong>aris water,” replied Harris, “which, I believe,
with a little lemon squeezed <strong>in</strong>to it, is practically harmless.
What I am th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g about is his figure. He will lose all his
natural elegance.”
We talked the matter over, and, Providence aid<strong>in</strong>g us, we
fixed upon a plan. For the ornamentation of the town a new
statue had just been cast. I forget of whom it was a statue. I

— 304 —
only remember that <strong>in</strong> the essentials it was the usual sort of
street statue, represent<strong>in</strong>g the usual sort of gentleman, with
the usual stiff neck, rid<strong>in</strong>g the usual sort of horse — the horse
that always walks on its h<strong>in</strong>d legs, keep<strong>in</strong>g its front paws for
beat<strong>in</strong>g time. But <strong>in</strong> detail it possessed <strong>in</strong>dividuality. Instead
of the usual sword or baton, the man was hold<strong>in</strong>g, stretched
out <strong>in</strong> his hand, his own plumed hat; and the horse, <strong>in</strong>stead of
the usual waterfall for a tail, possessed a somewhat attenuated
appendage that somehow appeared out of keep<strong>in</strong>g with his ostentatious
behaviour. One felt that a horse with a tail like that
would not have pranced so much.
It stood <strong>in</strong> a small square not far from the further end of
the Karlsbrücke, but it stood there only temporarily. Before
decid<strong>in</strong>g f<strong>in</strong>ally where to fix it, the town authorities had resolved,
very sensibly, to judge by practical test where it would
look best. Accord<strong>in</strong>gly, they had made three rough copies of
the statue — mere wooden profiles, th<strong>in</strong>gs that would not bear
look<strong>in</strong>g at closely, but which, viewed from a little distance,
produced all the effect that was necessary. One of these they
had set up at the approach to the Franz-Josefsbrücke, a second
stood <strong>in</strong> the open space beh<strong>in</strong>d the theatre, and the third <strong>in</strong> the
centre of the Wenzelsplatz.
“If George is not <strong>in</strong> the secret of this th<strong>in</strong>g,” said Harris — we
were walk<strong>in</strong>g by ourselves for an hour, he hav<strong>in</strong>g rema<strong>in</strong>ed beh<strong>in</strong>d
<strong>in</strong> the hotel to write a letter to his aunt, — “if he has not
observed these statues, then by their aid we will make a better
and a th<strong>in</strong>ner man of him, and that this very even<strong>in</strong>g.”
So dur<strong>in</strong>g d<strong>in</strong>ner we sounded him, judiciously; and f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g
him ignorant of the matter, we took him out, and led him by
side-streets to the place where stood the real statue. George
was for look<strong>in</strong>g at it and pass<strong>in</strong>g on, as is his way with statues,
but we <strong>in</strong>sisted on his pull<strong>in</strong>g up and view<strong>in</strong>g the th<strong>in</strong>g conscientiously.
We walked him round that statue four times, and
showed it to him from every possible po<strong>in</strong>t of view. I th<strong>in</strong>k, on
the whole, we rather bored him with the th<strong>in</strong>g, but our object
was to impress it upon him. We told him the history of the

— 305 —
man who rode upon the horse, the name of the artist who had
made the statue, how much it weighed, how much it measured.
We worked that statue <strong>in</strong>to his system. By the time we had
done with him he knew more about that statue, for the time
be<strong>in</strong>g, than he knew about anyth<strong>in</strong>g else. We soaked him <strong>in</strong>
that statue, and only let him go at last on the condition that he
would come aga<strong>in</strong> with us <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, when we could all
see it better, and for such purpose we saw to it that he made a
note <strong>in</strong> his pocket-book of the place where the statue stood.
Then we accompanied him to his favourite beer hall, and sat
beside him, tell<strong>in</strong>g him anecdotes of men who, unaccustomed
to German beer, and dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g too much of it, had gone mad
and developed homicidal mania; of men who had died young
through dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g German beer; of lovers that German beer
had been the means of part<strong>in</strong>g for ever from beautiful girls.
At ten o’clock we started to walk back to the hotel. It was a
stormy-look<strong>in</strong>g night, with heavy clouds drift<strong>in</strong>g over a light
moon. Harris said:
“We won’t go back the same way we came; we’ll walk back
by the river. It is lovely <strong>in</strong> the moonlight.”
Harris told a sad history, as we walked, about a man he once
knew, who is now <strong>in</strong> a home for harmless imbeciles. He said
he recalled the story because it was on just such another night
as this that he was walk<strong>in</strong>g with that man the very last time he
ever saw the poor fellow. They were stroll<strong>in</strong>g down the Thames
Embankment, Harris said, and the man frightened him then
by persist<strong>in</strong>g that he saw the statue of the Duke of Well<strong>in</strong>gton
at the corner of Westm<strong>in</strong>ster Bridge, when, as everybody
knows, it stands <strong>in</strong> Piccadilly.
It was at this exact <strong>in</strong>stant that we came <strong>in</strong> sight of the first
of these wooden copies. It occupied the centre of a small,
railed-<strong>in</strong> square a little above us on the opposite side of the
way. George suddenly stood still and leant aga<strong>in</strong>st the wall of
the quay.
“What’s the matter?” I said; “feel<strong>in</strong>g giddy?”
He said: “I do, a little. Let’s rest here a moment.”

— 306 —
He stood there with his eyes glued to the th<strong>in</strong>g.
He said, speak<strong>in</strong>g huskily:
“Talk<strong>in</strong>g of statues, what always strikes me is how very
much one statue is like another statue.”
Harris said: “I cannot agree with you there — pictures, if
you like. Some pictures are very like other pictures, but with
a statue there is always someth<strong>in</strong>g dist<strong>in</strong>ctive. Take that statue
we saw early <strong>in</strong> the even<strong>in</strong>g,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Harris, “before we
went <strong>in</strong>to the concert hall. It represented a man sitt<strong>in</strong>g on a
horse. In Prague you will see other statues of men on horses,
but noth<strong>in</strong>g at all like that one.”
“Yes they are,” said George; “they are all alike. It’s always the
same horse, and it’s always the same man. They are all exactly
alike. It’s idiotic nonsense to say they are not.”
He appeared to be angry with Harris.
“What makes you th<strong>in</strong>k so?” I asked.
“What makes me th<strong>in</strong>k so?” retorted George, now turn<strong>in</strong>g
upon me. “Why, look at that damned th<strong>in</strong>g over there!”
I said: “What damned th<strong>in</strong>g?”
“Why, that th<strong>in</strong>g,” said George; “look at it! There is the same
horse with half a tail, stand<strong>in</strong>g on its h<strong>in</strong>d legs; the same man
without his hat; the same —”
Harris said: “You are talk<strong>in</strong>g now about the statue we saw <strong>in</strong>
the R<strong>in</strong>gplatz.”
“No, I’m not,” replied George; “I’m talk<strong>in</strong>g about the statue
over there.”
“What statue?” said Harris.
George looked at Harris; but Harris is a man who might,
with care, have been a fair amateur actor. His face merely
expressed friendly sorrow, m<strong>in</strong>gled with alarm. Next, George
turned his gaze on me. I endeavoured, so far as lay with me,
to copy Harris’s expression, add<strong>in</strong>g to it on my own account a
touch of reproof.
“Will you have a cab?” I said as k<strong>in</strong>dly as I could to George.
“I’ll run and get one.”
“What the devil do I want with a cab?” he answered, ungra-

— 307 —
ciously. “Can’t you fellows understand a joke? It’s like be<strong>in</strong>g
out with a couple of confounded old women,” say<strong>in</strong>g which, he
started off across the bridge, leav<strong>in</strong>g us to follow.
“I am so glad that was only a joke of yours,” said Harris, on
our overtak<strong>in</strong>g him. “I knew a case of soften<strong>in</strong>g of the bra<strong>in</strong>
that began —”
“Oh, you’re a silly ass!” said George, cutt<strong>in</strong>g him short; “you
know everyth<strong>in</strong>g.”
He was really most unpleasant <strong>in</strong> his manner.
We took him round by the riverside of the theatre. We told
him it was the shortest way, and, as a matter of fact, it was. In
the open space beh<strong>in</strong>d the theatre stood the second of these
wooden apparitions. George looked at it, and aga<strong>in</strong> stood still.
“What’s the matter?” said Harris, k<strong>in</strong>dly. “You are not ill, are
you?”
“I don’t believe this is the shortest way,” said George.
“I assure you it is,” persisted Harris.
“Well, I’m go<strong>in</strong>g the other,” said George; and he turned and
went, we, as before, follow<strong>in</strong>g him.
Along the Ferd<strong>in</strong>and Strasse Harris and I talked about private
lunatic asylums, which, Harris said, were not well managed
<strong>in</strong> England. He said a friend of his, a patient <strong>in</strong> a lunatic
asylum —
George said, <strong>in</strong>terrupt<strong>in</strong>g: “You appear to have a large
number of friends <strong>in</strong> lunatic asylums.”
He said it <strong>in</strong> a most <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g tone, as though to imply
that that is where one would look for the majority of Harris’s
friends. But Harris did not get angry; he merely replied, quite
mildly:
“Well, it really is extraord<strong>in</strong>ary, when one comes to th<strong>in</strong>k of
it, how many of them have gone that way sooner or later. I get
quite nervous sometimes, now.”
At the corner of the Wenzelsplatz, Harris, who was a few
steps ahead of us, paused.
“It’s a f<strong>in</strong>e street, isn’t it?” he said, stick<strong>in</strong>g his hands <strong>in</strong> his
pockets, and gaz<strong>in</strong>g up at it admir<strong>in</strong>gly.

— 308 —
George and I followed suit. Two hundred yards away from
us, <strong>in</strong> its very centre, was the third of these ghostly statues. I
th<strong>in</strong>k it was the best of the three — the most like, the most deceptive.
It stood boldly outl<strong>in</strong>ed aga<strong>in</strong>st the wild sky: the horse
on its h<strong>in</strong>d legs, with its curiously attenuated tail; the man
bareheaded, po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g with his plumed hat to the now entirely
visible moon.
“I th<strong>in</strong>k, if you don’t m<strong>in</strong>d,” said George — he spoke with
almost a pathetic r<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his voice, his aggressiveness had completely
fallen from him, — “that I will have that cab, if there’s
one handy.”
“I thought you were look<strong>in</strong>g queer,” said Harris, k<strong>in</strong>dly. “It’s
your head, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is,” answered George.
“I have noticed it co<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g on,” said Harris; “but I didn’t like
to say anyth<strong>in</strong>g to you. You fancy you see th<strong>in</strong>gs, don’t you?”
“No, no; it isn’t that,” replied George, rather quickly. “I don’t
know what it is.”
“I do,” said Harris, solemnly, “and I’ll tell you. It’s this German
beer that you are dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g. I have known a case where a
man —”
“Don’t tell me about him just now,” said George. “I dare say
it’s true, but somehow I don’t feel I want to hear about him.”
“You are not used to it,” said Harris.
“I shall give it up from to-night,” said George. “I th<strong>in</strong>k you
must be right; it doesn’t seem to agree with me.”
We took him home, and saw him to bed. He was very gentle
and quite grateful.
One even<strong>in</strong>g later on, after a long day’s ride, followed by a
most satisfactory d<strong>in</strong>ner, we started him on a big cigar, and, remov<strong>in</strong>g
th<strong>in</strong>gs from his reach, told him of this stratagem that
for his good we had planned.
“How many copies of that statue did you say we saw?” asked
George, after we had f<strong>in</strong>ished.
“<strong>Three</strong>,” replied Harris.
“Only three?” said George. “Are you sure?”

— 309 —
“Positive,” replied Harris. “Why?”
“Oh, noth<strong>in</strong>g!” answered George.
But I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k he quite believed Harris.
From Prague we travelled to Nuremberg, through Carlsbad.
Good Germans, when they die, go, they say, to Carlsbad, as
good Americans to Paris. This I doubt, see<strong>in</strong>g that it is a small
place with no convenience for a crowd. In Carlsbad, you rise
at five, the fashionable hour for promenade, when the band
plays under the Colonnade, and the Sprudel is filled with a
packed throng over a mile long, be<strong>in</strong>g from six to eight <strong>in</strong> the
morn<strong>in</strong>g. Here you may hear more languages spoken than the
Tower of Babel could have echoed. Polish Jews and Russian
pr<strong>in</strong>ces, Ch<strong>in</strong>ese mandar<strong>in</strong>s and Turkish pashas, Norwegians
look<strong>in</strong>g as if they had stepped out of Ibsen’s plays, women
from the Boulevards, Spanish grandees and English countesses,
mounta<strong>in</strong>eers from Montenegro and millionaires from
Chicago, you will f<strong>in</strong>d every dozen yards. Every luxury <strong>in</strong> the
world Carlsbad provides for its visitors, with the one exception
of pepper. That you cannot get with<strong>in</strong> five miles of the town
for money; what you can get there for love is not worth tak<strong>in</strong>g
away. Pepper, to the liver brigade that forms four-fifths of
Carlsbad’s customers, is poison; and, prevention be<strong>in</strong>g better
than cure, it is carefully kept out of the neighbourhood. “Pepper
parties” are formed <strong>in</strong> Carlsbad to journey to some place
without the boundary, and there <strong>in</strong>dulge <strong>in</strong> pepper orgies.
Nuremberg, if one expects a town of mediaeval appearance,
disappo<strong>in</strong>ts. Qua<strong>in</strong>t corners, picturesque glimpses, there are
<strong>in</strong> plenty; but everywhere they are surrounded and <strong>in</strong>truded
upon by the modern, and even what is ancient is not nearly so
ancient as one thought it was. After all, a town, like a woman,
is only as old as it looks; and Nuremberg is still a comfortablelook<strong>in</strong>g
dame, its age somewhat difficult to conceive under its
fresh pa<strong>in</strong>t and stucco <strong>in</strong> the blaze of the gas and the electric
light. Still, look<strong>in</strong>g closely, you may see its wr<strong>in</strong>kled walls and
grey towers.

— 310 —
CHAPTER IX
Harris breaks the law — The helpful man: The dangers that beset
him — George sets forth upon a career of crime — Those to whom
Germany would come as a boon and a bless<strong>in</strong>g — The English
S<strong>in</strong>ner: His disappo<strong>in</strong>tments — The German S<strong>in</strong>ner: His exceptional
advantages — What you may not do with your bed — An
<strong>in</strong>expensive vice — The German dog: His simple goodness — The
misbehaviour of the beetle — A people that go the way they ought
to go — The German small boy: His love of legality — How to go
astray with a perambulator — The German student: His chastened
wilfulness.
ALL three of us, by some means or another, managed, between
Nuremberg and the Black Forest, to get <strong>in</strong>to trouble.
Harris led off at Stuttgart by <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g an official. Stuttgart
is a charm<strong>in</strong>g town, clean and bright, a smaller Dresden. It has
the additional attraction of conta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g little that one need to
go out of one’s way to see: a medium-sized picture gallery, a
small museum of antiquities, and half a palace, and you are
through with the entire th<strong>in</strong>g and can enjoy yourself. Harris
did not know it was an official he was <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g. He took it for
a fireman (it looked liked a fireman), and he called it a “dummer
Esel.”
In German you are not permitted to call an official a “silly
ass,” but undoubtedly this particular man was one. What had
happened was this: Harris <strong>in</strong> the Stadgarten, anxious to get out,
and see<strong>in</strong>g a gate open before him, had stepped over a wire <strong>in</strong>to
the street. Harris ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>s he never saw it, but undoubtedly
there was hang<strong>in</strong>g to the wire a notice, “Durchgang Verboten!”
The man, who was stand<strong>in</strong>g near the gates stopped Harris, and
po<strong>in</strong>ted out to him this notice. Harris thanked him, and passed
on. The man came after him, and expla<strong>in</strong>ed that treatment of
the matter <strong>in</strong> such off-hand way could not be allowed; what
was necessary to put the bus<strong>in</strong>ess right was that Harris should
step back over the wire <strong>in</strong>to the garden. Harris po<strong>in</strong>ted out to
the man that the notice said “go<strong>in</strong>g through forbidden,” and
that, therefore, by re-enter<strong>in</strong>g the garden that way he would be

— 311 —
<strong>in</strong>fr<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g the law a second time. The man saw this for himself,
and suggested that to get over the difficulty Harris should go
back <strong>in</strong>to the garden by the proper entrance, which was round
the corner, and afterwards immediately come out aga<strong>in</strong> by the
same gate. Then it was that Harris called the man a silly ass.
That delayed us a day, and cost Harris forty marks.
I followed suit at Carlsruhe, by steal<strong>in</strong>g a bicycle. I did not
mean to steal the bicycle; I was merely try<strong>in</strong>g to be useful. The
tra<strong>in</strong> was on the po<strong>in</strong>t of start<strong>in</strong>g when I noticed, as I thought,
Harris’s bicycle still <strong>in</strong> the goods van. No one was about to help
me. I jumped <strong>in</strong>to the van and hauled it out, only just <strong>in</strong> time.
Wheel<strong>in</strong>g it down the platform <strong>in</strong> triumph, I came across Harris’s
bicycle, stand<strong>in</strong>g aga<strong>in</strong>st a wall beh<strong>in</strong>d some milk-cans.
The bicycle I had secured was not Harris’s, but some other
man’s.
It was an awkward situation. In England, I should have gone
to the stationmaster and expla<strong>in</strong>ed my mistake. But <strong>in</strong> Germany
they are not content with your expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g a little matter
of this sort to one man: they take you round and get you
to expla<strong>in</strong> it to about half a dozen; and if any one of the half
dozen happens not to be handy, or not to have time just then
to listen to you, they have a habit of leav<strong>in</strong>g you over for the
night to f<strong>in</strong>ish your explanation the next morn<strong>in</strong>g. I thought I
would just put the th<strong>in</strong>g out of sight, and then, without mak<strong>in</strong>g
any fuss or show, take a short walk. I found a wood shed,
which seemed just the very place, and was wheel<strong>in</strong>g the bicycle
<strong>in</strong>to it when, unfortunately, a red-hatted railway official, with
the airs of a retired field-marshal, caught sight of me and came
up. He said:
“What are you do<strong>in</strong>g with that bicycle?”
I said: “I am go<strong>in</strong>g to put it <strong>in</strong> this wood shed out of the
way.” I tried to convey by my tone that I was perform<strong>in</strong>g a k<strong>in</strong>d
and thoughtful action, for which the railway officials ought to
thank me; but he was unresponsive.
“Is it your bicycle?” he said.
“Well, not exactly,” I replied.

— 312 —
“Whose is it?” he asked, quite sharply.
“I can’t tell you,” I answered. “I don’t know whose bicycle it
is.”
“Where did you get it from?” was his next question. There
was a suspiciousness about his tone that was almost <strong>in</strong>sult<strong>in</strong>g.
“I got it,” I answered, with as much calm dignity as at the
moment I could assume, “out of the tra<strong>in</strong>. The fact is,” I cont<strong>in</strong>ued,
frankly, “I have made a mistake.”
He did not allow me time to f<strong>in</strong>ish. He merely said he
thought so too, and blew a whistle.
Recollection of the subsequent proceed<strong>in</strong>gs is not, so far as
I am concerned, amus<strong>in</strong>g. By a miracle of good luck — they
say Providence watches over certa<strong>in</strong> of us — the <strong>in</strong>cident happened
<strong>in</strong> Carlsruhe, where I possess a German friend, an official
of some importance. Upon what would have been my fate
had the station not been at Carlsruhe, or had my friend been
from home, I do not care to dwell; as it was I got off, as the
say<strong>in</strong>g is, by the sk<strong>in</strong> of my teeth. I should like to add that I left
Carlsruhe without a sta<strong>in</strong> upon my character, but that would
not be the truth. My go<strong>in</strong>g scot free is regarded <strong>in</strong> police circles
there to this day as a grave miscarriage of justice.
But all lesser s<strong>in</strong> s<strong>in</strong>ks <strong>in</strong>to <strong>in</strong>significance beside the lawlessness
of George. The bicycle <strong>in</strong>cident had thrown us all <strong>in</strong>to
confusion, with the result that we lost George altogether. It
transpired subsequently that he was wait<strong>in</strong>g for us outside the
police court; but this at the time we did not know. We thought,
maybe, he had gone on to Baden by himself; and anxious to
get away from Carlsruhe, and not, perhaps, th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g out th<strong>in</strong>gs
too clearly, we jumped <strong>in</strong>to the next tra<strong>in</strong> that came up and
proceeded thither. When George, tired of wait<strong>in</strong>g, returned to
the station, he found us gone and he found his luggage gone.
Harris had his ticket; I was act<strong>in</strong>g as banker to the party, so
that he had <strong>in</strong> his pocket only some small change. Excus<strong>in</strong>g
himself upon these grounds, he thereupon commenced deliberately
a career of crime that, read<strong>in</strong>g it later, as set forth baldly

— 313 —
<strong>in</strong> the official summons, made the hair of Harris and myself
almost to stand on end.
German travell<strong>in</strong>g, it may be expla<strong>in</strong>ed, is somewhat complicated.
You buy a ticket at the station you start from for the
place you want to go to. You might th<strong>in</strong>k this would enable you
to get there, but it does not. When your tra<strong>in</strong> comes up, you attempt
to swarm <strong>in</strong>to it; but the guard magnificently waves you
away. Where are your credentials? You show him your ticket.
He expla<strong>in</strong>s to you that by itself that is of no service whatever;
you have only taken the first step towards travell<strong>in</strong>g; you must
go back to the book<strong>in</strong>g-office and get <strong>in</strong> addition what is
called a “schnellzug ticket.” With this you return, th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g your
troubles over. You are allowed to get <strong>in</strong>, so far so good. But you
must not sit down anywhere, and you must not stand still, and
you must not wander about. You must take another ticket, this
time what is called a “platz ticket,” which entitles you to a place
for a certa<strong>in</strong> distance.
What a man could do who persisted <strong>in</strong> tak<strong>in</strong>g noth<strong>in</strong>g but
the one ticket, I have often wondered. Would he be entitled to
run beh<strong>in</strong>d the tra<strong>in</strong> on the six-foot way? Or could he stick a
label on himself and get <strong>in</strong>to the goods van? Aga<strong>in</strong>, what could
be done with the man who, hav<strong>in</strong>g taken his schnellzug ticket,
obst<strong>in</strong>ately refused, or had not the money to take a platz ticket:
would they let him lie <strong>in</strong> the umbrella rack, or allow him to
hang himself out of the w<strong>in</strong>dow?
To return to George, he had just sufficient money to take a
third-class slow tra<strong>in</strong> ticket to Baden, and that was all. To avoid
the <strong>in</strong>quisitiveness of the guard, he waited till the tra<strong>in</strong> was
mov<strong>in</strong>g, and then jumped <strong>in</strong>.
That was his first s<strong>in</strong>:
(a) Enter<strong>in</strong>g a tra<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> motion;
(b) After be<strong>in</strong>g warned not to do so by an official.
Second s<strong>in</strong>:
(a) Travell<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> tra<strong>in</strong> of superior class to that for which ticket
was held.
(b) Refus<strong>in</strong>g to pay difference when demanded by an official.

— 314 —
(George says he did not “refuse”; he simply told the man he
had not got it.)
Third s<strong>in</strong>:
(a) Travell<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> carriage of superior class to that for which
ticket was held.
(b) Refus<strong>in</strong>g to pay difference when demanded by an official.
(Aga<strong>in</strong> George disputes the accuracy of the report.
He turned his pockets out, and offered the man all he had,
which was about eightpence <strong>in</strong> German money. He offered
to go <strong>in</strong>to a third class, but there was no third class. He offered
to go <strong>in</strong>to the goods van, but they would not hear of
it.)
Fourth s<strong>in</strong>:
(a) Occupy<strong>in</strong>g seat, and not pay<strong>in</strong>g for same.
(b) Loiter<strong>in</strong>g about corridor. (As they would not let him sit
down without pay<strong>in</strong>g, and as he could not pay, it was difficult
to see what else he could do.)
But explanations are held as no excuse <strong>in</strong> Germany; and his
journey from Carlsruhe to Baden was one of the most expensive
perhaps on record.
Reflect<strong>in</strong>g upon the case and frequency with which one gets
<strong>in</strong>to trouble here <strong>in</strong> Germany, one is led to the conclusion that
this country would come as a boon and a bless<strong>in</strong>g to the average
young Englishman. To the medical student, to the eater of
d<strong>in</strong>ners at the Temple, to the subaltern on leave, life <strong>in</strong> London
is a wearisome proceed<strong>in</strong>g. The healthy Briton takes his pleasure
lawlessly, or it is no pleasure to him. Noth<strong>in</strong>g that he may
do affords to him any genu<strong>in</strong>e satisfaction. To be <strong>in</strong> trouble of
some sort is his only idea of bliss. Now, England affords him
small opportunity <strong>in</strong> this respect; to get himself <strong>in</strong>to a scrape
requires a good deal of persistence on the part of the young
Englishman.
I spoke on this subject one day with our senior churchwarden.
It was the morn<strong>in</strong>g of the 10th of November, and we were
both of us glanc<strong>in</strong>g, somewhat anxiously, through the police
reports. The usual batch of young men had been summoned

— 315 —
for creat<strong>in</strong>g the usual disturbance the night before at the Criterion.
My friend the churchwarden has boys of his own, and a
nephew of m<strong>in</strong>e, upon whom I am keep<strong>in</strong>g a fatherly eye, is by
a fond mother supposed to be <strong>in</strong> London for the sole purpose
of study<strong>in</strong>g eng<strong>in</strong>eer<strong>in</strong>g. No names we knew happened, by
fortunate chance, to be <strong>in</strong> the list of those deta<strong>in</strong>ed <strong>in</strong> custody,
and, relieved, we fell to moralis<strong>in</strong>g upon the folly and depravity
of youth.
“It is very remarkable,” said my friend the churchwarden,
“how the Criterion reta<strong>in</strong>s its position <strong>in</strong> this respect. It was
just so when I was young; the even<strong>in</strong>g always wound up with
a row at the Criterion.”
“So mean<strong>in</strong>gless,” I remarked.
“So monotonous,” he replied. “You have no idea,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued,
a dreamy expression steal<strong>in</strong>g over his furrowed face, “how
unutterably tired one can become of the walk from Piccadilly
Circus to the V<strong>in</strong>e Street Police Court. Yet, what else was there
for us to do? Simply noth<strong>in</strong>g. Sometimes we would put out a
street lamp, and a man would come round and light it aga<strong>in</strong>. If
one <strong>in</strong>sulted a policeman, he simply took no notice. He did not
even know he was be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>sulted; or, if he did, he seemed not
to care. You could fight a Covent Garden porter, if you fancied
yourself at that sort of th<strong>in</strong>g. Generally speak<strong>in</strong>g, the porter
got the best of it; and when he did it cost you five shill<strong>in</strong>gs, and
when he did not the price was half a sovereign. I could never
see much excitement <strong>in</strong> that particular sport. I tried driv<strong>in</strong>g a
hansom cab once. That has always been regarded as the acme
of modern Tom and Jerryism. I stole it late one night from
outside a public-house <strong>in</strong> Dean Street, and the first th<strong>in</strong>g that
happened to me was that I was hailed <strong>in</strong> Golden Square by an
old lady surrounded by three children, two of them cry<strong>in</strong>g and
the third one half asleep. Before I could get away she had shot
the brats <strong>in</strong>to the cab, taken my number, paid me, so she said,
a shill<strong>in</strong>g over the legal fare, and directed me to an address a
little beyond what she called North Kens<strong>in</strong>gton. As a matter of
fact, the place turned out to be the other side of Willesden. The

— 316 —
horse was tired, and the journey took us well over two hours.
It was the slowest lark I ever remember be<strong>in</strong>g concerned <strong>in</strong>. I
tried one or twice to persuade the children to let me take them
back to the old lady: but every time I opened the trap-door
to speak to them the youngest one, a boy, started scream<strong>in</strong>g;
and when I offered other drivers to transfer the job to them,
most of them replied <strong>in</strong> the words of a song popular about
that period: ‘Oh, George, don’t you th<strong>in</strong>k you’re go<strong>in</strong>g just a
bit too far?’ One man offered to take home to my wife any last
message I might be th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g of, while another promised to
organise a party to come and dig me out <strong>in</strong> the spr<strong>in</strong>g. When I
mounted the dickey I had imag<strong>in</strong>ed myself driv<strong>in</strong>g a peppery
old colonel to some lonesome and cabless region, half a dozen
miles from where he wanted to go, and there leav<strong>in</strong>g him upon
the kerbstone to swear. About that there might have been good
sport or there might not, accord<strong>in</strong>g to circumstances and the
colonel. The idea of a trip to an outly<strong>in</strong>g suburb <strong>in</strong> charge of a
nursery full of helpless <strong>in</strong>fants had never occurred to me. No,
London,” concluded my friend the churchwarden with a sigh,
“affords but limited opportunity to the lover of the illegal.”
Now, <strong>in</strong> Germany, on the other hand, trouble is to be had
for the ask<strong>in</strong>g. There are many th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> Germany that you
must not do that are quite easy to do. To any young Englishman
yearn<strong>in</strong>g to get himself <strong>in</strong>to a scrape, and f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g himself
hampered <strong>in</strong> his own country, I would advise a s<strong>in</strong>gle ticket
to Germany; a return, last<strong>in</strong>g as it does only a month, might
prove a waste.
In the Police Guide of the Fatherland he will f<strong>in</strong>d set forth
a list of the th<strong>in</strong>gs the do<strong>in</strong>g of which will br<strong>in</strong>g to him <strong>in</strong>terest
and excitement. In Germany you must not hang your bed
out of the w<strong>in</strong>dow. He might beg<strong>in</strong> with that. By wav<strong>in</strong>g his
bed out of w<strong>in</strong>dow he could get <strong>in</strong>to trouble before he had
his breakfast. At home he might hang himself out of w<strong>in</strong>dow,
and nobody would m<strong>in</strong>d much, provided he did not obstruct
anybody’s ancient lights or break away and <strong>in</strong>jure any passer
underneath.

— 317 —
In Germany you must not wear fancy dress <strong>in</strong> the streets. A
Highlander of my acqua<strong>in</strong>tance who came to pass the w<strong>in</strong>ter
<strong>in</strong> Dresden spent the first few days of his residence there <strong>in</strong>
argu<strong>in</strong>g this question with the Saxon Government. They asked
him what he was do<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> those clothes. He was not an amiable
man. He answered, he was wear<strong>in</strong>g them. They asked him
why he was wear<strong>in</strong>g them. He replied, to keep himself warm.
They told him frankly that they did not believe him, and sent
him back to his lodg<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> a closed landau. The personal
testimony of the English M<strong>in</strong>ister was necessary to assure the
authorities that the Highland garb was the customary dress of
many respectable, law-abid<strong>in</strong>g British subjects. They accepted
the statement, as diplomatically bound, but reta<strong>in</strong> their private
op<strong>in</strong>ion to this day. The English tourist they have grown accustomed
to; but a Leicestershire gentleman, <strong>in</strong>vited to hunt
with some German officers, on appear<strong>in</strong>g outside his hotel,
was promptly marched off, horse and all, to expla<strong>in</strong> his frivolity
at the police court.
Another th<strong>in</strong>g you must not do <strong>in</strong> the streets of German
towns is to feed horses, mules, or donkeys, whether your own
or those belong<strong>in</strong>g to other people. If a passion seizes you to
feed somebody else’s horse, you must make an appo<strong>in</strong>tment
with the animal, and the meal must take place <strong>in</strong> some properly
authorised place. You must not break glass or ch<strong>in</strong>a <strong>in</strong> the
street, nor, <strong>in</strong> fact, <strong>in</strong> any public resort whatever; and if you
do, you must pick up all the pieces. What you are to do with
the pieces when you have gathered them together I cannot say.
The only th<strong>in</strong>g I know for certa<strong>in</strong> is that you are not permitted
to throw them anywhere, to leave them anywhere, or apparently
to part with them <strong>in</strong> any way whatever. Presumably, you
are expected to carry them about with you until you die, and
then be buried with them; or, maybe, you are allowed to swallow
them.
In German streets you must not shoot with a crossbow.
The German law-maker does not content himself with the
misdeeds of the average man — the crime one feels one wants

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to do, but must not: he worries himself imag<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g all the
th<strong>in</strong>gs a wander<strong>in</strong>g maniac might do. In Germany there is no
law aga<strong>in</strong>st a man stand<strong>in</strong>g on his head <strong>in</strong> the middle of the
road; the idea has not occurred to them. One of these days a
German statesman, visit<strong>in</strong>g a circus and see<strong>in</strong>g acrobats, will
reflect upon this omission. Then he will straightway set to
work and frame a clause forbidd<strong>in</strong>g people from stand<strong>in</strong>g on
their heads <strong>in</strong> the middle of the road, and fix<strong>in</strong>g a f<strong>in</strong>e. This
is the charm of German law: misdemeanour <strong>in</strong> Germany has
its fixed price. You are not kept awake all night, as <strong>in</strong> England,
wonder<strong>in</strong>g whether you will get off with a caution, be f<strong>in</strong>ed
forty shill<strong>in</strong>gs, or, catch<strong>in</strong>g the magistrate <strong>in</strong> an unhappy moment
for yourself, get seven days. You know exactly what your
fun is go<strong>in</strong>g to cost you. You can spread out your money on
the table, open your Police Guide, and plan out your holiday
to a fifty pfennig piece. For a really cheap even<strong>in</strong>g, I would
recommend walk<strong>in</strong>g on the wrong side of the pavement after
be<strong>in</strong>g cautioned not to do so. I calculate that by choos<strong>in</strong>g your
district and keep<strong>in</strong>g to the quiet side streets you could walk for
a whole even<strong>in</strong>g on the wrong side of the pavement at a cost of
little over three marks.
In German towns you must not ramble about after dark “<strong>in</strong>
droves.” I am not quite sure how many constitute a “drove,”
and no official to whom I have spoken on this subject has felt
himself competent to fix the exact number. I once put it to a
German friend who was start<strong>in</strong>g for the theatre with his wife,
his mother-<strong>in</strong>-law, five children of his own, his sister and her
fiance, and two nieces, if he did not th<strong>in</strong>k he was runn<strong>in</strong>g a
risk under this by-law. He did not take my suggestion as a joke.
He cast an eye over the group.
“Oh, I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k so,” he said; “you see, we are all one family.”
“The paragraph says noth<strong>in</strong>g about its be<strong>in</strong>g a family drove
or not,” I replied; “it simply says ‘drove.’ I do not mean it <strong>in</strong>
any uncomplimentary sense, but, speak<strong>in</strong>g etymologically, I
am <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed personally to regard your collection as a ‘drove.’

— 319 —
Whether the police will take the same view or not rema<strong>in</strong>s to
be seen. I am merely warn<strong>in</strong>g you.”
My friend himself was <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to pooh-pooh my fears;
but his wife th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g it better not to run any risk of hav<strong>in</strong>g
the party broken up by the police at the very beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g of the
even<strong>in</strong>g, they divided, arrang<strong>in</strong>g to come together aga<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> the
theatre lobby.
Another passion you must restra<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> Germany is that
prompt<strong>in</strong>g you to throw th<strong>in</strong>gs out of w<strong>in</strong>dow. Cats are no
excuse. Dur<strong>in</strong>g the first week of my residence <strong>in</strong> Germany
I was awakened <strong>in</strong>cessantly by cats. One night I got mad. I
collected a small arsenal — two or three pieces of coal, a few
hard pears, a couple of candle ends, an odd egg I found on the
kitchen table, an empty soda-water bottle, and a few articles
of that sort, — and, open<strong>in</strong>g the w<strong>in</strong>dow, bombarded the spot
from where the noise appeared to come. I do not suppose I hit
anyth<strong>in</strong>g; I never knew a man who did hit a cat, even when
he could see it, except, maybe, by accident when aim<strong>in</strong>g at
someth<strong>in</strong>g else. I have known crack shots, w<strong>in</strong>ners of Queen’s
prizes — those sort of men, — shoot with shot-guns at cats fifty
yards away, and never hit a hair. I have often thought that, <strong>in</strong>stead
of bull’s-eyes, runn<strong>in</strong>g deer, and that rubbish, the really
superior marksman would be he who could boast that he had
shot the cat.
But, anyhow, they moved off; maybe the egg annoyed them. I
had noticed when I picked it up that it did not look a good egg;
and I went back to bed aga<strong>in</strong>, th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g the <strong>in</strong>cident closed. Ten
m<strong>in</strong>utes afterwards there came a violent r<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g of the electric
bell. I tried to ignore it, but it was too persistent, and, putt<strong>in</strong>g
on my dress<strong>in</strong>g gown, I went down to the gate. A policeman
was stand<strong>in</strong>g there. He had all the th<strong>in</strong>gs I had been throw<strong>in</strong>g
out of the w<strong>in</strong>dow <strong>in</strong> a little heap <strong>in</strong> front of him, all except the
egg. He had evidently been collect<strong>in</strong>g them. He said:
“Are these th<strong>in</strong>gs yours?”
I said: “They were m<strong>in</strong>e, but personally I have done with
them. Anybody can have them — you can have them.”

— 320 —
He ignored my offer. He said:
“You threw these th<strong>in</strong>gs out of w<strong>in</strong>dow.”
“You are right,” I admitted; “I did.”
“Why did you throw them out of w<strong>in</strong>dow?” he asked. A
German policeman has his code of questions arranged for
him; he never varies them, and he never omits one.
“I threw them out of the w<strong>in</strong>dow at some cats,” I answered.
“What cats?” he asked.
It was the sort of question a German policeman would ask. I
replied with as much sarcasm as I could put <strong>in</strong>to my accent that
I was ashamed to say I could not tell him what cats. I expla<strong>in</strong>ed
that, personally, they were strangers to me; but I offered, if the
police would call all the cats <strong>in</strong> the district together, to come
round and see if I could recognise them by their yaul.
The German policeman does not understand a joke, which
is perhaps on the whole just as well, for I believe there is a
heavy f<strong>in</strong>e for jok<strong>in</strong>g with any German uniform; they call it
“treat<strong>in</strong>g an official with contumely.” He merely replied that
it was not the duty of the police to help me recognise the cats;
their duty was merely to f<strong>in</strong>e me for throw<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>gs out of
w<strong>in</strong>dow.
I asked what a man was supposed to do <strong>in</strong> Germany when
woke up night after night by cats, and he expla<strong>in</strong>ed that I could
lodge an <strong>in</strong>formation aga<strong>in</strong>st the owner of the cat, when the
police would proceed to caution him, and, if necessary, order
the cat to be destroyed. Who was go<strong>in</strong>g to destroy the cat, and
what the cat would be do<strong>in</strong>g dur<strong>in</strong>g the process, he did not
expla<strong>in</strong>.
I asked him how he proposed I should discover the owner
of the cat. He thought for a while, and then suggested that I
might follow it home. I did not feel <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to argue with him
any more after that; I should only have said th<strong>in</strong>gs that would
have made the matter worse. As it was, that night’s sport cost
me twelve marks; and not a s<strong>in</strong>gle one of the four German officials
who <strong>in</strong>terviewed me on the subject could see anyth<strong>in</strong>g
ridiculous <strong>in</strong> the proceed<strong>in</strong>gs from beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to end.

— 321 —
But <strong>in</strong> Germany most human faults and follies s<strong>in</strong>k <strong>in</strong>to
comparative <strong>in</strong>significance beside the enormity of walk<strong>in</strong>g on
the grass. Nowhere, and under no circumstances, may you at
any time <strong>in</strong> Germany walk on the grass. Grass <strong>in</strong> Germany is
quite a fetish. To put your foot on German grass would be as
great a sacrilege as to dance a hornpipe on a Mohammedan’s
pray<strong>in</strong>g-mat. The very dogs respect German grass; no German
dog would dream of putt<strong>in</strong>g a paw on it. If you see a dog
scamper<strong>in</strong>g across the grass <strong>in</strong> Germany, you may know for
certa<strong>in</strong> that it is the dog of some unholy foreigner. In England,
when we want to keep dogs out of places, we put up wire nett<strong>in</strong>g,
six feet high, supported by buttresses, and defended on
the top by spikes. In Germany, they put a notice-board <strong>in</strong> the
middle of the place, “Hunden verboten,” and a dog that has
German blood <strong>in</strong> its ve<strong>in</strong>s looks at that notice-board and walks
away. In a German park I have seen a gardener step g<strong>in</strong>gerly
with felt boots on to grass-plot, and remov<strong>in</strong>g therefrom a
beetle, place it gravely but firmly on the gravel; which done, he
stood sternly watch<strong>in</strong>g the beetle, to see that it did not try to
get back on the grass; and the beetle, look<strong>in</strong>g utterly ashamed
of itself, walked hurriedly down the gutter, and turned up the
path marked “Ausgang.”
In German parks separate roads are devoted to the different
orders of the community, and no one person, at peril
of liberty and fortune, may go upon another person’s road.
There are special paths for “wheel-riders” and special paths
for “foot-goers,” avenues for “horse-riders,” roads for people
<strong>in</strong> light vehicles, and roads for people <strong>in</strong> heavy vehicles; ways
for children and for “alone ladies.” That no particular route has
yet been set aside for bald-headed men or “new women” has
always struck me as an omission.
In the Grosse Garten <strong>in</strong> Dresden I once came across an old
lady, stand<strong>in</strong>g, helpless and bewildered, <strong>in</strong> the centre of seven
tracks. Each was guarded by a threaten<strong>in</strong>g notice, warn<strong>in</strong>g everybody
off it but the person for whom it was <strong>in</strong>tended.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” said the old lady, on learn<strong>in</strong>g I

— 322 —
could speak English and read German, “but would you m<strong>in</strong>d
tell<strong>in</strong>g me what I am and where I have to go?”
I <strong>in</strong>spected her carefully. I came to the conclusion that she
was a “grown-up” and a “foot-goer,” and po<strong>in</strong>ted out her path.
She looked at it, and seemed disappo<strong>in</strong>ted.
“But I don’t want to go down there,” she said; “mayn’t I go
this way?”
“Great heavens, no, madam!” I replied. “That path is reserved
for children.”
“But I wouldn’t do them any harm,” said the old lady, with
a smile. She did not look the sort of old lady who would have
done them any harm.
“Madam,” I replied, “if it rested with me, I would trust you
down that path, though my own first-born were at the other
end; but I can only <strong>in</strong>form you of the laws of this country. For
you, a full-grown woman, to venture down that path is to go to
certa<strong>in</strong> f<strong>in</strong>e, if not imprisonment. There is your path, marked
pla<strong>in</strong>ly — Nur für Fussgänger, and if you will follow my advice,
you will hasten down it; you are not allowed to stand here and
hesitate.”
“It doesn’t lead a bit <strong>in</strong> the direction I want to go,” said the
old lady.
“It leads <strong>in</strong> the direction you ought to want to go,” I replied,
and we parted.
In the German parks there are special seats labelled, “Only
for grown-ups” (Nur für Erwachsene), and the German small
boy, anxious to sit down, and read<strong>in</strong>g that notice, passes by,
and hunts for a seat on which children are permitted to rest;
and there he seats himself, careful not to touch the woodwork
with his muddy boots. Imag<strong>in</strong>e a seat <strong>in</strong> Regent’s or St. James’s
Park labelled “Only for grown-ups!” Every child for five miles
round would be try<strong>in</strong>g to get on that seat, and haul<strong>in</strong>g other
children off who were on. As for any “grown-up,” he would
never be able to get with<strong>in</strong> half a mile of that seat for the
crowd. The German small boy, who has accidentally sat down
on such without notic<strong>in</strong>g, rises with a start when his error

— 323 —
is po<strong>in</strong>ted out to him, and goes away with down-cast head,
brush<strong>in</strong>g to the roots of his hair with shame and regret.
Not that the German child is neglected by a paternal Government.
In German parks and public gardens special places
(Spielplätze) are provided for him, each one supplied with a
heap of sand. There he can play to his heart’s content at mak<strong>in</strong>g
mud pies and build<strong>in</strong>g sand castles. To the German child a
pie made of any other mud than this would appear an immoral
pie. It would give to him no satisfaction: his soul would revolt
aga<strong>in</strong>st it.
“That pie,” he would say to himself, “was not, as it should
have been, made of Government mud specially set apart for
the purpose; it was not manufactured <strong>in</strong> the place planned and
ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>ed by the Government for the mak<strong>in</strong>g of mud pies. It
can br<strong>in</strong>g no real bless<strong>in</strong>g with it; it is a lawless pie.” And until
his father had paid the proper f<strong>in</strong>e, and he had received his
proper lick<strong>in</strong>g, his conscience would cont<strong>in</strong>ue to trouble him.
Another excellent piece of material for obta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g excitement
<strong>in</strong> Germany is the simple domestic perambulator. What
you may do with a “k<strong>in</strong>der-wagen,” as it is called, and what
you may not, covers pages of German law; after the read<strong>in</strong>g
of which, you conclude that the man who can push a perambulator
through a German town without break<strong>in</strong>g the law was
meant for a diplomatist. You must not loiter with a perambulator,
and you must not go too fast. You must not get <strong>in</strong> anybody’s
way with a perambulator, and if anybody gets <strong>in</strong> your
way you must get out of their way. If you want to stop with
a perambulator, you must go to a place specially appo<strong>in</strong>ted
where perambulators may stop; and when you get there you
must stop. You must not cross the road with a perambulator;
if you and the baby happen to live on the other side, that is
your fault. You must not leave your perambulator anywhere,
and only <strong>in</strong> certa<strong>in</strong> places can you take it with you. I should
say that <strong>in</strong> Germany you could go out with a perambulator
and get <strong>in</strong>to enough trouble <strong>in</strong> half an hour to last you for a
month. Any young Englishman anxious for a row with the po-

— 324 —
lice could not do better than come over to Germany and br<strong>in</strong>g
his perambulator with him.
In Germany you must not leave your front door unlocked
after ten o’clock at night, and you must not play the piano <strong>in</strong>
your own house after eleven. In England I have never felt I
wanted to play the piano myself, or to hear anyone else play it,
after eleven o’clock at night; but that is a very different th<strong>in</strong>g to
be<strong>in</strong>g told that you must not play it. Here, <strong>in</strong> Germany, I never
feel that I really care for the piano until eleven o’clock, then I
could sit and listen to the “Maiden’s Prayer,” or the Overture
to “Zampa,” with pleasure. To the law-lov<strong>in</strong>g German, on the
other hand, music after eleven o’clock at night ceases to be music;
it becomes s<strong>in</strong>, and as such gives him no satisfaction.
The only <strong>in</strong>dividual throughout Germany who ever dreams
of tak<strong>in</strong>g liberties with the law is the German student, and he
only to a certa<strong>in</strong> well-def<strong>in</strong>ed po<strong>in</strong>t. By custom, certa<strong>in</strong> privileges
are permitted to him, but even these are strictly limited
and clearly understood. For <strong>in</strong>stance, the German student may
get drunk and fall asleep <strong>in</strong> the gutter with no other penalty
than that of hav<strong>in</strong>g the next morn<strong>in</strong>g to tip the policeman who
has found him and brought him home. But for this purpose he
must choose the gutters of side-streets. The German student,
conscious of the rapid approach of oblivion, uses all his rema<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g
energy to get round the corner, where he may collapse
without anxiety. In certa<strong>in</strong> districts he may r<strong>in</strong>g bells. The rent
of flats <strong>in</strong> these localities is lower than <strong>in</strong> other quarters of the
town; while the difficulty is further met by each family prepar<strong>in</strong>g
for itself a secret code of bell-r<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g by means of which it
is known whether the summons is genu<strong>in</strong>e or not. When visit<strong>in</strong>g
such a household late at night it is well to be acqua<strong>in</strong>ted
with this code, or you may, if persistent, get a bucket of water
thrown over you.
Also the German student is allowed to put out lights at
night, but there is a prejudice aga<strong>in</strong>st his putt<strong>in</strong>g out too many.
The larky German student generally keeps count, content<strong>in</strong>g
himself with half a dozen lights per night. Likewise, he may

— 325 —
shout and s<strong>in</strong>g as he walks home, up till half-past two; and at
certa<strong>in</strong> restaurants it is permitted to him to put his arm round
the Fraule<strong>in</strong>’s waist. To prevent any suggestion of unseeml<strong>in</strong>ess,
the waitresses at restaurants frequented by students are
always carefully selected from among a staid and elderly classy
of women, by reason of which the German student can enjoy
the delights of flirtation without fear and without reproach to
anyone.
They are a law-abid<strong>in</strong>g people, the Germans.

— 326 —
CHAPTER X
Baden from the visitor’s po<strong>in</strong>t of view — Beauty of the early morn<strong>in</strong>g,
as viewed from the preced<strong>in</strong>g afternoon — Distance, as measured
by the compass — Ditto, as measured by the leg — George <strong>in</strong>
account with his conscience — A lazy mach<strong>in</strong>e — Bicycl<strong>in</strong>g, accord<strong>in</strong>g
to the poster: its restfulness — The poster cyclist: its costume;
its method — The griff<strong>in</strong> as a household pet — A dog with proper
self-respect — The horse that was abused.
FROM Baden, about which it need only be said that it is a
pleasure resort s<strong>in</strong>gularly like other pleasure resorts of the
same description, we started bicycl<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> earnest. We planned
a ten days’ tour, which, while complet<strong>in</strong>g the Black Forest,
should <strong>in</strong>clude a sp<strong>in</strong> down the Donau-Thal, which for the
twenty miles from Tuttl<strong>in</strong>gen to Sigmar<strong>in</strong>gen is, perhaps, the
f<strong>in</strong>est valley <strong>in</strong> Germany; the Danube stream here w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g its
narrow way past old-world unspoilt villages; past ancient monasteries,
nestl<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> green pastures, where still the bare-footed
and bare-headed friar, his rope girdle tight about his lo<strong>in</strong>s,
shepherds, with crook <strong>in</strong> hand, his sheep upon the hill sides;
through rocky woods; between sheer walls of cliff, whose every
tower<strong>in</strong>g crag stands crowned with ru<strong>in</strong>ed fortress, church,
or castle; together with a blick at the Vosges mounta<strong>in</strong>s, where
half the population is bitterly pa<strong>in</strong>ed if you speak to them <strong>in</strong>
French, the other half be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>sulted when you address them
<strong>in</strong> German, and the whole <strong>in</strong>dignantly contemptuous at the
first sound of English; a state of th<strong>in</strong>gs that renders conversation
with the stranger somewhat nervous work.
We did not succeed <strong>in</strong> carry<strong>in</strong>g out our programme <strong>in</strong> its
entirety, for the reason that human performance lags ever
beh<strong>in</strong>d human <strong>in</strong>tention. It is easy to say and believe at three
o’clock <strong>in</strong> the afternoon that: “We will rise at five, breakfast
lightly at half-past, and start away at six.”
“Then we shall be well on our way before the heat of the day
sets <strong>in</strong>,” remarks one.
“This time of the year, the early morn<strong>in</strong>g is really the best
part of the day. Don’t you th<strong>in</strong>k so?” adds another.

— 327 —
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
“So cool and fresh.”
“And the half-lights are so exquisite.”
The first morn<strong>in</strong>g one ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>s one’s vows. The party assembles
at half-past five. It is very silent; <strong>in</strong>dividually, somewhat
snappy; <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to grumble with its food, also with
most other th<strong>in</strong>gs; the atmosphere charged with compressed
irritability seek<strong>in</strong>g its vent. In the even<strong>in</strong>g the Tempter’s voice
is heard:
“I th<strong>in</strong>k if we got off by half-past six, sharp, that would be
time enough?”
The voice of Virtue protests, fa<strong>in</strong>tly: “It will be break<strong>in</strong>g our
resolution.”
The Tempter replies: “Resolutions were made for man, not
man for resolutions.” The devil can paraphrase Scripture for
his own purpose. “Besides, it is disturb<strong>in</strong>g the whole hotel;
th<strong>in</strong>k of the poor servants.”
The voice of Virtue cont<strong>in</strong>ues, but even feebler: “But everybody
gets up early <strong>in</strong> these parts.”
“They would not if they were not obliged to, poor th<strong>in</strong>gs!
Say breakfast at half-past six, punctual; that will be disturb<strong>in</strong>g
nobody.”
Thus S<strong>in</strong> masquerades under the guise of Good, and one
sleeps till six, expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g to one’s conscience, who, however,
doesn’t believe it, that one does this because of unselfish consideration
for others. I have known such consideration extend
until seven of the clock.
Likewise, distance measured with a pair of compasses is not
precisely the same as when measured by the leg.
“Ten miles an hour for seven hours, seventy miles. A nice
easy day’s work.”
“There are some stiff hills to climb?”
“The other side to come down. Say, eight miles an hour, and
call it sixty miles. Gott <strong>in</strong> Himmel! if we can’t average eight
miles an hour, we had better go <strong>in</strong> bath-chairs.” It does seem
somewhat impossible to do less, on paper.

— 328 —
But at four o’clock <strong>in</strong> the afternoon the voice of Duty r<strong>in</strong>gs
less trumpet-toned:
“Well, I suppose we ought to be gett<strong>in</strong>g on.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry! don’t fuss. Lovely view from here,
isn’t it?”
“Very. Don’t forget we are twenty-five miles from St. Blasien.”
“How far?”
“Twenty-five miles, a little over if anyth<strong>in</strong>g.”
“Do you mean to say we have only come thirty-five miles?”
“That’s all.”
“Nonsense. I don’t believe that map of yours.”
“It is impossible, you know. We have been rid<strong>in</strong>g steadily
ever s<strong>in</strong>ce the first th<strong>in</strong>g this morn<strong>in</strong>g.”
“No, we haven’t. We didn’t get away till eight, to beg<strong>in</strong>
with.”
“Quarter to eight.”
“Well, quarter to eight; and every half-dozen miles we have
stopped.”
“We have only stopped to look at the view. It’s no good com<strong>in</strong>g
to see a country, and then not see<strong>in</strong>g it.”
“And we have had to pull up some stiff hills.”
“Besides, it has been an exceptionally hot day to-day.”
“Well, don’t forget St. Blasien is twenty-five miles off, that’s
all.”
“Any more hills?”
“Yes, two; up and down.”
“I thought you said it was downhill <strong>in</strong>to St. Blasien?”
“So it is for the last ten miles. We are twenty-five miles from
St. Blasien here.”
“Isn’t there anywhere between here and St. Blasien? What’s
that little place there on the lake?”
“It isn’t St. Blasien, or anywhere near it. There’s a danger <strong>in</strong>
beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g that sort of th<strong>in</strong>g.”
“There’s a danger <strong>in</strong> overwork<strong>in</strong>g oneself. One should study

— 329 —
moderation <strong>in</strong> all th<strong>in</strong>gs. Pretty little place, that Titisee, accord<strong>in</strong>g
to the map; looks as if there would be good air there.”
“All right, I’m agreeable. It was you fellows who suggested
our mak<strong>in</strong>g for St. Blasien.”
“Oh, I’m not so keen on St. Blasien! poky little place, down
<strong>in</strong> a valley. This Titisee, I should say, was ever so much nicer.”
“Quite near, isn’t it?”
“Five miles.”
General chorus: “We’ll stop at Titisee.”
George made discovery of this difference between theory
and practice on the very first day of our ride.
“I thought,” said George — he was rid<strong>in</strong>g the s<strong>in</strong>gle, Harris
and I be<strong>in</strong>g a little ahead on the tandem — “that the idea was to
tra<strong>in</strong> up the hills and ride down them.”
“So it is,” answered Harris, “as a general rule. But the tra<strong>in</strong>s
don’t go up every hill <strong>in</strong> the Black Forest.”
“Somehow, I felt a suspicion that they wouldn’t,” growled
George; and for a while silence reigned.
“Besides,” remarked Harris, who had evidently been rum<strong>in</strong>at<strong>in</strong>g
the subject, “you would not wish to have noth<strong>in</strong>g but
downhill, surely. It would not be play<strong>in</strong>g the game. One must
take a little rough with one’s smooth.”
Aga<strong>in</strong> there returned silence, broken after a while by
George, this time.
“Don’t you two fellows over-exert yourselves merely on my
account,” said George.
“How do you mean?” asked Harris.
“I mean,” answered George, “that where a tra<strong>in</strong> does happen
to be go<strong>in</strong>g up these hills, don’t you put aside the idea of tak<strong>in</strong>g
it for fear of outrag<strong>in</strong>g my f<strong>in</strong>er feel<strong>in</strong>gs. Personally, I am
prepared to go up all these hills <strong>in</strong> a railway tra<strong>in</strong>, even if it’s
not play<strong>in</strong>g the game. I’ll square the th<strong>in</strong>g with my conscience;
I’ve been up at seven every day for a week now, and I calculate
it owes me a bit. Don’t you consider me <strong>in</strong> the matter at all.”
We promised to bear this <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d, and aga<strong>in</strong> the ride

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cont<strong>in</strong>ued <strong>in</strong> dogged dumbness, until it was aga<strong>in</strong> broken by
George.
“What bicycle did you say this was of yours?” asked George.
Harris told him. I forget of what particular manufacture it
happened to be; it is immaterial.
“Are you sure?” persisted George.
“Of course I am sure,” answered Harris. “Why, what’s the
matter with it?”
“Well, it doesn’t come up to the poster,” said George, “that’s
all.”
“What poster?” asked Harris.
“The poster advertis<strong>in</strong>g this particular brand of cycle,” expla<strong>in</strong>ed
George. “I was look<strong>in</strong>g at one on a hoard<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> Sloane
Street only a day or two before we started. A man was rid<strong>in</strong>g
this make of mach<strong>in</strong>e, a man with a banner <strong>in</strong> his hand: he
wasn’t do<strong>in</strong>g any work, that was clear as daylight; he was just
sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the th<strong>in</strong>g and dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the air. The cycle was go<strong>in</strong>g
of its own accord, and go<strong>in</strong>g well. This th<strong>in</strong>g of yours leaves
all the work to me. It is a lazy brute of a mach<strong>in</strong>e; if you don’t
shove, it simply does noth<strong>in</strong>g: I should compla<strong>in</strong> about it, if I
were you.”
When one comes to th<strong>in</strong>k of it, few bicycles do realise the
poster. On only one poster that I can recollect have I seen the
rider represented as do<strong>in</strong>g any work. But then this man was
be<strong>in</strong>g pursued by a bull. In ord<strong>in</strong>ary cases the object of the
artist is to conv<strong>in</strong>ce the hesitat<strong>in</strong>g neophyte that the sport of
bicycl<strong>in</strong>g consists <strong>in</strong> sitt<strong>in</strong>g on a luxurious saddle, and be<strong>in</strong>g
moved rapidly <strong>in</strong> the direction you wish to go by unseen heavenly
powers.
Generally speak<strong>in</strong>g, the rider is a lady, and then one feels
that, for perfect bodily rest comb<strong>in</strong>ed with entire freedom
from mental anxiety, slumber upon a water-bed cannot compare
with bicycle-rid<strong>in</strong>g upon a hilly road. No fairy travell<strong>in</strong>g
on a summer cloud could take th<strong>in</strong>gs more easily than does
the bicycle girl, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the poster. Her costume for cycl<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> hot weather is ideal. Old-fashioned landladies might

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refuse her lunch, it is true; and a narrowm<strong>in</strong>ded police force
might desire to secure her, and wrap her <strong>in</strong> a rug prelim<strong>in</strong>ary
to summons<strong>in</strong>g her. But such she heeds not. Uphill and downhill,
through traffic that might tax the <strong>in</strong>genuity of a cat, over
road surfaces calculated to break the average steam roller she
passes, a vision of idle lovel<strong>in</strong>ess; her fair hair stream<strong>in</strong>g to
the w<strong>in</strong>d, her sylph-like form poised airily, one foot upon the
saddle, the other rest<strong>in</strong>g lightly upon the lamp. Sometimes
she condescends to sit down on the saddle; then she puts her
feet on the rests, lights a cigarette, and waves above her head a
Ch<strong>in</strong>ese lantern.
Less often, it is a mere male th<strong>in</strong>g that rides the mach<strong>in</strong>e.
He is not so accomplished an acrobat as is the lady; but simple
tricks, such as stand<strong>in</strong>g on the saddle and wav<strong>in</strong>g flags, dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g
beer or beef-tea while rid<strong>in</strong>g, he can and does perform.
Someth<strong>in</strong>g, one supposes, he must do to occupy his m<strong>in</strong>d: sitt<strong>in</strong>g
still hour after hour on this mach<strong>in</strong>e, hav<strong>in</strong>g no work to
do, noth<strong>in</strong>g to th<strong>in</strong>k about, must pall upon any man of active
temperament. Thus it is that we see him ris<strong>in</strong>g on his pedals as
he nears the top of some high hill to apostrophise the sun, or
address poetry to the surround<strong>in</strong>g scenery.
Occasionally the poster pictures a pair of cyclists; and then
one grasps the fact how much superior for purposes of flirtation
is the modern bicycle to the old-fashioned parlour or the
played-out garden gate. He and she mount their bicycles, be<strong>in</strong>g
careful, of course, that such are of the right make. After that
they have noth<strong>in</strong>g to th<strong>in</strong>k about but the old sweet tale. Down
shady lanes, through busy towns on market days, merrily roll
the wheels of the “Bermondsey Company’s Bottom Bracket
Brita<strong>in</strong>’s Best,” or of the “Camberwell Company’s Jo<strong>in</strong>tless
Eureka.” They need no pedall<strong>in</strong>g; they require no guid<strong>in</strong>g.
Give them their heads, and tell them what time you want to
get home, and that is all they ask. While Edw<strong>in</strong> leans from his
saddle to whisper the dear old noth<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> Angel<strong>in</strong>a’s ear, while
Angel<strong>in</strong>a’s face, to hide its blushes, is turned towards the horizon
at the back, the magic bicycles pursue their even course.

— 332 —
And the sun is always sh<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g and the roads are always dry.
No stern parent rides beh<strong>in</strong>d, no <strong>in</strong>terfer<strong>in</strong>g aunt beside, no
demon small boy brother is peep<strong>in</strong>g round the corner, there
never comes a skid. Ah me! Why were there no “Brita<strong>in</strong>’s Best”
nor “Camberwell Eurekas” to be hired when we were young?
Or maybe the “Brita<strong>in</strong>’s Best” or the “Camberwell Eureka”
stands lean<strong>in</strong>g aga<strong>in</strong>st a gate; maybe it is tired. It has worked
hard all the afternoon, carry<strong>in</strong>g these young people. Mercifully
m<strong>in</strong>ded, they have dismounted, to give the mach<strong>in</strong>e a rest.
They sit upon the grass beneath the shade of graceful boughs;
it is long and dry grass. A stream flows by their feet. All is rest
and peace.
That is ever the idea the cycle poster artist sets himself to
convey — rest and peace.
But I am wrong <strong>in</strong> say<strong>in</strong>g that no cyclist, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the
poster, ever works. Now I come to reflect, I have seen posters
represent<strong>in</strong>g gentlemen on cycles work<strong>in</strong>g very hard — overwork<strong>in</strong>g
themselves, one might almost say. They are th<strong>in</strong> and
haggard with the toil, the perspiration stands upon their brow
<strong>in</strong> beads; you feel that if there is another hill beyond the poster
they must either get off or die. But this is the result of their
own folly. This happens because they will persist <strong>in</strong> rid<strong>in</strong>g a
mach<strong>in</strong>e of an <strong>in</strong>ferior make. Were they rid<strong>in</strong>g a “Putney Popular”
or “Battersea Bounder,” such as the sensible young man <strong>in</strong>
the centre of the poster rides, then all this unnecessary labour
would be saved to them. Then all required of them would be,
as <strong>in</strong> gratitude bound, to look happy; perhaps, occasionally to
back-pedal a little when the mach<strong>in</strong>e <strong>in</strong> its youthful buoyancy
loses its head for a moment and dashes on too swiftly.
You tired young men, sitt<strong>in</strong>g dejectedly on milestones, too
spent to heed the steady ra<strong>in</strong> that soaks you through; you
weary maidens, with the straight, damp hair, anxious about
the time, long<strong>in</strong>g to swear, not know<strong>in</strong>g how; you stout bald
men, vanish<strong>in</strong>g visibly as you pant and grunt along the endless
road; you purple, dejected matrons, ply<strong>in</strong>g with pa<strong>in</strong> the slow
unwill<strong>in</strong>g wheel; why did you not see to it that you bought a

— 333 —
“Brita<strong>in</strong>’s Best” or a “Camberwell Eureka”? Why are these bicycles
of <strong>in</strong>ferior make so prevalent throughout the land
Or is it with bicycl<strong>in</strong>g as with all other th<strong>in</strong>gs: does Life at
no po<strong>in</strong>t realise the Poster?
The one th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> Germany that never fails to charm and
fasc<strong>in</strong>ate me is the German dog. In England one grows tired
of the old breeds, one knows them all so well: the mastiff, the
plum-pudd<strong>in</strong>g dog, the terrier (black, white or rough-haired,
as the case may be, but always quarrelsome), the collie, the
bulldog; never anyth<strong>in</strong>g new. Now <strong>in</strong> Germany you get variety.
You come across dogs the like of which you have never seen
before: that until you hear them bark you do not know are
dogs. It is all so fresh, so <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g. George stopped a dog <strong>in</strong>
Sigmar<strong>in</strong>gen and drew our attention to it. It suggested a cross
between a codfish and a poodle. I would not like to be positive
it was not a cross between a codfish and a poodle. Harris tried
to photograph it, but it ran up a fence and disappeared through
some bushes.
I do not know what the German breeder’s idea is; at present
he reta<strong>in</strong>s his secret. George suggests he is aim<strong>in</strong>g at a griff<strong>in</strong>.
There is much to bear out this theory, and <strong>in</strong>deed <strong>in</strong> one or two
cases I have come across success on these l<strong>in</strong>es would seem to
have been almost achieved. Yet I cannot br<strong>in</strong>g myself to believe
that such are anyth<strong>in</strong>g more than mere accidents. The German
is practical, and I fail to see the object of a griff<strong>in</strong>. If mere
qua<strong>in</strong>tness of design be desired, is there not already the Dachshund!
What more is needed? Besides, about a house, a griff<strong>in</strong>
would be so <strong>in</strong>convenient: people would be cont<strong>in</strong>ually tread<strong>in</strong>g
on its tail. My own idea is that what the Germans are try<strong>in</strong>g
for is a mermaid, which they will then tra<strong>in</strong> to catch fish.
For your German does not encourage laz<strong>in</strong>ess <strong>in</strong> any liv<strong>in</strong>g
th<strong>in</strong>g. He likes to see his dogs work, and the German dog loves
work; of that there can be no doubt. The life of the English
dog must be a misery to him. Imag<strong>in</strong>e a strong, active, and
<strong>in</strong>telligent be<strong>in</strong>g, of exceptionally energetic temperament,
condemned to spend twenty-four hours a day <strong>in</strong> absolute

— 334 —
idleness! How would you like it yourself ? No wonder he feels
misunderstood, yearns for the unatta<strong>in</strong>able, and gets himself
<strong>in</strong>to trouble generally.
Now the German dog, on the other hand, has plenty to occupy
his m<strong>in</strong>d. He is busy and important. Watch him as he
walks along harnessed to his milk cart. No churchwarden at
collection time could feel or look more pleased with himself.
He does not do any real work; the human be<strong>in</strong>g does the push<strong>in</strong>g,
he does the bark<strong>in</strong>g; that is his idea of division of labour.
What he says to himself is:
“The old man can’t bark, but he can shove. Very well.”
The <strong>in</strong>terest and the pride he takes <strong>in</strong> the bus<strong>in</strong>ess is quite
beautiful to see. Another dog pass<strong>in</strong>g by makes, maybe, some
jeer<strong>in</strong>g remark, cast<strong>in</strong>g discredit upon the cream<strong>in</strong>ess of the
milk. He stops suddenly, quite regardless of the traffic.
“I beg your pardon, what was that you said about our
milk?”
“I said noth<strong>in</strong>g about your milk,” retorts the other dog, <strong>in</strong> a
tone of gentle <strong>in</strong>nocence. “I merely said it was a f<strong>in</strong>e day, and
asked the price of chalk.”
“Oh, you asked the price of chalk, did you? Would you like
to know?”
“Yes, thanks; somehow I thought you would be able to tell
me.”
“You are quite right, I can. It’s worth —”
“Oh, do come along!” says the old lady, who is tired and hot,
and anxious to f<strong>in</strong>ish her round.
“Yes, but hang it all; did you hear what he h<strong>in</strong>ted about our
milk?”
“Oh, never m<strong>in</strong>d him! There’s a tram com<strong>in</strong>g round the
corner: we shall all get run over.”
“Yes, but I do m<strong>in</strong>d him; one has one’s proper pride. He
asked the price of chalk, and he’s go<strong>in</strong>g to know it! It’s worth
just twenty times as much —”
“You’ll have the whole th<strong>in</strong>g over, I know you will,” cries the
old lady, pathetically, struggl<strong>in</strong>g with all her feeble strength to

— 335 —
haul him back. “Oh dear, oh dear! I do wish I had left you at
home.”
The tram is bear<strong>in</strong>g down upon them; a cab-driver is shout<strong>in</strong>g
at them; another huge brute, hop<strong>in</strong>g to be <strong>in</strong> time to take a
hand, is dragg<strong>in</strong>g a bread cart, followed by a scream<strong>in</strong>g child,
across the road from the opposite side; a small crowd is collect<strong>in</strong>g;
and a policeman is hasten<strong>in</strong>g to the scene.
“It’s worth,” says the milk dog, “just twenty-times as much as
you’ll be worth before I’ve done with you.”
“Oh, you th<strong>in</strong>k so, do you?”
“Yes, I do, you grandson of a French poodle, you cabbageeat<strong>in</strong>g
—”
“There! I knew you’d have it over,” says the poor milkwoman.
“I told him he’d have it over.”
But he is busy, and heeds her not. Five m<strong>in</strong>utes later, when
the traffic is renewed, when the bread girl has collected her
muddy rolls, and the policeman has gone off with the name
and address of everybody <strong>in</strong> the street, he consents to look
beh<strong>in</strong>d him.
“It is a bit of an upset,” he admits. Then shak<strong>in</strong>g himself free
of care, he adds, cheerfully, “But I guess I taught him the price
of chalk. He won’t <strong>in</strong>terfere with us aga<strong>in</strong>, I’m th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g.”
“I’m sure I hope not,” says the old lady, regard<strong>in</strong>g dejectedly
the milky road.
But his favourite sport is to wait at the top of the hill for
another dog, and then race down. On these occasions the chief
occupation of the other fellow is to run about beh<strong>in</strong>d, pick<strong>in</strong>g
up the scattered articles, loaves, cabbages, or shirts, as they are
jerked out. At the bottom of the hill, he stops and waits for his
friend.
“Good race, wasn’t it?” he remarks, pant<strong>in</strong>g, as the Human
comes up, laden to the ch<strong>in</strong>. “I believe I’d have won it, too, if
it hadn’t been for that fool of a small boy. He was right <strong>in</strong> my
way just as I turned the corner. You noticed him? Wish I had,
beastly brat! What’s he yell<strong>in</strong>g like that for? Because I knocked
him down and ran over him? Well, why didn’t he get out of the

— 336 —
way? It’s disgraceful, the way people leave their children about
for other people to tumble over. Halloa! did all those th<strong>in</strong>gs
come out? You couldn’t have packed them very carefully; you
should see to a th<strong>in</strong>g like that. You did not dream of my tear<strong>in</strong>g
down the hill twenty miles an hour? Surely, you knew me
better than to expect I’d let that old Schneider’s dog pass me
without an effort. But there, you never th<strong>in</strong>k. You’re sure you’ve
got them all? You believe so? I shouldn’t ‘believe’ if I were you;
I should run back up the hill aga<strong>in</strong> and make sure. You feel
too tired? Oh, all right! don’t blame me if anyth<strong>in</strong>g is miss<strong>in</strong>g,
that’s all.”
He is so self-willed. He is cock-sure that the correct turn<strong>in</strong>g
is the second on the right, and noth<strong>in</strong>g will persuade him that
it is the third. He is positive he can get across the road <strong>in</strong> time,
and will not be conv<strong>in</strong>ced until he sees the cart smashed up.
Then he is very apologetic, it is true. But of what use is that?
As he is usually of the size and strength of a young bull, and
his human companion is generally a weak-kneed old man or
woman, or a small child, he has his way. The greatest punishment
his proprietor can <strong>in</strong>flict upon him is to leave him at
home, and take the cart out alone. But your German is too
k<strong>in</strong>d-hearted to do this often.
That he is harnessed to the cart for anybody’s pleasure but
his own it is impossible to believe; and I am confident that the
German peasant plans the t<strong>in</strong>y harness and fashions the little
cart purely with the hope of gratify<strong>in</strong>g his dog. In other countries
— <strong>in</strong> Belgium, Holland and France — I have seen these
draught dogs ill-treated and over-worked; but <strong>in</strong> Germany,
never. Germans abuse animals shock<strong>in</strong>gly. I have seen a German
stand <strong>in</strong> front of his horse and call it every name he could
lay his tongue to. But the horse did not m<strong>in</strong>d it. I have seen a
German, weary with abus<strong>in</strong>g his horse, call to his wife to come
out and assist him. When she came, he told her what the horse
had done. The recital roused the woman’s temper to almost
equal heat with his own; and stand<strong>in</strong>g one each side of the
poor beast, they both abused it. They abused its dead mother,

— 337 —
they <strong>in</strong>sulted its father; they made cutt<strong>in</strong>g remarks about its
personal appearance, its <strong>in</strong>telligence, its moral sense, its general
ability as a horse. The animal bore the torrent with exemplary
patience for awhile; then it did the best th<strong>in</strong>g possible to
do under the circumstances. Without los<strong>in</strong>g its own temper, it
moved quietly away. The lady returned to her wash<strong>in</strong>g, and the
man followed it up the street, still abus<strong>in</strong>g it.
A k<strong>in</strong>der-hearted people than the Germans there is no need
for. Cruelty to animal or child is a th<strong>in</strong>g almost unknown <strong>in</strong>
the land. The whip with them is a musical <strong>in</strong>strument; its crack
is heard from morn<strong>in</strong>g to night, but an Italian coachman that
<strong>in</strong> the streets of Dresden I once saw use it was very nearly
lynched by the <strong>in</strong>dignant crowd. Germany is the only country
<strong>in</strong> Europe where the traveller can settle himself comfortably
<strong>in</strong> his hired carriage, confident that his gentle, will<strong>in</strong>g friend
between the shafts will be neither over-worked nor cruelly
treated.

— 338 —
CHAPTER XI
Black Forest House: and the sociability there<strong>in</strong> — Its perfume —
George positively decl<strong>in</strong>es to rema<strong>in</strong> <strong>in</strong> bed after four o’clock <strong>in</strong>
the morn<strong>in</strong>g — The road one cannot miss — My peculiar extra
<strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct — An ungrateful party — Harris as a scientist — His cheery
confidence — The village: where it was, and where it ought to have
been — George: his plan — We promenade a la Francais — The
German coachman asleep and awake — The man who spreads the
English language abroad.
THERE was one night when, tired out and far from town or
village, we slept <strong>in</strong> a Black Forest farmhouse. The great charm
about the Black Forest house is its sociability. The cows are <strong>in</strong>
the next room, the horses are upstairs, the geese and ducks are
<strong>in</strong> the kitchen, while the pigs, the children, and the chickens
live all over the place.
You are dress<strong>in</strong>g, when you hear a grunt beh<strong>in</strong>d you.
“Good-morn<strong>in</strong>g! Don’t happen to have any potato peel<strong>in</strong>gs
<strong>in</strong> here? No, I see you haven’t; good-bye.”
Next there is a cackle, and you see the neck of an old hen
stretched round the corner.
“F<strong>in</strong>e morn<strong>in</strong>g, isn’t it? You don’t m<strong>in</strong>d my br<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g this
worm of m<strong>in</strong>e <strong>in</strong> here, do you? It is so difficult <strong>in</strong> this house
to f<strong>in</strong>d a room where one can enjoy one’s food with any quietness.
From a chicken I have always been a slow eater, and when
a dozen — there, I thought they wouldn’t leave me alone. Now
they’ll all want a bit. You don’t m<strong>in</strong>d my gett<strong>in</strong>g on the bed, do
you? Perhaps here they won’t notice me.”
While you are dress<strong>in</strong>g various shock heads peer <strong>in</strong> at the
door; they evidently regard the room as a temporary menagerie.
You cannot tell whether the heads belong to boys or girls;
you can only hope they are all male. It is of no use shutt<strong>in</strong>g
the door, because there is noth<strong>in</strong>g to fasten it by, and the moment
you are gone they push it open aga<strong>in</strong>. You breakfast as
the Prodigal Son is generally represented feed<strong>in</strong>g: a pig or two
drop <strong>in</strong> to keep you company; a party of elderly geese criticise
you from the door; you gather from their whispers, added to

— 339 —
their shocked expression, that they are talk<strong>in</strong>g scandal about
you. Maybe a cow will condescend to give a glance <strong>in</strong>.
This Noah’s Ark arrangement it is, I suppose, that gives to
the Black Forest home its dist<strong>in</strong>ctive scent. It is not a scent you
can liken to any one th<strong>in</strong>g. It is as if you took roses and Limburger
cheese and hair oil, some heather and onions, peaches
and soapsuds, together with a dash of sea air and a corpse,
and mixed them up together. You cannot def<strong>in</strong>e any particular
odour, but you feel they are all there — all the odours that the
world has yet discovered. People who live <strong>in</strong> these houses are
fond of this mixture. They do not open the w<strong>in</strong>dow and lose
any of it; they keep it carefully bottled up. If you want any
other scent, you can go outside and smell the wood violets and
the p<strong>in</strong>es; <strong>in</strong>side there is the house; and after a while, I am told,
you get used to it, so that you miss it, and are unable to go to
sleep <strong>in</strong> any other atmosphere.
We had a long walk before us the next day, and it was our desire,
therefore, to get up early, even so early as six o’clock, if that
could be managed without disturb<strong>in</strong>g the whole household. We
put it to our hostess whether she thought this could be done.
She said she thought it could. She might not be about herself
at that time; it was her morn<strong>in</strong>g for go<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>to the town, some
eight miles off, and she rarely got back much before seven; but,
possibly, her husband or one of the boys would be return<strong>in</strong>g
home to lunch about that hour. Anyhow, somebody should be
sent back to wake us and get our breakfast.
As it turned out, we did not need any wak<strong>in</strong>g. We got up at
four, all by ourselves. We got up at four <strong>in</strong> order to get away
from the noise and the d<strong>in</strong> that was mak<strong>in</strong>g our heads ache.
What time the Black Forest peasant rises <strong>in</strong> the summer time I
am unable to say; to us they appeared to be gett<strong>in</strong>g up all night.
And the first th<strong>in</strong>g the Black Forester does when he gets up is
to put on a pair of stout boots with wooden soles, and take a
constitutional round the house. Until he has been three times
up and down the stairs, he does not feel he is up. Once fully
awake himself, the next th<strong>in</strong>g he does is to go upstairs to the

— 340 —
stables, and wake up a horse. (The Black Forest house be<strong>in</strong>g
built generally on the side of a steep hill, the ground floor is
at the top, and the hay-loft at the bottom.) Then the horse, it
would seem, must also have its constitutional round the house;
and this seen to, the man goes downstairs <strong>in</strong>to the kitchen and
beg<strong>in</strong>s to chop wood, and when he has chopped sufficient
wood he feels pleased with himself and beg<strong>in</strong>s to s<strong>in</strong>g. All
th<strong>in</strong>gs considered, we came to the conclusion we could not do
better than follow the excellent example set us. Even George
was quite eager to get up that morn<strong>in</strong>g.
We had a frugal breakfast at half-past four, and started away
at five. Our road lay over a mounta<strong>in</strong>, and from enquiries made
<strong>in</strong> the village it appeared to be one of those roads you cannot
possibly miss. I suppose everybody knows this sort of road.
Generally, it leads you back to where you started from; and
when it doesn’t, you wish it did, so that at all events you might
know where you were. I foresaw evil from the very first, and
before we had accomplished a couple of miles we came up with
it. The road divided <strong>in</strong>to three. A worm-eaten sign-post <strong>in</strong>dicated
that the path to the left led to a place that we had never
heard of — that was on no map. Its other arm, po<strong>in</strong>t<strong>in</strong>g out the
direction of the middle road, had disappeared. The road to the
right, so we all agreed, clearly led back aga<strong>in</strong> to the village.
“The old man said dist<strong>in</strong>ctly,” so Harris rem<strong>in</strong>ded us, “keep
straight on round the hill.”
“Which hill?” George asked, pert<strong>in</strong>ently.
We were confronted by half a dozen, some of them big,
some of them little.
“He told us,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Harris, “that we should come to a
wood.”
“I see no reason to doubt him,” commented George, “whichever
road we take.”
As a matter of fact, a dense wood covered every hill.
“And he said,” murmured Harris, “that we should reach the
top <strong>in</strong> about an hour and a half.”
“There it is,” said George, “that I beg<strong>in</strong> to disbelieve him.”

— 341 —
“Well, what shall we do?” said Harris.
Now I happen to possess the bump of locality. It is not a virtue;
I make no boast of it. It is merely an animal <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct that I
cannot help. That th<strong>in</strong>gs occasionally get <strong>in</strong> my way — mounta<strong>in</strong>s,
precipices, rivers, and such like obstructions — is no fault
of m<strong>in</strong>e. My <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct is correct enough; it is the earth that is
wrong. I led them by the middle road. That the middle road
had not character enough to cont<strong>in</strong>ue for any quarter of a mile
<strong>in</strong> the same direction; that after three miles up and down hill
it ended abruptly <strong>in</strong> a wasps’ nest, was not a th<strong>in</strong>g that should
have been laid to my door. If the middle road had gone <strong>in</strong>
the direction it ought to have done, it would have taken us to
where we wanted to go, of that I am conv<strong>in</strong>ced.
Even as it was, I would have cont<strong>in</strong>ued to use this gift of
m<strong>in</strong>e to discover a fresh way had a proper spirit been displayed
towards me. But I am not an angel — I admit this frankly, — and
I decl<strong>in</strong>e to exert myself for the ungrateful and the ribald. Besides,
I doubt if George and Harris would have followed me
further <strong>in</strong> any event. Therefore it was that I washed my hands
of the whole affair, and that Harris entered upon the vacancy.
“Well,” said Harris. “I suppose you are satisfied with what
you have done?”
“I am quite satisfied,” I replied from the heap of stones where
I was sitt<strong>in</strong>g. “So far, I have brought you with safety. I would
cont<strong>in</strong>ue to lead you further, but no artist can work without
encouragement. You appear dissatisfied with me because you
do not know where you are. For all you know, you may be just
where you want to be. But I say noth<strong>in</strong>g as to that; I expect no
thanks. Go your own way; I have done with you both.”
I spoke, perhaps, with bitterness, but I could not help it. Not
a word of k<strong>in</strong>dness had I had all the weary way.
“Do not misunderstand us,” said Harris; “both George and
myself feel that without your assistance we should never be
where we now are. For that we give you every credit. But <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct
is liable to error. What I propose to do is to substitute for
it Science, which is exact. Now, where’s the sun?”

— 342 —
“Don’t you th<strong>in</strong>k,” said George, “that if we made our way
back to the village, and hired a boy for a mark to guide us, it
would save time <strong>in</strong> the end?”
“It would be wast<strong>in</strong>g hours,” said Harris, with decision. “You
leave this to me. I have been read<strong>in</strong>g about this th<strong>in</strong>g, and it
has <strong>in</strong>terested me.” He took out his watch, and began turn<strong>in</strong>g
himself round and round.
“It’s as simple as ABC,” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued. “You po<strong>in</strong>t the short
hand at the sun, then you bisect the segment between the short
hand and the twelve, and thus you get the north.”
He worried up and down for a while, then he fixed it.
“Now I’ve got it,” he said; “that’s the north, where that wasps’
nest is. Now give me the map.”
We handed it to him, and seat<strong>in</strong>g himself fac<strong>in</strong>g the wasps,
he exam<strong>in</strong>ed it.
“Todtmoos from here,” he said, “is south by south-west.”
“How do you mean, from here?” asked George.
“Why, from here, where we are,” returned Harris.
“But where are we?” said George.
This worried Harris for a time, but at length he cheered up.
“It doesn’t matter where we are,” he said. “Wherever we are,
Todtmoos is south by south-west. Come on, we are only wast<strong>in</strong>g
time.”
“I don’t quite see how you make it out,” said George, as he
rose and shouldered his knapsack; “but I suppose it doesn’t
matter. We are out for our health, and it’s all pretty!”
“We shall be all right,” said Harris, with cheery confidence.
“We shall be <strong>in</strong> at Todtmoos before ten, don’t you worry. And
at Todtmoos we will have someth<strong>in</strong>g to eat.”
He said that he, himself, fancied a beefsteak, followed by an
omelette. George said that, personally, he <strong>in</strong>tended to keep his
m<strong>in</strong>d off the subject until he saw Todtmoos.
We walked for half an hour, then emerg<strong>in</strong>g upon an open<strong>in</strong>g,
we saw below us, about two miles away, the village through
which we had passed that morn<strong>in</strong>g. It had a qua<strong>in</strong>t church with
an outside staircase, a somewhat unusual arrangement.

— 343 —
The sight of it made me sad. We had been walk<strong>in</strong>g hard
for three hours and a half, and had accomplished, apparently,
about four miles. But Harris was delighted.
“Now, at last,” said Harris, “we know where we are.”
“I thought you said it didn’t matter,” George rem<strong>in</strong>ded him.
“No more it does, practically,” replied Harris, “but it is just
as well to be certa<strong>in</strong>. Now I feel more confidence <strong>in</strong> myself.”
“I’m not so sure about that be<strong>in</strong>g an advantage,” muttered
George. But I do not th<strong>in</strong>k Harris heard him.
“We are now,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Harris, “east of the sun, and Todtmoos
is south-west of where we are. So that if —”
He broke off. “By-the-by,” he said, “do you remember whether
I said the bisect<strong>in</strong>g l<strong>in</strong>e of that segment po<strong>in</strong>ted to the north
or to the south?”
“You said it po<strong>in</strong>ted to the north,” replied George.
“Are you positive?” persisted Harris.
“Positive,” answered George “but don’t let that <strong>in</strong>fluence
your calculations. In all probability you were wrong.”
Harris thought for a while; then his brow cleared.
“That’s all right,” he said; “of course, it’s the north. It must be
the north. How could it be the south? Now we must make for
the west. Come on.”
“I am quite will<strong>in</strong>g to make for the west,” said George; “any
po<strong>in</strong>t of the compass is the same to me. I only wish to remark
that, at the present moment, we are go<strong>in</strong>g dead east.”
“No we are not,” returned Harris; “we are go<strong>in</strong>g west.”
“We are go<strong>in</strong>g east, I tell you,” said George.
“I wish you wouldn’t keep say<strong>in</strong>g that,” said Harris, “you
confuse me.”
“I don’t m<strong>in</strong>d if I do,” returned George; “I would rather do
that than go wrong. I tell you we are go<strong>in</strong>g dead east.”
“What nonsense!” retorted Harris; “there’s the sun.”
“I can see the sun,” answered George, “quite dist<strong>in</strong>ctly. It
may be where it ought to be, accord<strong>in</strong>g to you and Science,
or it may not. All I know is, that when we were down <strong>in</strong> the
village, that particular hill with that particular lump of rock

— 344 —
upon it was due north of us. At the present moment we are
fac<strong>in</strong>g due east.”
“You are quite right,” said Harris; “I forgot for the moment
that we had turned round.”
“I should get <strong>in</strong>to the habit of mak<strong>in</strong>g a note of it, if I were
you,” grumbled George; “it’s a manoeuvre that will probably
occur aga<strong>in</strong> more than once.”
We faced about, and walked <strong>in</strong> the other direction. At the
end of forty m<strong>in</strong>utes’ climb<strong>in</strong>g we aga<strong>in</strong> emerged upon an
open<strong>in</strong>g, and aga<strong>in</strong> the village lay just under our feet. On this
occasion it was south of us.
“This is very extraord<strong>in</strong>ary,” said Harris.
“I see noth<strong>in</strong>g remarkable about it,” said George. “If you
walk steadily round a village it is only natural that now and
then you get a glimpse of it. Myself, I am glad to see it. It proves
to me that we are not utterly lost.”
“It ought to be the other side of us,” said Harris.
“It will be <strong>in</strong> another hour or so,” said George, “if we keep
on.”
I said little myself; I was vexed with both of them; but I was
glad to notice George evidently grow<strong>in</strong>g cross with Harris. It
was absurd of Harris to fancy he could f<strong>in</strong>d the way by the
sun.
“I wish I knew,” said Harris, thoughtfully, “for certa<strong>in</strong> whether
that bisect<strong>in</strong>g l<strong>in</strong>e po<strong>in</strong>ts to the north or to the south.”
“I should make up my m<strong>in</strong>d about it,” said George; “it’s an
important po<strong>in</strong>t.”
“It’s impossible it can be the north,” said Harris, “and I’ll tell
you why.”
“You needn’t trouble,” said George; “I am quite prepared to
believe it isn’t.”
“You said just now it was,” said Harris, reproachfully.
“I said noth<strong>in</strong>g of the sort,” retorted George. “I said you said
it was — a very different th<strong>in</strong>g. If you th<strong>in</strong>k it isn’t, let’s go the
other way. It’ll be a change, at all events.”
So Harris worked th<strong>in</strong>gs out accord<strong>in</strong>g to the contrary cal-

— 345 —
culation, and aga<strong>in</strong> we plunged <strong>in</strong>to the wood; and aga<strong>in</strong> after
half an hour’s stiff climb<strong>in</strong>g we came <strong>in</strong> view of that same village.
True, we were a little higher, and this time it lay between
us and the sun.
“I th<strong>in</strong>k,” said George, as he stood look<strong>in</strong>g down at it, “this
is the best view we’ve had of it, as yet. There is only one other
po<strong>in</strong>t from which we can see it. After that, I propose we go
down <strong>in</strong>to it and get some rest.”
“I don’t believe it’s the same village,” said Harris; “it can’t
be.”
“There’s no mistak<strong>in</strong>g that church,” said George. “But maybe
it is a case on all fours with that Prague statue. Possibly, the
authorities hereabout have had made some life-sized models
of that village, and have stuck them about the Forest to see
where the th<strong>in</strong>g would look best. Anyhow, which way do we
go now?”
“I don’t know,” said Harris, “and I don’t care. I have done my
best; you’ve done noth<strong>in</strong>g but grumble, and confuse me.”
“I may have been critical,” admitted George “but look at the
th<strong>in</strong>g from my po<strong>in</strong>t of view. One of you says he’s got an <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct,
and leads me to a wasps’ nest <strong>in</strong> the middle of a wood.”
“I can’t help wasps build<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a wood,” I replied.
“I don’t say you can,” answered George. “I am not argu<strong>in</strong>g;
I am merely stat<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>controvertible facts. The other one, who
leads me up and down hill for hours on scientific pr<strong>in</strong>ciples,
doesn’t know the north from the south, and is never quite sure
whether he’s turned round or whether he hasn’t. Personally, I
profess to no <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>cts beyond the ord<strong>in</strong>ary, nor am I a scientist.
But two fields off I can see a man. I am go<strong>in</strong>g to offer him
the worth of the hay he is cutt<strong>in</strong>g, which I estimate at one mark
fifty pfennig, to leave his work, and lead me to with<strong>in</strong> sight of
Todtmoos. If you two fellows like to follow, you can. If not, you
can start another system and work it out by yourselves.”
George’s plan lacked both orig<strong>in</strong>ality and aplomb, but at
the moment it appealed to us. Fortunately, we had worked
round to a very short distance away from the spot where we

— 346 —
had orig<strong>in</strong>ally gone wrong; with the result that, aided by the
gentleman of the scythe, we recovered the road, and reached
Todtmoos four hours later than we had calculated to reach it,
with an appetite that took forty-five m<strong>in</strong>utes’ steady work <strong>in</strong>
silence to abate.
From Todtmoos we had <strong>in</strong>tended to walk down to the
Rh<strong>in</strong>e; but hav<strong>in</strong>g regard to our extra exertions of the morn<strong>in</strong>g,
we decided to promenade <strong>in</strong> a carriage, as the French
would say: and for this purpose hired a picturesque-look<strong>in</strong>g
vehicle, drawn by a horse that I should have called barrelbodied
but for contrast with his driver, <strong>in</strong> comparison with
whom he was angular. In Germany every vehicle is arranged
for a pair of horses, but drawn generally by one. This gives to
the equipage a lop-sided appearance, accord<strong>in</strong>g to our notions,
but it is held here to <strong>in</strong>dicate style. The idea to be conveyed is
that you usually drive a pair of horses, but that for the moment
you have mislaid the other one. The German driver is not what
we should call a first-class whip. He is at his best when he is
asleep. Then, at all events, he is harmless; and the horse be<strong>in</strong>g,
generally speak<strong>in</strong>g, <strong>in</strong>telligent and experienced, progress
under these conditions is comparatively safe. If <strong>in</strong> Germany
they could only tra<strong>in</strong> the horse to collect the money at the end
of the journey, there would be no need for a coachman at all.
This would be a dist<strong>in</strong>ct relief to the passenger, for when the
German coachman is awake and not crack<strong>in</strong>g his whip he is
generally occupied <strong>in</strong> gett<strong>in</strong>g himself <strong>in</strong>to trouble or out of
it. He is better at the former. Once I recollect driv<strong>in</strong>g down
a steep Black Forest hill with a couple of ladies. It was one of
those roads w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g corkscrew-wise down the slope. The hill
rose at an angle of seventy-five on the off-side, and fell away at
an angle of seventy-five on the near-side. We were proceed<strong>in</strong>g
very comfortably, the driver, we were happy to notice, with his
eyes shut, when suddenly someth<strong>in</strong>g, a bad dream or <strong>in</strong>digestion,
awoke him. He seized the re<strong>in</strong>s, and, by an adroit movement,
pulled the near-side horse over the edge, where it clung,
half supported by the traces. Our driver did not appear <strong>in</strong> the

— 347 —
least annoyed or surprised; both horses, I also, noticed, seemed
equally used to the situation. We got out, and he got down. He
took from under the seat a huge clasp-knife, evidently kept
there for the purpose, and deftly cut the traces. The horse, thus
released, rolled over and over until he struck the road aga<strong>in</strong>
some fifty feet below. There he rega<strong>in</strong>ed his feet and stood
wait<strong>in</strong>g for us. We re-entered the carriage and descended with
the s<strong>in</strong>gle horse until we came to him. There, with the help of
some bits of str<strong>in</strong>g, our driver harnessed him aga<strong>in</strong>, and we
cont<strong>in</strong>ued on our way. What impressed me was the evident
accustomedness of both driver and horses to this method of
work<strong>in</strong>g down a hill.
Evidently to them it appeared a short and convenient cut.
I should not have been surprised had the man suggested our
strapp<strong>in</strong>g ourselves <strong>in</strong>, and then roll<strong>in</strong>g over and over, carriage
and all, to the bottom.
Another peculiarity of the German coachman is that he
never attempts to pull <strong>in</strong> or to pull up. He regulates his rate
of speed, not by the pace of the horse, but by manipulation of
the brake. For eight miles an hour he puts it on slightly, so that
it only scrapes the wheel, produc<strong>in</strong>g a cont<strong>in</strong>uous sound as of
the sharpen<strong>in</strong>g of a saw; for four miles an hour he screws it
down harder, and you travel to an accompaniment of groans
and shrieks, suggestive of a symphony of dy<strong>in</strong>g pigs. When he
desires to come to a full stop, he puts it on to its full. If his
brake be a good one, he calculates he can stop his carriage, unless
the horse be an extra powerful animal, <strong>in</strong> less than twice
its own length. Neither the German driver nor the German
horse knows, apparently, that you can stop a carriage by any
other method. The German horse cont<strong>in</strong>ues to pull with his
full strength until he f<strong>in</strong>ds it impossible to move the vehicle
another <strong>in</strong>ch; then he rests. Horses of other countries are quite
will<strong>in</strong>g to stop when the idea is suggested to them. I have
known horses content to go even quite slowly. But your German
horse, seem<strong>in</strong>gly, is built for one particular speed, and is
unable to depart from it. I am stat<strong>in</strong>g noth<strong>in</strong>g but the literal,

— 348 —
unadorned truth, when I say I have seen a German coachman,
with the re<strong>in</strong>s ly<strong>in</strong>g loose over the splash-board, work<strong>in</strong>g his
brake with both hands, <strong>in</strong> terror lest he would not be <strong>in</strong> time
to avoid a collision.
At Waldshut, one of those little sixteenth-century towns
through which the Rh<strong>in</strong>e flows dur<strong>in</strong>g its earlier course, we
came across that exceed<strong>in</strong>gly common object of the Cont<strong>in</strong>ent:
the travell<strong>in</strong>g Briton grieved and surprised at the unacqua<strong>in</strong>tance
of the foreigner with the subtleties of the English
language. When we entered the station he was, <strong>in</strong> very fair
English, though with a slight Somersetshire accent, expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g
to a porter for the tenth time, as he <strong>in</strong>formed us, the simple fact
that though he himself had a ticket for Donauesch<strong>in</strong>gen, and
wanted to go to Donauesch<strong>in</strong>gen, to see the source of the Danube,
which is not there, though they tell you it is, he wished his
bicycle to be sent on to Engen and his bag to Constance, there
to await his arrival. He was hot and angry with the effort of the
th<strong>in</strong>g. The porter was a young man <strong>in</strong> years, but at the moment
looked old and miserable. I offered my services. I wish now I
had not — though not so fervently, I expect, as he, the speechless
one, came subsequently to wish this. All three routes, so
the porter expla<strong>in</strong>ed to us, were complicated, necessitat<strong>in</strong>g
chang<strong>in</strong>g and re-chang<strong>in</strong>g. There was not much time for calm
elucidation, as our own tra<strong>in</strong> was start<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> a few m<strong>in</strong>utes. The
man himself was voluble — always a mistake when anyth<strong>in</strong>g
entangled has to be made clear; while the porter was only too
eager to get the job done with and so breathe aga<strong>in</strong>. It dawned
upon me ten m<strong>in</strong>utes later, when th<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g the matter over <strong>in</strong>
the tra<strong>in</strong>, that though I had agreed with the porter that it would
be best for the bicycle to go by way of Immend<strong>in</strong>gen, and had
agreed to his book<strong>in</strong>g it to Immend<strong>in</strong>gen, I had neglected to
give <strong>in</strong>structions for its departure from Immend<strong>in</strong>gen. Were I
of a despondent temperament I should be worry<strong>in</strong>g myself at
the present moment with the reflection that <strong>in</strong> all probability
that bicycle is still at Immend<strong>in</strong>gen to this day. But I regard it
as good philosophy to endeavour always to see the brighter

— 349 —
side of th<strong>in</strong>gs. Possibly the porter corrected my omission on
his own account, or some simple miracle may have happened
to restore that bicycle to its owner some time before the end
of his tour. The bag we sent to Radolfzell: but here I console
myself with the recollection that it was labelled Constance;
and no doubt after a while the railway authorities, f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g it
unclaimed at Radolfzell, forwarded it on to Constance.
But all this is apart from the moral I wished to draw from
the <strong>in</strong>cident. The true <strong>in</strong>wardness of the situation lay <strong>in</strong> the <strong>in</strong>dignation
of this Britisher at f<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g a German railway porter
unable to comprehend English. The moment we spoke to him
he expressed this <strong>in</strong>dignation <strong>in</strong> no measured terms.
“Thank you very much <strong>in</strong>deed,” he said; “it’s simple enough.
I want to go to Donauesch<strong>in</strong>gen myself by tra<strong>in</strong>; from Donauesch<strong>in</strong>gen
I am go<strong>in</strong>g to walk to Geisengen; from Geisengen
I am go<strong>in</strong>g to take the tra<strong>in</strong> to Engen, and from Engen I am
go<strong>in</strong>g to bicycle to Constance. But I don’t want to take my bag
with me; I want to f<strong>in</strong>d it at Constance when I get there. I have
been try<strong>in</strong>g to expla<strong>in</strong> the th<strong>in</strong>g to this fool for the last ten
m<strong>in</strong>utes; but I can’t get it <strong>in</strong>to him.”
“It is very disgraceful,” I agreed. “Some of these German
workmen know hardly any other language than their own.”
“I have gone over it with him,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued the man, “on the
time table, and expla<strong>in</strong>ed it by pantomime. Even then I could
not knock it <strong>in</strong>to him.”
“I can hardly believe you,” I aga<strong>in</strong> remarked; “you would
th<strong>in</strong>k the th<strong>in</strong>g expla<strong>in</strong>ed itself.”
Harris was angry with the man; he wished to reprove him
for his folly <strong>in</strong> journey<strong>in</strong>g through the outly<strong>in</strong>g portions of a
foreign clime, and seek<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> such to accomplish complicated
railway tricks without know<strong>in</strong>g a word of the language of
the country. But I checked the impulsiveness of Harris, and
po<strong>in</strong>ted out to him the great and good work at which the man
was unconsciously assist<strong>in</strong>g.
Shakespeare and Milton may have done their little best to
spread acqua<strong>in</strong>tance with the English tongue among the less

— 350 —
favoured <strong>in</strong>habitants of Europe. Newton and Darw<strong>in</strong> may
have rendered their language a necessity among educated and
thoughtful foreigners. Dickens and Ouida (for your folk who
imag<strong>in</strong>e that the literary world is bounded by the prejudices
of New Grub Street, would be surprised and grieved at the
position occupied abroad by this at-home-sneered-at lady)
may have helped still further to popularise it. But the man who
has spread the knowledge of English from Cape St. V<strong>in</strong>cent to
the Ural Mounta<strong>in</strong>s is the Englishman who, unable or unwill<strong>in</strong>g
to learn a s<strong>in</strong>gle word of any language but his own, travels
purse <strong>in</strong> hand <strong>in</strong>to every corner of the Cont<strong>in</strong>ent. One may
be shocked at his ignorance, annoyed at his stupidity, angry
at his presumption. But the practical fact rema<strong>in</strong>s; he it is
that is anglicis<strong>in</strong>g Europe. For him the Swiss peasant tramps
through the snow on w<strong>in</strong>ter even<strong>in</strong>gs to attend the English
class open <strong>in</strong> every village. For him the coachman and the
guard, the chambermaid and the laundress, pore over their
English grammars and colloquial phrase books. For him the
foreign shopkeeper and merchant send their sons and daughters
<strong>in</strong> their thousands to study <strong>in</strong> every English town. For him
it is that every foreign hotel- and restaurant-keeper adds to
his advertisement: “Only those with fair knowledge of English
need apply.”
Did the English-speak<strong>in</strong>g races make it their rule to speak
anyth<strong>in</strong>g else than English, the marvellous progress of the
English tongue throughout the world would stop. The Englishspeak<strong>in</strong>g
man stands amid the strangers and j<strong>in</strong>gles his gold.
“Here,” cries, “is payment for all such as can speak English.”
He it is who is the great educator. Theoretically we may
scold him; practically we should take our hats off to him. He is
the missionary of the English tongue.

— 351 —
CHAPTER XII
We are grieved at the earthly <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>cts of the German — A superb
view, but no restaurant — Cont<strong>in</strong>ental op<strong>in</strong>ion of the Englishman
— That he does not know enough to come <strong>in</strong> out of the
ra<strong>in</strong> — There comes a weary traveller with a brick — The hurt<strong>in</strong>g of
the dog — An undesirable family residence — A fruitful region — A
merry old soul comes up the hill — George, alarmed at the lateness
of the hour, hastens down the other side — Harris follows him, to
show him the way — I hate be<strong>in</strong>g alone, and follow Harris — Pronunciation
specially designed for use of foreigners.
A THING that vexes much the high-class Anglo-Saxon soul is
the earthly <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct prompt<strong>in</strong>g the German to fix a restaurant
at the goal of every excursion. On mounta<strong>in</strong> summit, <strong>in</strong> fairy
glen, on lonely pass, by waterfall or w<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g stream, stands
ever the busy Wirtschaft. How can one rhapsodise over a view
when surrounded by beer-sta<strong>in</strong>ed tables? How lose one’s self <strong>in</strong>
historical reverie amid the odour of roast veal and sp<strong>in</strong>ach?
One day, on elevat<strong>in</strong>g thoughts <strong>in</strong>tent, we climbed through
tangled woods.
“And at the top,” said Harris, bitterly, as we paused to breathe
a space and pull our belts a hole tighter, “there will be a gaudy
restaurant, where people will be guzzl<strong>in</strong>g beefsteaks and plum
tarts and dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g white w<strong>in</strong>e.”
“Do you th<strong>in</strong>k so?” said George.
“Sure to be,” answered Harris; “you know their way. Not one
grove will they consent to dedicate to solitude and contemplation;
not one height will they leave to the lover of nature
unpolluted by the gross and the material.”
“I calculate,” I remarked, “that we shall be there a little before
one o’clock, provided we don’t dawdle.”
“The ‘mittagstisch’ will be just ready,” groaned Harris, “with
possibly some of those little blue trout they catch about here.
In Germany one never seems able to get away from food and
dr<strong>in</strong>k. It is madden<strong>in</strong>g!”
We pushed on, and <strong>in</strong> the beauty of the walk forgot our <strong>in</strong>dignation.
My estimate proved to be correct.

— 352 —
At a quarter to one, said Harris, who was lead<strong>in</strong>g:
“Here we are; I can see the summit.”
“Any sign of that restaurant?” said George.
“I don’t notice it,” replied Harris; “but it’s there, you may be
sure; confound it!”
Five m<strong>in</strong>utes later we stood upon the top. We looked north,
south, east and west; then we looked at one another.
“Grand view, isn’t it?” said Harris.
“Magnificent,” I agreed.
“Superb,” remarked George.
“They have had the good sense for once,” said Harris, “to
put that restaurant out of sight.”
“They do seem to have hidden it,” said George. “One doesn’t
m<strong>in</strong>d the th<strong>in</strong>g so much when it is not forced under one’s
nose,” said Harris.
“Of course, <strong>in</strong> its place,” I observed, “a restaurant is right
enough.”
“I should like to know where they have put it,” said George.
“Suppose we look for it?” said Harris, with <strong>in</strong>spiration.
It seemed a good idea. I felt curious myself. We agreed to
explore <strong>in</strong> different directions, return<strong>in</strong>g to the summit to
report progress. In half an hour we stood together once aga<strong>in</strong>.
There was no need for words. The face of one and all of us
announced pla<strong>in</strong>ly that at last we had discovered a recess of
German nature untarnished by the sordid suggestion of food
or dr<strong>in</strong>k.
“I should never have believed it possible,” said Harris:
“would you?”
“I should say,” I replied, “that this is the only square quarter
of a mile <strong>in</strong> the entire Fatherland unprovided with one.”
“And we three strangers have struck it,” said George, “without
an effort.”
“True,” I observed. “By pure good fortune we are now
enabled to feast our f<strong>in</strong>er senses undisturbed by appeal to our
lower nature. Observe the light upon those distant peaks; is it
not ravish<strong>in</strong>g?”

— 353 —
“Talk<strong>in</strong>g of nature,” said George, “which should you say was
the nearest way down?”
“The road to the left,” I replied, after consult<strong>in</strong>g the guide
book, “takes us to Sonnensteig — where, by-the-by, I observe
the ‘Goldener Adler’ is well spoken of — <strong>in</strong> about two hours.
The road to the right, though somewhat longer, commands
more extensive prospects.”
“One prospect,” said Harris, “is very much like another
prospect; don’t you th<strong>in</strong>k so?”
“Personally,” said George, “I am go<strong>in</strong>g by the left-hand
road.” And Harris and I went after him.
But we were not to get down so soon as we had anticipated.
Storms come quickly <strong>in</strong> these regions, and before we had
walked for quarter of an hour it became a question of seek<strong>in</strong>g
shelter or liv<strong>in</strong>g for the rest of the day <strong>in</strong> soaked clothes. We
decided on the former alternative, and selected a tree that, under
ord<strong>in</strong>ary circumstances, should have been ample protection.
But a Black Forest thunderstorm is not an ord<strong>in</strong>ary circumstance.
We consoled ourselves at first by tell<strong>in</strong>g each other
that at such a rate it could not last long. Next, we endeavoured
to comfort ourselves with the reflection that if it did we should
soon be too wet to fear gett<strong>in</strong>g wetter.
“As it turned out,” said Harris, “I should have been almost
glad if there had been a restaurant up here.”
“I see no advantage <strong>in</strong> be<strong>in</strong>g both wet and hungry,” said
George. “I shall give it another five m<strong>in</strong>utes, then I am go<strong>in</strong>g
on.”
“These mounta<strong>in</strong> solitudes,” I remarked, “are very attractive
<strong>in</strong> f<strong>in</strong>e weather. On a ra<strong>in</strong>y day, especially if you happen to be
past the age when —”
At this po<strong>in</strong>t there hailed us a voice, proceed<strong>in</strong>g from a stout
gentleman, who stood some fifty feet away from us under a big
umbrella.
“Won’t you come <strong>in</strong>side?” asked the stout gentleman.
“Inside where?” I called back. I thought at first he was one

— 354 —
of those fools that will try to be funny when there is noth<strong>in</strong>g
to be funny about.
“Inside the restaurant,” he answered.
We left our shelter and made for him. We wished for further
<strong>in</strong>formation about this th<strong>in</strong>g.
“I did call to you from the w<strong>in</strong>dow,” said the stout gentleman,
as we drew near to him, “but I suppose you did not hear
me. This storm may last for another hour; you will get so
wet.”
He was a k<strong>in</strong>dly old gentleman; he seemed quite anxious
about us.
I said: “It is very k<strong>in</strong>d of you to have come out. We are not
lunatics. We have not been stand<strong>in</strong>g under that tree for the last
half-hour know<strong>in</strong>g all the time there was a restaurant, hidden
by the trees, with<strong>in</strong> twenty yards of us. We had no idea we were
anywhere near a restaurant.”
“I thought maybe you hadn’t,” said the old gentleman; “that
is why I came.”
It appeared that all the people <strong>in</strong> the <strong>in</strong>n had been watch<strong>in</strong>g
us from the w<strong>in</strong>dows also, wonder<strong>in</strong>g why we stood there look<strong>in</strong>g
miserable. If it had not been for this nice old gentleman the
fools would have rema<strong>in</strong>ed watch<strong>in</strong>g us, I suppose, for the rest
of the afternoon. The landlord excused himself by say<strong>in</strong>g he
thought we looked like English. It is no figure of speech. On
the Cont<strong>in</strong>ent they do s<strong>in</strong>cerely believe that every Englishman
is mad. They are as conv<strong>in</strong>ced of it as is every English peasant
that Frenchmen live on frogs. Even when one makes a direct
personal effort to disabuse them of the impression one is not
always successful.
It was a comfortable little restaurant, where they cooked
well, while the Tischwe<strong>in</strong> was really most passable. We stopped
there for a couple of hours, and dried ourselves and fed ourselves,
and talked about the view; and just before we left an
<strong>in</strong>cident occurred that shows how much more stirr<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> this
world are the <strong>in</strong>fluences of evil compared with those of good.
A traveller entered. He seemed a careworn man. He carried

— 355 —
a brick <strong>in</strong> his hand, tied to a piece of rope. He entered nervously
and hurriedly, closed the door carefully beh<strong>in</strong>d him, saw
to it that it was fastened, peered out of the w<strong>in</strong>dow long and
earnestly, and then, with a sigh of relief, laid his brick upon the
bench beside him and called for food and dr<strong>in</strong>k.
There was someth<strong>in</strong>g mysterious about the whole affair.
One wondered what he was go<strong>in</strong>g to do with the brick, why
he had closed the door so carefully, why he had looked so
anxiously from the w<strong>in</strong>dow; but his aspect was too wretched
to <strong>in</strong>vite conversation, and we forbore, therefore, to ask him
questions. As he ate and drank he grew more cheerful, sighed
less often. Later he stretched his legs, lit an evil-smell<strong>in</strong>g cigar,
and puffed <strong>in</strong> calm contentment.
Then it happened. It happened too suddenly for any detailed
explanation of the th<strong>in</strong>g to be possible. I recollect a Fraule<strong>in</strong>
enter<strong>in</strong>g the room from the kitchen with a pan <strong>in</strong> her hand. I
saw her cross to the outer door. The next moment the whole
room was <strong>in</strong> an uproar. One was rem<strong>in</strong>ded of those pantomime
transformation scenes where, from among float<strong>in</strong>g
clouds, slow music, wav<strong>in</strong>g flowers, and recl<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g fairies, one
is suddenly transported <strong>in</strong>to the midst of shout<strong>in</strong>g policemen
tumbl<strong>in</strong>g yell<strong>in</strong>g babies, swells fight<strong>in</strong>g pantaloons, sausages
and harlequ<strong>in</strong>s, buttered slides and clowns. As the Fraule<strong>in</strong> of
the pan touched the door it flew open, as though all the spirits
of s<strong>in</strong> had been pressed aga<strong>in</strong>st it, wait<strong>in</strong>g. Two pigs and a
chicken rushed <strong>in</strong>to the room; a cat that had been sleep<strong>in</strong>g on
a beer-barrel spluttered <strong>in</strong>to fiery life. The Fraule<strong>in</strong> threw her
pan <strong>in</strong>to the air and lay down on the floor. The gentleman with
the brick sprang to his feet, upsett<strong>in</strong>g the table before him with
everyth<strong>in</strong>g upon it.
One looked to see the cause of this disaster: one discovered
it at once <strong>in</strong> the person of a mongrel terrier with po<strong>in</strong>ted ears
and a squirrel’s tail. The landlord rushed out from another
door, and attempted to kick him out of the room. Instead, he
kicked one of the pigs, the fatter of the two. It was a vigorous,
well-planted kick, and the pig got the whole of it; none of it

— 356 —
was wasted. One felt sorry for the poor animal; but no amount
of sorrow anyone else might feel for him could compare with
the sorrow he felt for himself. He stopped runn<strong>in</strong>g about; he
sat down <strong>in</strong> the middle of the room, and appealed to the solar
system generally to observe this unjust th<strong>in</strong>g that had come
upon him. They must have heard his compla<strong>in</strong>t <strong>in</strong> the valleys
round about, and have wondered what upheaval of nature was
tak<strong>in</strong>g place among the hills.
As for the hen it scuttled, scream<strong>in</strong>g, every way at once. It
was a marvellous bird: it seemed to be able to run up a straight
wall quite easily; and it and the cat between them fetched
down mostly everyth<strong>in</strong>g that was not already on the floor. In
less than forty seconds there were n<strong>in</strong>e people <strong>in</strong> that room, all
try<strong>in</strong>g to kick one dog. Possibly, now and aga<strong>in</strong>, one or another
may have succeeded, for occasionally the dog would stop bark<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> order to howl. But it did not discourage him. Everyth<strong>in</strong>g
has to be paid for, he evidently argued, even a pig and chicken
hunt; and, on the whole, the game was worth it.
Besides, he had the satisfaction of observ<strong>in</strong>g that, for every
kick he received, most other liv<strong>in</strong>g th<strong>in</strong>gs <strong>in</strong> the room got two.
As for the unfortunate pig — the stationary one, the one that
still sat lament<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the centre of the room — he must have
averaged a steady four. Try<strong>in</strong>g to kick this dog was like play<strong>in</strong>g
football with a ball that was never there — not when you went
to kick it, but after you had started to kick it, and had gone too
far to stop yourself, so that the kick had to go on <strong>in</strong> any case,
your only hope be<strong>in</strong>g that your foot would f<strong>in</strong>d someth<strong>in</strong>g or
another solid to stop it, and so save you from sitt<strong>in</strong>g down on
the floor noisily and completely. When anybody did kick the
dog it was by pure accident, when they were not expect<strong>in</strong>g to
kick him; and, generally speak<strong>in</strong>g, this took them so unawares
that, after kick<strong>in</strong>g him, they fell over him. And everybody, every
half-m<strong>in</strong>ute, would be certa<strong>in</strong> to fall over the pig the sitt<strong>in</strong>g
pig, the one <strong>in</strong>capable of gett<strong>in</strong>g out of anybody’s way.
How long the scrimmage might have lasted it is impossible
to say. It was ended by the judgment of George. For a while

— 357 —
he had been seek<strong>in</strong>g to catch, not the dog but the rema<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g
pig, the one still capable of activity. Corner<strong>in</strong>g it at last, he
persuaded it to cease runn<strong>in</strong>g round and round the room, and
<strong>in</strong>stead to take a sp<strong>in</strong> outside. It shot through the door with
one long wail.
We always desire the th<strong>in</strong>g we have not. One pig, a chicken,
n<strong>in</strong>e people, and a cat, were as noth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> that dog’s op<strong>in</strong>ion
compared with the quarry that was disappear<strong>in</strong>g. Unwisely, he
darted after it, and George closed the door upon him and shot
the bolt.
Then the landlord stood up, and surveyed all the th<strong>in</strong>gs that
were ly<strong>in</strong>g on the floor.
“That’s a playful dog of yours,” said he to the man who had
come <strong>in</strong> with the brick.
“He is not my dog,” replied the man sullenly.
“Whose dog is it then?” said the landlord.
“I don’t know whose dog it is,” answered the man.
“That won’t do for me, you know,” said the landlord, pick<strong>in</strong>g
up a picture of the German Emperor, and wip<strong>in</strong>g beer from it
with his sleeve.
“I know it won’t,” replied the man; “I never expected it
would. I’m tired of tell<strong>in</strong>g people it isn’t my dog. They none of
them believe me.”
“What do you want to go about with him for, if he’s not your
dog?” said the landlord. “What’s the attraction about him?”
“I don’t go about with him,” replied the man; “he goes about
with me. He picked me up this morn<strong>in</strong>g at ten o’clock, and he
won’t leave me. I thought I had got rid of him when I came <strong>in</strong>
here. I left him busy kill<strong>in</strong>g a duck more than a quarter of an
hour away. I’ll have to pay for that, I expect, on my way back.”
“Have you tried throw<strong>in</strong>g stones at him?” asked Harris.
“Have I tried throw<strong>in</strong>g stones at him!” replied the man,
contemptuously. “I’ve been throw<strong>in</strong>g stones at him till my
arm aches with throw<strong>in</strong>g stones; and he th<strong>in</strong>ks it’s a game, and
br<strong>in</strong>gs them back to me. I’ve been carry<strong>in</strong>g this beastly brick
about with me for over an hour, <strong>in</strong> the hope of be<strong>in</strong>g able to

— 358 —
drown him, but he never comes near enough for me to get
hold of him. He just sits six <strong>in</strong>ches out of reach with his mouth
open, and looks at me.”
“It’s the funniest story I’ve heard for a long while,” said the
landlord.
“Glad it amuses somebody,” said the man.
We left him help<strong>in</strong>g the landlord to pick up the broken
th<strong>in</strong>gs, and went our way. A dozen yards outside the door the
faithful animal was wait<strong>in</strong>g for his friend. He looked tired, but
contented. He was evidently a dog of strange and sudden fancies,
and we feared for the moment lest he might take a lik<strong>in</strong>g
to us. But he let us pass with <strong>in</strong>difference. His loyalty to this
unresponsive man was touch<strong>in</strong>g; and we made no attempt to
underm<strong>in</strong>e it.
Hav<strong>in</strong>g completed to our satisfaction the Black Forest, we
journeyed on our wheels through Alt Breisach and Colmar to
Münster; whence we started a short exploration of the Vosges
range, where, accord<strong>in</strong>g to the present German Emperor,
humanity stops. Of old, Alt Breisach, a rocky fortress with the
river now on one side of it and now on the other — for <strong>in</strong> its
<strong>in</strong>experienced youth the Rh<strong>in</strong>e never seems to have been quite
sure of its way, — must, as a place of residence, have appealed
exclusively to the lover of change and excitement. Whoever the
war was between, and whatever it was about, Alt Breisach was
bound to be <strong>in</strong> it. Everybody besieged it, most people captured
it; the majority of them lost it aga<strong>in</strong>; nobody seemed able to
keep it. Whom he belonged to, and what he was, the dweller
<strong>in</strong> Alt Breisach could never have been quite sure. One day he
would be a Frenchman, and then before he could learn enough
French to pay his taxes he would be an Austrian. While try<strong>in</strong>g
to discover what you did <strong>in</strong> order to be a good Austrian,
he would f<strong>in</strong>d he was no longer an Austrian, but a German,
though what particular German out of the dozen must always
have been doubtful to him. One day he would discover that he
was a Catholic, the next an ardent Protestant. The only th<strong>in</strong>g
that could have given any stability to his existence must have

— 359 —
been the monotonous necessity of pay<strong>in</strong>g heavily for the privilege
of be<strong>in</strong>g whatever for the moment he was. But when one
beg<strong>in</strong>s to th<strong>in</strong>k of these th<strong>in</strong>gs one f<strong>in</strong>ds oneself wonder<strong>in</strong>g
why anybody <strong>in</strong> the Middle Ages, except k<strong>in</strong>gs and tax collectors,
ever took the trouble to live at all.
For variety and beauty, the Vosges will not compare with
the hills of the Schwarzwald. The advantage about them
from the tourist’s po<strong>in</strong>t of view is their superior poverty. The
Vosges peasant has not the unromantic air of contented prosperity
that spoils his vis-a-vis across the Rh<strong>in</strong>e. The villages
and farms possess more the charm of decay. Another po<strong>in</strong>t
where<strong>in</strong> the Vosges district excels is its ru<strong>in</strong>s. Many of its numerous
castles are perched where you might th<strong>in</strong>k only eagles
would care to build. In others, commenced by the Romans and
f<strong>in</strong>ished by the Troubadours, cover<strong>in</strong>g acres with the maze of
their still stand<strong>in</strong>g walls, one may wander for hours.
The fruiterer and greengrocer is a person unknown <strong>in</strong> the
Vosges. Most th<strong>in</strong>gs of that k<strong>in</strong>d grow wild, and are to be had
for the pick<strong>in</strong>g. It is difficult to keep to any programme when
walk<strong>in</strong>g through the Vosges, the temptation on a hot day to
stop and eat fruit generally be<strong>in</strong>g too strong for resistance.
Raspberries, the most delicious I have ever tasted, wild strawberries,
currants, and gooseberries, grow upon the hill-sides
as black-berries by English lanes. The Vosges small boy is not
called upon to rob an orchard; he can make himself ill without
s<strong>in</strong>. Orchards exist <strong>in</strong> the Vosges mounta<strong>in</strong>s <strong>in</strong> plenty; but to
trespass <strong>in</strong>to one for the purpose of steal<strong>in</strong>g fruit would be as
foolish as for a fish to try and get <strong>in</strong>to a swimm<strong>in</strong>g bath without
pay<strong>in</strong>g. Still, of course, mistakes do occur.
One afternoon <strong>in</strong> the course of a climb we emerged upon a
plateau, where we l<strong>in</strong>gered perhaps too long, eat<strong>in</strong>g more fruit
than may have been good for us; it was so plentiful around
us, so varied. We commenced with a few late strawberries,
and from those we passed to raspberries. Then Harris found a
greengage-tree with some early fruit upon it, just perfect.
“This is about the best th<strong>in</strong>g we have struck,” said George;

— 360 —
“we had better make the most of this.” Which was good advice,
on the face of it.
“It is a pity,” said Harris, “that the pears are still so hard.”
He grieved about this for a while, but later on came across
some remarkably f<strong>in</strong>e yellow plums and these consoled him
somewhat.
“I suppose we are still a bit too far north for p<strong>in</strong>eapples,”
said George. “I feel I could just enjoy a fresh p<strong>in</strong>eapple. This
commonplace fruit palls upon one after a while.”
“Too much bush fruit and not enough tree, is the fault I
f<strong>in</strong>d,” said Harris. “Myself, I should have liked a few more
greengages.”
“Here is a man com<strong>in</strong>g up the hill,” I observed, “who looks
like a native. Maybe, he will know where we can f<strong>in</strong>d some
more greengages.”
“He walks well for an old chap,” remarked Harris.
He certa<strong>in</strong>ly was climb<strong>in</strong>g the hill at a remarkable pace. Also,
so far as we were able to judge at that distance, he appeared to
be <strong>in</strong> a remarkably cheerful mood, s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g and shout<strong>in</strong>g at the
top of his voice, gesticulat<strong>in</strong>g, and wav<strong>in</strong>g his arms.
“What a merry old soul it is,” said Harris; “it does one good
to watch him. But why does he carry his stick over his shoulder?
Why doesn’t he use it to help him up the hill?”
“Do you know, I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k it is a stick,” said George.
“What can it be, then?” asked Harris.
“Well, it looks to me,” said George, “more like a gun.”
“You don’t th<strong>in</strong>k we can have made a mistake?” suggested
Harris. “You don’t th<strong>in</strong>k this can be anyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the nature of
a private orchard?”
I said: “Do you remember the sad th<strong>in</strong>g that happened <strong>in</strong>
the South of France some two years ago? A soldier picked
some cherries as he passed a house, and the French peasant to
whom the cherries belonged came out, and without a word of
warn<strong>in</strong>g shot him dead.”
“But surely you are not allowed to shoot a man dead for
pick<strong>in</strong>g fruit, even <strong>in</strong> France?” said George.

— 361 —
“Of course not,” I answered. “It was quite illegal. The only
excuse offered by his counsel was that he was of a highly excitable
disposition, and especially keen about these particular
cherries.”
“I recollect someth<strong>in</strong>g about the case,” said Harris, “now you
mention it. I believe the district <strong>in</strong> which it happened — the
‘Commune,’ as I th<strong>in</strong>k it is called — had to pay heavy compensation
to the relatives of the deceased soldier; which was only
fair.”
George said: “I am tired of this place. Besides, it’s gett<strong>in</strong>g
late.”
Harris said: “If he goes at that rate he will fall and hurt himself.
Besides, I don’t believe he knows the way.”
I felt lonesome up there all by myself, with nobody to speak
to. Besides, not s<strong>in</strong>ce I was a boy, I reflected, had I enjoyed a
run down a really steep hill. I thought I would see if I could
revive the sensation. It is a jerky exercise, but good, I should
say, for the liver.
We slept that night at Barr, a pleasant little town on the
way to St. Ottilienberg, an <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g old convent among the
mounta<strong>in</strong>s, where you are waited upon by real nuns, and your
bill made out by a priest. At Barr, just before supper a tourist
entered. He looked English, but spoke a language the like of
which I have never heard before. Yet it was an elegant and f<strong>in</strong>esound<strong>in</strong>g
language. The landlord stared at him blankly; the
landlady shook her head. He sighed, and tried another, which
somehow recalled to me forgotten memories, though, at the
time, I could not fix it. But aga<strong>in</strong> nobody understood him.
“This is damnable,” he said aloud to himself.
“Ah, you are English!” exclaimed the landlord, brighten<strong>in</strong>g
up.
“And Monsieur looks tired,” added the bright little landlady.
“Monsieur will have supper.”
They both spoke English excellently, nearly as well as they
spoke French and German; and they bustled about and made

— 362 —
him comfortable. At supper he sat next to me, and I talked to
him.
“Tell me,” I said — I was curious on the subject — “what language
was it you spoke when you first came <strong>in</strong>?”
“German,” he expla<strong>in</strong>ed.
“Oh,” I replied, “I beg your pardon.”
“You did not understand it?” he cont<strong>in</strong>ued.
“It must have been my fault,” I answered; “my knowledge is
extremely limited. One picks up a little here and there as one
goes about, but of course that is a different th<strong>in</strong>g.”
“But they did not understand it,” he replied, “the landlord
and his wife; and it is their own language.”
“I do not th<strong>in</strong>k so,” I said. “The children hereabout speak
German, it is true, and our landlord and landlady know German
to a certa<strong>in</strong> po<strong>in</strong>t. But throughout Alsace and Lorra<strong>in</strong>e
the old people still talk French.”
“And I spoke to them <strong>in</strong> French also,” he added, “and they
understood that no better.”
“It is certa<strong>in</strong>ly very curious,” I agreed.
“It is more than curious,” he replied; “<strong>in</strong> my case it is <strong>in</strong>comprehensible.
I possess a diploma for modern languages. I
won my scholarship purely on the strength of my French and
German. The correctness of my construction, the purity of
my pronunciation, was considered at my college to be quite
remarkable. Yet, when I come abroad hardly anybody understands
a word I say. Can you expla<strong>in</strong> it?”
“I th<strong>in</strong>k I can,” I replied. “Your pronunciation is too faultless.
You remember what the Scotsman said when for the first
time <strong>in</strong> his life he tasted real whisky: ‘It may be puir, but I
canna dr<strong>in</strong>k it’; so it is with your German. It strikes one less
as a language than as an exhibition. If I might offer advice, I
should say: Mispronounce as much as possible, and throw <strong>in</strong>
as many mistakes as you can th<strong>in</strong>k of.”
It is the same everywhere. Each country keeps a special pronunciation
exclusively for the use of foreigners — a pronunciation
they never dream of us<strong>in</strong>g themselves, that they cannot

— 363 —
understand when it is used. I once heard an English lady expla<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g
to a Frenchman how to pronounce the word Have.
“You will pronounce it,” said the lady reproachfully, “as if it
were spelt H-a-v. It isn’t. There is an ‘e’ at the end.”
“But I thought,” said the pupil, “that you did not sound the
‘e’ at the end of h-a-v-e.”
“No more you do,” expla<strong>in</strong>ed his teacher. “It is what we call a
mute ‘e’; but it exercises a modify<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>fluence on the preced<strong>in</strong>g
vowel.”
Before that, he used to say “have” quite <strong>in</strong>telligently. Afterwards,
when he came to the word he would stop dead, collect
his thoughts, and give expression to a sound that only the context
could expla<strong>in</strong>.
Putt<strong>in</strong>g aside the suffer<strong>in</strong>gs of the early martyrs, few men, I
suppose, have gone through more than I myself went through
<strong>in</strong> try<strong>in</strong>g to I atta<strong>in</strong> the correct pronunciation of the German
word for church — “Kirche.” Long before I had done with it I
had determ<strong>in</strong>ed never to go to church <strong>in</strong> Germany, rather than
be bothered with it.
“No, no,” my teacher would expla<strong>in</strong> — he was a pa<strong>in</strong>stak<strong>in</strong>g
gentleman; “you say it as if it were spelt K-i-r-c-h-k-e. There
is no k. It is — .” And he would illustrate to me aga<strong>in</strong>, for the
twentieth time that morn<strong>in</strong>g, how it should be pronounced;
the sad th<strong>in</strong>g be<strong>in</strong>g that I could never for the life of me detect
any difference between the way he said it and the way I said it.
So he would try a new method.
“You say it from your throat,” he would expla<strong>in</strong>. He was
quite right; I did. “I want you to say it from down here,” and
with a fat foref<strong>in</strong>ger he would <strong>in</strong>dicate the region from where
I was to start. After pa<strong>in</strong>ful efforts, result<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> sounds suggestive
of anyth<strong>in</strong>g rather than a place of worship, I would excuse
myself.
“I really fear it is impossible,” I would say. “You see, for years
I have always talked with my mouth, as it were; I never knew
a man could talk with his stomach. I doubt if it is not too late
now for me to learn.”

— 364 —
By spend<strong>in</strong>g hours <strong>in</strong> dark corners, and practis<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> silent
streets, to the terror of chance passers-by, I came at last to
pronounce this word correctly. My teacher was delighted with
me, and until I came to Germany I was pleased with myself.
In Germany I found that nobody understood what I meant by
it. I never got near a church with it. I had to drop the correct
pronunciation, and pa<strong>in</strong>stak<strong>in</strong>gly go back to my first wrong
pronunciation. Then they would brighten up, and tell me it
was round the corner, or down the next street, as the case
might be.
I also th<strong>in</strong>k pronunciation of a foreign tongue could be better
taught than by demand<strong>in</strong>g from the pupil those <strong>in</strong>ternal
acrobatic feats that are generally impossible and always useless.
This is the sort of <strong>in</strong>struction one receives:
“Press your tonsils aga<strong>in</strong>st the underside of your larynx.
Then with the convex part of the septum curved upwards so
as almost — but not quite — to touch the uvula, try with the
tip of your tongue to reach your thyroid. Take a deep breath,
and compress your glottis. Now, without open<strong>in</strong>g your lips, say
‘Garoo.’”
And when you have done it they are not satisfied.

— 365 —
CHAPTER XIII
An exam<strong>in</strong>ation <strong>in</strong>to the character and behaviour of the German
student — The German <strong>Men</strong>sur — Uses and abuses of use — Views
of an impressionist — The humour of the th<strong>in</strong>g — Recipe for mak<strong>in</strong>g
savages — The Jungfrau: her peculiar taste <strong>in</strong> laces — The
Kneipe — How to rub a Salamander — Advice to the stranger — A
story that might have ended sadly — Of two men and two wives —
Together with a bachelor.
ON our way home we <strong>in</strong>cluded a German University town, be<strong>in</strong>g
wishful to obta<strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>sight <strong>in</strong>to the ways of student life,
a curiosity that the courtesy of German friends enabled us to
gratify.
The English boy plays till he is fifteen, and works thence till
twenty. In Germany it is the child that works; the young man
that plays. The German boy goes to school at seven o’clock <strong>in</strong>
the summer, at eight <strong>in</strong> the w<strong>in</strong>ter, and at school he studies.
The result is that at sixteen he has a thorough knowledge of
the classics and mathematics, knows as much history as any
man compelled to belong to a political party is wise <strong>in</strong> know<strong>in</strong>g,
together with a thorough ground<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> modern languages.
Therefore his eight College Semesters, extend<strong>in</strong>g over four
years, are, except for the young man aim<strong>in</strong>g at a professorship,
unnecessarily ample. He is not a sportsman, which is a pity,
for he should make good one. He plays football a little, bicycles
still less; plays French billiards <strong>in</strong> stuffy cafés more. But
generally speak<strong>in</strong>g he, or the majority of him, lays out his time
bummel<strong>in</strong>g, beer dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g, and fight<strong>in</strong>g. If he be the son of a
wealthy father he jo<strong>in</strong>s a Korps — to belong to a crack Korps
costs about four hundred pounds a year. If he be a middle-class
young man, he enrols himself <strong>in</strong> a Burschenschaft, or a Landsmannschaft,
which is a little cheaper. These companies are
aga<strong>in</strong> broken up <strong>in</strong>to smaller circles, <strong>in</strong> which attempt is made
to keep to nationality. There are the Swabians, from Swabia;
the Frankonians, descendants of the Franks; the Thur<strong>in</strong>gians,
and so forth. In practice, of course, this results as all such attempts
do result — I believe half our Gordon Highlanders are

— 366 —
Cockneys — but the picturesque object is obta<strong>in</strong>ed of divid<strong>in</strong>g
each University <strong>in</strong>to some dozen or so separate companies of
students, each one with its dist<strong>in</strong>ctive cap and colours, and,
quite as important, its own particular beer hall, <strong>in</strong>to which no
other student wear<strong>in</strong>g his colours may come.
The chief work of these student companies is to fight among
themselves, or with some rival Korps or Schaft, the celebrated
German <strong>Men</strong>sur.
The <strong>Men</strong>sur has been described so often and so thoroughly
that I do not <strong>in</strong>tend to bore my readers with any detailed account
of it. I merely come forward as an impressionist, and I
write purposely the impression of my first <strong>Men</strong>sur, because I
believe that first impressions are more true and useful than
op<strong>in</strong>ions blunted by <strong>in</strong>tercourse, or shaped by <strong>in</strong>fluence.
A Frenchman or a Spaniard will seek to persuade you that
the bull-r<strong>in</strong>g is an <strong>in</strong>stitution got up chiefly for the benefit of
the bull. The horse which you imag<strong>in</strong>ed to be scream<strong>in</strong>g with
pa<strong>in</strong> was only laugh<strong>in</strong>g at the comical appearance presented
by its own <strong>in</strong>side. Your French or Spanish friend contrasts its
glorious and excit<strong>in</strong>g death <strong>in</strong> the r<strong>in</strong>g with the cold-blooded
brutality of the knacker’s yard. If you do not keep a tight hold
of your head, you come away with the desire to start an agitation
for the <strong>in</strong>ception of the bull-r<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> England as an aid to
chivalry. No doubt Torquemada was conv<strong>in</strong>ced of the humanity
of the Inquisition. To a stout gentleman, suffer<strong>in</strong>g, perhaps,
from cramp or rheumatism, an hour or so on the rack was
really a physical benefit. He would rise feel<strong>in</strong>g more free <strong>in</strong>
his jo<strong>in</strong>ts — more elastic, as one might say, than he had felt for
years. English huntsmen regard the fox as an animal to be envied.
A day’s excellent sport is provided for him free of charge,
dur<strong>in</strong>g which he is the centre of attraction.
Use bl<strong>in</strong>ds one to everyth<strong>in</strong>g one does not wish to see. Every
third German gentleman you meet <strong>in</strong> the street still bears, and
will bear to his grave, marks of the twenty to a hundred duels
he has fought <strong>in</strong> his student days. The German children play
at the <strong>Men</strong>sur <strong>in</strong> the nursery, rehearse it <strong>in</strong> the gymnasium.

— 367 —
The Germans have come to persuade themselves there is no
brutality <strong>in</strong> it — noth<strong>in</strong>g offensive, noth<strong>in</strong>g degrad<strong>in</strong>g. Their
argument is that it schools the German youth to coolness and
courage. If this could be proved, the argument, particularly <strong>in</strong>
a country where every man is a soldier, would be sufficiently
one-sided. But is the virtue of the prize-fighter the virtue of
the soldier? One doubts it. Nerve and dash are surely of more
service <strong>in</strong> the field than a temperament of unreason<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>difference
as to what is happen<strong>in</strong>g to one. As a matter of fact, the
German student would have to be possessed of much more
courage not to fight. He fights not to please himself, but to
satisfy a public op<strong>in</strong>ion that is two hundred years beh<strong>in</strong>d the
times.
All the <strong>Men</strong>sur does is to brutalise him. There may be skill
displayed — I am told there is, — but it is not apparent. The
mere fight<strong>in</strong>g is like noth<strong>in</strong>g so much as a broadsword combat
at a Richardson’s show; the display as a whole a successful attempt
to comb<strong>in</strong>e the ludicrous with the unpleasant. In aristocratic
Bonn, where style is considered, and <strong>in</strong> Heidelberg,
where visitors from other nations are more common, the affair
is perhaps more formal. I am told that there the contests take
place <strong>in</strong> handsome rooms; that grey-haired doctors wait upon
the wounded, and liveried servants upon the hungry, and that
the affair is conducted throughout with a certa<strong>in</strong> amount of
picturesque ceremony. In the more essentially German Universities,
where strangers are rare and not much encouraged,
the simple essentials are the only th<strong>in</strong>gs kept <strong>in</strong> view, and these
are not of an <strong>in</strong>vit<strong>in</strong>g nature.
Indeed, so dist<strong>in</strong>ctly un<strong>in</strong>vit<strong>in</strong>g are they, that I strongly advise
the sensitive reader to avoid even this description of them.
The subject cannot be made pretty, and I do not <strong>in</strong>tend to try.
The room is bare and sordid; its walls splashed with mixed
sta<strong>in</strong>s of beer, blood, and candle-grease; its ceil<strong>in</strong>g, smoky; its
floor, sawdust covered. A crowd of students, laugh<strong>in</strong>g, smok<strong>in</strong>g,
talk<strong>in</strong>g, some sitt<strong>in</strong>g on the floor, others perched upon
chairs and benches form the framework.

— 368 —
In the centre, fac<strong>in</strong>g one another, stand the combatants,
resembl<strong>in</strong>g Japanese warriors, as made familiar to us by the
Japanese tea-tray. Qua<strong>in</strong>t and rigid, with their goggle-covered
eyes, their necks tied up <strong>in</strong> comforters, their bodies smothered
<strong>in</strong> what looks like dirty bed quilts, their padded arms stretched
straight above their heads, they might be a pair of unga<strong>in</strong>ly
clockwork figures. The seconds, also more or less padded
— their heads and faces protected by huge leather-peaked
caps, — drag them out <strong>in</strong>to their proper position. One almost
listens to hear the sound of the castors. The umpire takes his
place, the word is given, and immediately there follow five
rapid clashes of the long straight swords. There is no <strong>in</strong>terest
<strong>in</strong> watch<strong>in</strong>g the fight: there is no movement, no skill, no grace
(I am speak<strong>in</strong>g of my own impressions.) The strongest man
w<strong>in</strong>s; the man who, with his heavily-padded arm, always <strong>in</strong>
an unnatural position, can hold his huge clumsy sword longest
without grow<strong>in</strong>g too weak to be able either to guard or to
strike.
The whole <strong>in</strong>terest is centred <strong>in</strong> watch<strong>in</strong>g the wounds. They
come always <strong>in</strong> one of two places — on the top of the head or
the left side of the face. Sometimes a portion of hairy scalp or
section of cheek flies up <strong>in</strong>to the air, to be carefully preserved
<strong>in</strong> an envelope by its proud possessor, or, strictly speak<strong>in</strong>g,
its proud former possessor, and shown round on convivial
even<strong>in</strong>gs; and from every wound, of course, flows a plentiful
stream of blood. It splashes doctors, seconds, and spectators; it
spr<strong>in</strong>kles ceil<strong>in</strong>g and walls; it saturates the fighters, and makes
pools for itself <strong>in</strong> the sawdust. At the end of each round the
doctors rush up, and with hands already dripp<strong>in</strong>g with blood
press together the gap<strong>in</strong>g wounds, dabb<strong>in</strong>g them with little
balls of wet cotton wool, which an attendant carries ready on a
plate. Naturally, the moment the men stand up aga<strong>in</strong> and commence
work, the blood gushes out aga<strong>in</strong>, half bl<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g them,
and render<strong>in</strong>g the ground beneath them slippery. Now and
then you see a man’s teeth laid bare almost to the ear, so that
for the rest of the duel he appears to be gr<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g at one half

— 369 —
of the spectators, his other side, rema<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g serious; and sometimes
a man’s nose gets slit, which gives to him as he fights a
s<strong>in</strong>gularly supercilious air.
As the object of each student is to go away from the University
bear<strong>in</strong>g as many scars as possible, I doubt if any particular
pa<strong>in</strong>s are taken to guard, even to the small extent such method
of fight<strong>in</strong>g can allow. The real victor is he who comes out with
the greatest number of wounds; he who then, stitched and
patched almost to unrecognition as a human be<strong>in</strong>g, can promenade
for the next month, the envy of the German youth, the
admiration of the German maiden. He who obta<strong>in</strong>s only a few
unimportant wounds retires sulky and disappo<strong>in</strong>ted.
But the actual fight<strong>in</strong>g is only the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g of the fun. The
second act of the spectacle takes place <strong>in</strong> the dress<strong>in</strong>g-room.
The doctors are generally mere medical students — young fellows
who, hav<strong>in</strong>g taken their degree, are anxious for practice.
Truth compels me to say that those with whom I came <strong>in</strong>
contact were coarse-look<strong>in</strong>g men who seemed rather to relish
their work. Perhaps they are not to be blamed for this.
It is part of the system that as much further punishment as
possible must be <strong>in</strong>flicted by the doctor, and the ideal medical
man might hardly care for such job. How the student bears
the dress<strong>in</strong>g of his wounds is as important as how he receives
them. Every operation has to be performed as brutally as may
be, and his companions carefully watch him dur<strong>in</strong>g the process
to see that he goes through it with an appearance of peace and
enjoyment. A clean-cut wound that gapes wide is most desired
by all parties. On purpose it is sewn up clumsily, with the hope
that by this means the scar will last a lifetime. Such a wound,
judiciously mauled and <strong>in</strong>terfered with dur<strong>in</strong>g the week afterwards,
can generally be reckoned on to secure its fortunate
possessor a wife with a dowry of five figures at the least.
These are the general bi-weekly <strong>Men</strong>surs, of which the average
student fights some dozen a year. There are others to
which visitors are not admitted. When a student is considered
to have disgraced himself by some slight <strong>in</strong>voluntary move-

— 370 —
ment of the head or body while fight<strong>in</strong>g, then he can only
rega<strong>in</strong> his position by stand<strong>in</strong>g up to the best swordsman <strong>in</strong>
his Korps. He demands and is accorded, not a contest, but a
punishment. His opponent then proceeds to <strong>in</strong>flict as many
and as bloody wounds as can be taken. The object of the victim
is to show his comrades that he can stand still while his head is
half sliced from his skull.
Whether anyth<strong>in</strong>g can properly be said <strong>in</strong> favour of the
German <strong>Men</strong>sur I am doubtful; but if so it concerns only
the two combatants. Upon the spectators it can and does, I
am conv<strong>in</strong>ced, exercise noth<strong>in</strong>g but evil. I know myself sufficiently
well to be sure I am not of an unusually bloodthirsty
disposition. The effect it had upon me can only be the usual
effect. At first, before the actual work commenced, my sensation
was curiosity m<strong>in</strong>gled with anxiety as to how the sight
would trouble me, though some slight acqua<strong>in</strong>tance with dissect<strong>in</strong>g-rooms
and operat<strong>in</strong>g tables left me less doubt on that
po<strong>in</strong>t than I might otherwise have felt. As the blood began to
flow, and nerves and muscles to be laid bare, I experienced a
m<strong>in</strong>gl<strong>in</strong>g of disgust and pity. But with the second duel, I must
confess, my f<strong>in</strong>er feel<strong>in</strong>gs began to disappear; and by the time
the third was well upon its way, and the room heavy with the
curious hot odour of blood, I began, as the American expression
is, to see th<strong>in</strong>gs red.
I wanted more. I looked from face to face surround<strong>in</strong>g me,
and <strong>in</strong> most of them I found reflected undoubtedly my own
sensations. If it be a good th<strong>in</strong>g to excite this blood thirst <strong>in</strong>
the modern man, then the <strong>Men</strong>sur is a useful <strong>in</strong>stitution. But
is it a good th<strong>in</strong>g? We prate about our civilisation and humanity,
but those of us who do not carry hypocrisy to the length of
self-deception know that underneath our starched shirts there
lurks the savage, with all his savage <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>cts untouched. Occasionally
he may be wanted, but we never need fear his dy<strong>in</strong>g
out. On the other hand, it seems unwise to over-nourish him.
In favour of the duel, seriously considered, there are many
po<strong>in</strong>ts to be urged. But the <strong>Men</strong>sur serves no good purpose

— 371 —
whatever. It is childishness, and the fact of its be<strong>in</strong>g a cruel
and brutal game makes it none the less childish. Wounds have
no <strong>in</strong>tr<strong>in</strong>sic value of their own; it is the cause that dignifies
them, not their size. William Tell is rightly one of the heroes of
the world; but what should we th<strong>in</strong>k of the members of a club
of fathers, formed with the object of meet<strong>in</strong>g twice a week to
shoot apples from their sons’ heads with cross-bows? These
young German gentlemen could obta<strong>in</strong> all the results of which
they are so proud by teas<strong>in</strong>g a wild cat! To jo<strong>in</strong> a society for the
mere purpose of gett<strong>in</strong>g yourself hacked about reduces a man
to the <strong>in</strong>tellectual level of a danc<strong>in</strong>g Dervish. Travellers tell us
of savages <strong>in</strong> Central Africa who express their feel<strong>in</strong>gs on festive
occasions by jump<strong>in</strong>g about and slash<strong>in</strong>g themselves. But
there is no need for Europe to imitate them. The <strong>Men</strong>sur is, <strong>in</strong>
fact, the reductio ad absurdum of the duel; and if the Germans
themselves cannot see that it is funny, one can only regret their
lack of humour.
But though one may be unable to agree with the public
op<strong>in</strong>ion that supports and commands the <strong>Men</strong>sur, it at least
is possible to understand. The University code that, if it does
not encourage it, at least condones drunkenness, is more difficult
to treat argumentatively. All German students do not get
drunk; <strong>in</strong> fact, the majority are sober, if not <strong>in</strong>dustrious. But
the m<strong>in</strong>ority, whose claim to be representative is freely admitted,
are only saved from perpetual <strong>in</strong>ebriety by ability, acquired
at some cost, to swill half the day and all the night, while reta<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g
to some extent their five senses. It does not affect all
alike, but it is common <strong>in</strong> any University town to see a young
man not yet twenty with the figure of a Falstaff and the complexion
of a Rubens Bacchus. That the German maiden can be
fasc<strong>in</strong>ated with a face, cut and gashed till it suggests hav<strong>in</strong>g
been made out of odd materials that never could have fitted,
is a proved fact. But surely there can be no attraction about a
blotched and bloated sk<strong>in</strong> and a “bay w<strong>in</strong>dow” thrown out to
an extent threaten<strong>in</strong>g to overbalance the whole structure. Yet
what else can be expected, when the youngster starts his beer-

— 372 —
dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g with a “Fruhschoppen” at 10 a.m., and closes it with
a “Kneipe” at four <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g?
The Kneipe is what we should call a stag party, and can be
very harmless or very rowdy, accord<strong>in</strong>g to its composition.
One man <strong>in</strong>vites his fellow-students, a dozen or a hundred, to a
café, and provides them with as much beer and as many cheap
cigars as their own sense of health and comfort may dictate,
or the host may be the Korps itself. Here, as everywhere, you
observe the German sense of discipl<strong>in</strong>e and order. As each new
comer enters all those sitt<strong>in</strong>g round the table rise, and with
heels close together salute. When the table is complete, a chairman
is chosen, whose duty it is to give out the number of the
songs. Pr<strong>in</strong>ted books of these songs, one to each two men, lie
round the table. The chairman gives out number twenty-n<strong>in</strong>e.
“First verse,” he cries, and away all go, each two men hold<strong>in</strong>g a
book between them exactly as two people might hold a hymnbook
<strong>in</strong> church. There is a pause at the end of each verse until
the chairman starts the company on the next. As every German
is a tra<strong>in</strong>ed s<strong>in</strong>ger, and as most of them have fair voices,
the general effect is strik<strong>in</strong>g.
Although the manner may be suggestive of the s<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g of
hymns <strong>in</strong> church, the words of the songs are occasionally such
as to correct this impression. But whether it be a patriotic song,
a sentimental ballad, or a ditty of a nature that would shock
the average young Englishman, all are sung through with stern
earnestness, without a laugh, without a false note. At the end,
the chairman calls “Prosit!” Everyone answers “Prosit!” and
the next moment every glass is empty. The pianist rises and
bows, and is bowed to <strong>in</strong> return; and then the Fraule<strong>in</strong> enters
to refill the glasses.
Between the songs, toasts are proposed and responded to;
but there is little cheer<strong>in</strong>g, and less laughter. Smiles and grave
nods of approval are considered as more seem<strong>in</strong>g among German
students.
A particular toast, called a Salamander, accorded to some

— 373 —
guest as a special dist<strong>in</strong>ction, is drunk with exceptional solemnity.
“We will now,” says the chairman, “a Salamander rub” (“E<strong>in</strong>en
Salamander reiben”). We all rise, and stand like a regiment
at attention.
“Is the stuff prepared?” (“S<strong>in</strong>d die stoffe parat?”) demands
the chairman.
“Sunt,” we answer, with one voice.
“Ad exercitium Salamandri,” says the chairman, and we are
ready.
“E<strong>in</strong>s!” We rub our glasses with a circular motion on the
table.
“Zwei!” Aga<strong>in</strong> the glasses growl; also at “Drei!”
“Dr<strong>in</strong>k!” (“Bibite!”)
And with mechanical unison every glass is emptied and
held on high.
“E<strong>in</strong>s!” says the chairman. The foot of every empty glass
twirls upon the table, produc<strong>in</strong>g a sound as of the dragg<strong>in</strong>g
back of a stony beach by a reced<strong>in</strong>g wave.
“Zwei!” The roll swells and s<strong>in</strong>ks aga<strong>in</strong>.
“Drei!” The glasses strike the table with a s<strong>in</strong>gle crash, and
we are <strong>in</strong> our seats aga<strong>in</strong>.
The sport at the Kneipe is for two students to <strong>in</strong>sult each
other (<strong>in</strong> play, of course), and to then challenge each other to
a dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g duel. An umpire is appo<strong>in</strong>ted, two huge glasses are
filled, and the men sit opposite each other with their hands
upon the handles, all eyes fixed upon them. The umpire gives
the word to go, and <strong>in</strong> an <strong>in</strong>stant the beer is gurgl<strong>in</strong>g down
their throats. The man who bangs his perfectly f<strong>in</strong>ished glass
upon the table first is victor.
Strangers who are go<strong>in</strong>g through a Kneipe, and who wish to
do the th<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> German style, will do well, before commenc<strong>in</strong>g
proceed<strong>in</strong>gs, to p<strong>in</strong> their name and address upon their coats.
The German student is courtesy itself, and whatever his own
state may be, he will see to it that, by some means or another,

— 374 —
his guest gets safely home before the morn<strong>in</strong>g. But, of course,
he cannot be expected to remember addresses.
A story was told me of three guests to a Berl<strong>in</strong> Kneipe which
might have had tragic results. The strangers determ<strong>in</strong>ed to
do the th<strong>in</strong>g thoroughly. They expla<strong>in</strong>ed their <strong>in</strong>tention, and
were applauded, and each proceeded to write his address upon
his card, and p<strong>in</strong> it to the tablecloth <strong>in</strong> front of him. That was
the mistake they made. They should, as I have advised, have
p<strong>in</strong>ned it carefully to their coats. A man may change his place
at a table, quite unconsciously he may come out the other side
of it; but wherever he goes he takes his coat with him.
Some time <strong>in</strong> the small hours, the chairman suggested that
to make th<strong>in</strong>gs more comfortable for those still upright, all the
gentlemen unable to keep their heads off the table should be
sent home. Among those to whom the proceed<strong>in</strong>gs had become
un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g were the three Englishmen. It was decided
to put them <strong>in</strong>to a cab <strong>in</strong> charge of a comparatively speak<strong>in</strong>g
sober student, and return them. Had they reta<strong>in</strong>ed their orig<strong>in</strong>al
seats throughout the even<strong>in</strong>g all would have been well;
but, unfortunately, they had gone walk<strong>in</strong>g about, and which
gentleman belonged to which card nobody knew — least of all
the guests themselves. In the then state of general cheerfulness,
this did not to anybody appear to much matter. There were
three gentlemen and three addresses. I suppose the idea was
that even if a mistake were made, the parties could be sorted
out <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g. Anyhow, the three gentlemen were put
<strong>in</strong>to a cab, the comparatively speak<strong>in</strong>g sober student took the
three cards <strong>in</strong> his hand, and the party started amid the cheers
and good wishes of the company.
There is this advantage about German beer: it does not
make a man drunk as the word drunk is understood <strong>in</strong> England.
There is noth<strong>in</strong>g objectionable about him; he is simply
tired. He does not want to talk; he wants to be let alone, to go
to sleep; it does not matter where — anywhere.
The conductor of the party stopped his cab at the nearest
address. He took out his worst case; it was a natural <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct

— 375 —
to get rid of that first. He and the cabman carried it upstairs,
and rang the bell of the Pension. A sleepy porter answered it.
They carried their burden <strong>in</strong>, and looked for a place to drop it.
A bedroom door happened to be open; the room was empty;
could anyth<strong>in</strong>g be better? — they took it <strong>in</strong> there. They relieved
it of such th<strong>in</strong>gs as came off easily, and laid it <strong>in</strong> the bed. This
done, both men, pleased with themselves, returned to the cab.
At the next address they stopped aga<strong>in</strong>. This time, <strong>in</strong> answer
to their summons, a lady appeared, dressed <strong>in</strong> a tea gown, with
a book <strong>in</strong> her hand. The German student looked at the top one
of two cards rema<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> his hand, and enquired if he had the
pleasure of address<strong>in</strong>g Frau Y. It happened that he had, though
so far as any pleasure was concerned that appeared to be entirely
on his side. He expla<strong>in</strong>ed to Frau Y. that the gentleman
at that moment asleep aga<strong>in</strong>st the wall was her husband. The
reunion moved her to no enthusiasm; she simply opened the
bedroom door, and then walked away. The cabman and the
student took him <strong>in</strong>, and laid him on the bed. They did not
trouble to undress him, they were feel<strong>in</strong>g tired! They did not
see the lady of the house aga<strong>in</strong>, and retired therefore without
adieus.
The last card was that of a bachelor stopp<strong>in</strong>g at an hotel.
They took their last man, therefore, to that hotel, passed him
over to the night porter, and left him.
To return to the address at which the first delivery was
made, what had happened there was this. Some eight hours
previously had said Mr. X. to Mrs. X.: “I th<strong>in</strong>k I told you, my
dear, that I had an <strong>in</strong>vitation for this even<strong>in</strong>g to what, I believe,
is called a Kneipe?”
“You did mention someth<strong>in</strong>g of the sort,” replied Mrs. X.
“What is a Kneipe?”
“Well, it’s a sort of bachelor party, my dear, where the students
meet to s<strong>in</strong>g and talk and — and smoke, and all that sort
of th<strong>in</strong>g, you know.”
“Oh, well, I hope you will enjoy yourself !” said Mrs. X., who
was a nice woman and sensible.

— 376 —
“It will be <strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g,” observed Mr. X. “I have often had a
curiosity to see one. I may,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued Mr. X., — “I mean it is
possible, that I may be home a little late.”
“What do you call late?” asked Mrs. X.
“It is somewhat difficult to say,” returned Mr. X. “You see
these students, they are a wild lot, and when they get together
— And then, I believe, a good many toasts are drunk. I don’t
know how it will affect me. If I can see an opportunity I shall
come away early, that is if I can do so without giv<strong>in</strong>g offence;
but if not —”
Said Mrs. X., who, as I remarked before, was a sensible woman:
“You had better get the people here to lend you a latchkey. I
shall sleep with Dolly, and then you won’t disturb me whatever
time it may be.”
“I th<strong>in</strong>k that an excellent idea of yours,” agreed Mr. X. “I
should hate disturb<strong>in</strong>g you. I shall just come <strong>in</strong> quietly, and
slip <strong>in</strong>to bed.”
Some time <strong>in</strong> the middle of the night, or maybe towards the
early morn<strong>in</strong>g, Dolly, who was Mrs. X.’s sister, sat up <strong>in</strong> bed
and listened.
“Jenny,” said Dolly, “are you awake?”
“Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. X. “It’s all right. You go to sleep
aga<strong>in</strong>.”
“But whatever is it?” asked Dolly. “Do you th<strong>in</strong>k it’s fire?”
“I expect,” replied Mrs. X., “that it’s Percy. Very possibly he
has stumbled over someth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> the dark. Don’t you worry,
dear; you go to sleep.”
But so soon as Dolly had dozed off aga<strong>in</strong>, Mrs. X., who was
a good wife, thought she would steal off softly and see to it
that Percy was all right. So, putt<strong>in</strong>g on a dress<strong>in</strong>g-gown and
slippers, she crept along the passage and <strong>in</strong>to her own room.
To awake the gentleman on the bed would have required an
earthquake. She lit a candle and stole over to the bedside.
It was not Percy; it was not anyone like Percy. She felt it was
not the man that ever could have been her husband, under any
circumstances. In his present condition her sentiment towards

— 377 —
him was that of positive dislike. Her only desire was to get rid
of him.
But someth<strong>in</strong>g there was about him which seemed familiar
to her. She went nearer, and took a closer view. Then she remembered.
Surely it was Mr. Y., a gentleman at whose flat she
and Percy had d<strong>in</strong>ed the day they first arrived <strong>in</strong> Berl<strong>in</strong>.
But what was he do<strong>in</strong>g here? She put the candle on the table,
and tak<strong>in</strong>g her head between her hands sat down to th<strong>in</strong>k. The
explanation of the th<strong>in</strong>g came to her with a rush. It was with
this Mr. Y. that Percy had gone to the Kneipe. A mistake had
been made. Mr. Y. had been brought back to Percy’s address.
Percy at this very moment —
The terrible possibilities of the situation swam before her.
Return<strong>in</strong>g to Dolly’s room, she dressed herself hastily, and
silently crept downstairs. F<strong>in</strong>d<strong>in</strong>g, fortunately, a pass<strong>in</strong>g nightcab,
she drove to the address of Mrs. Y. Tell<strong>in</strong>g the man to
wait, she flew upstairs and rang persistently at the bell. It was
opened as before by Mrs. Y., still <strong>in</strong> her tea-gown, and with her
book still <strong>in</strong> her hand.
“Mrs. X.!” exclaimed Mrs. Y. “Whatever br<strong>in</strong>gs you here?”
“My husband!” was all poor Mrs. X. could th<strong>in</strong>k to say at the
moment, “is he here?”
“Mrs. X.,” returned Mrs. Y., draw<strong>in</strong>g herself up to her full
height, “how dare you?”
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand me!” pleaded Mrs. X. “It’s
all a terrible mistake. They must have brought poor Percy here
<strong>in</strong>stead of to our place, I’m sure they must. Do please look and
see.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Y., who was a much older woman,
and more motherly, “don’t excite yourself. They brought him
here about half an hour ago, and, to tell you the truth, I never
looked at him. He is <strong>in</strong> here. I don’t th<strong>in</strong>k they troubled to take
off even his boots. If you keep cool, we will get him downstairs
and home without a soul beyond ourselves be<strong>in</strong>g any
the wiser.”
Indeed, Mrs. Y. seemed quite eager to help Mrs. X.

— 378 —
She pushed open the door, and Mrs. X, went <strong>in</strong>. The next
moment she came out with a white, scared face.
“It isn’t Percy,” she said. “Whatever am I to do?”
“I wish you wouldn’t make these mistakes,” said Mrs. Y.,
mov<strong>in</strong>g to enter the room herself.
Mrs. X. stopped her. “And it isn’t your husband either.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Y.
“It isn’t really,” persisted Mrs. X. “I know, because I have just
left him, asleep on Percy’s bed.”
“What’s he do<strong>in</strong>g there?” thundered Mrs. Y.
“They brought him there, and put him there,” expla<strong>in</strong>ed
Mrs. X., beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g to cry. “That’s what made me th<strong>in</strong>k Percy
must be here.”
The two women stood and looked at one another; and there
was silence for awhile, broken only by the snor<strong>in</strong>g of the gentleman
the other side of the half-open door.
“Then who is that, <strong>in</strong> there?” demanded Mrs. Y., who was
the first to recover herself.
“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. X., “I have never seen him
before. Do you th<strong>in</strong>k it is anybody you know?”
But Mrs. Y. only banged to the door.
“What are we to do?” said Mrs. X.
“I know what I am go<strong>in</strong>g to do,” said Mrs. Y. “I’m com<strong>in</strong>g
back with you to fetch my husband.”
“He’s very sleepy,” expla<strong>in</strong>ed Mrs. X.
“I’ve known him to be that before,” replied Mrs. Y., as she
fastened on her cloak.
“But where’s Percy?” sobbed poor little Mrs. X., as they descended
the stairs together.
“That my dear,” said Mrs. Y., “will be a question for you to
ask him.”
“If they go about mak<strong>in</strong>g mistakes like this,” said Mrs. X., “it
is impossible to say what they may not have done with him.”
“We will make enquiries <strong>in</strong> the morn<strong>in</strong>g, my dear,” said Mrs.
Y., consol<strong>in</strong>gly.

— 379 —
“I th<strong>in</strong>k these Kneipes are disgraceful affairs,” said Mrs. X. “I
shall never let Percy go to another, never — so long as I live.”
“My dear,” remarked Mrs. Y., “if you know your duty, he will
never want to.” And rumour has it that he never did.
But, as I have said, the mistake was <strong>in</strong> p<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g the card to
the tablecloth <strong>in</strong>stead of to the coat. And error <strong>in</strong> this world is
always severely punished.

— 380 —
CHAPTER XIV
Which is serious: as becomes a part<strong>in</strong>g chapter — The German
from the Anglo-Saxon’s po<strong>in</strong>t of view — Providence <strong>in</strong> buttons and
a helmet — Paradise of the helpless idiot — German conscience: its
aggressiveness — How they hang <strong>in</strong> Germany, very possibly — What
happens to good Germans when they die? — The military <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct:
is it all-sufficient? — The German as a shopkeeper — How he supports
life — The New Woman, here as everywhere — What can be
said aga<strong>in</strong>st the Germans, as a people — The Bummel is over and
done.
“ANYBODY could rule this country,” said George; “I could
rule it.”
We were seated <strong>in</strong> the garden of the Kaiser Hof at Bonn,
look<strong>in</strong>g down upon the Rh<strong>in</strong>e. It was the last even<strong>in</strong>g of our
Bummel; the early morn<strong>in</strong>g tra<strong>in</strong> would be the beg<strong>in</strong>n<strong>in</strong>g of
the end.
“I should write down all I wanted the people to do on a
piece of paper,” cont<strong>in</strong>ued George; “get a good firm to pr<strong>in</strong>t
off so many copies, have them posted about the towns and villages;
and the th<strong>in</strong>g would be done.”
In the placid, docile German of to-day, whose only ambition
appears to be to pay his taxes, and do what he is told to do by
those whom it has pleased Providence to place <strong>in</strong> authority
over him, it is difficult, one must confess, to detect any trace of
his wild ancestor, to whom <strong>in</strong>dividual liberty was as the breath
of his nostrils; who appo<strong>in</strong>ted his magistrates to advise, but
reta<strong>in</strong>ed the right of execution for the tribe; who followed his
chief, but would have scorned to obey him. In Germany to-day
one hears a good deal concern<strong>in</strong>g Socialism, but it is a Socialism
that would only be despotism under another name. Individualism
makes no appeal to the German voter. He is will<strong>in</strong>g,
nay, anxious, to be controlled and regulated <strong>in</strong> all th<strong>in</strong>gs. He
disputes, not government, but the form of it. The policeman
is to him a religion, and, one feels, will always rema<strong>in</strong> so. In
England we regard our man <strong>in</strong> blue as a harmless necessity. By
the average citizen he is employed chiefly as a signpost, though

— 381 —
<strong>in</strong> busy quarters of the town he is considered useful for tak<strong>in</strong>g
old ladies across the road. Beyond feel<strong>in</strong>g thankful to him for
these services, I doubt if we take much thought of him. In Germany,
on the other hand, he is worshipped as a little god and
loved as a guardian angel. To the German child he is a comb<strong>in</strong>ation
of Santa Clans and the Bogie Man. All good th<strong>in</strong>gs
come from him: Spielplätze to play <strong>in</strong>, furnished with sw<strong>in</strong>gs
and giant-strides, sand heaps to fight around, swimm<strong>in</strong>g baths,
and fairs. All misbehaviour is punished by him. It is the hope
of every well-mean<strong>in</strong>g German boy and girl to please the police.
To be smiled at by a policeman makes it conceited. A German
child that has been patted on the head by a policeman is
not fit to live with; its self-importance is unbearable.
The German citizen is a soldier, and the policeman is his
officer. The policeman directs him where <strong>in</strong> the street to walk,
and how fast to walk. At the end of each bridge stands a policeman
to tell the German how to cross it. Were there no policeman
there, he would probably sit down and wait till the river
had passed by. At the railway station the policeman locks him
up <strong>in</strong> the wait<strong>in</strong>g-room, where he can do no harm to himself.
When the proper time arrives, he fetches him out and hands
him over to the guard of the tra<strong>in</strong>, who is only a policeman <strong>in</strong>
another uniform. The guard tells him where to sit <strong>in</strong> the tra<strong>in</strong>,
and when to get out, and sees that he does get out. In Germany
you take no responsibility upon yourself whatever. Everyth<strong>in</strong>g
is done for you, and done well. You are not supposed to look after
yourself; you are not blamed for be<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>capable of look<strong>in</strong>g
after yourself; it is the duty of the German policeman to look
after you. That you may be a helpless idiot does not excuse him
should anyth<strong>in</strong>g happen to you. Wherever you are and whatever
you are do<strong>in</strong>g you are <strong>in</strong> his charge, and he takes care of
you — good care of you; there is no deny<strong>in</strong>g this.
If you lose yourself, he f<strong>in</strong>ds you; and if you lose anyth<strong>in</strong>g
belong<strong>in</strong>g to you, he recovers it for you. If you don’t know what
you want, he tells you. If you want anyth<strong>in</strong>g that is good for
you to have, he gets it for you. Private lawyers are not needed

— 382 —
<strong>in</strong> Germany. If you want to buy or sell a house or field, the State
makes out the conveyance. If you have been sw<strong>in</strong>dled, the State
takes up the case for you. The State marries you, <strong>in</strong>sures you,
will even gamble with you for a trifle.
“You get yourself born,” says the German Government to
the German citizen, “we do the rest. Indoors and out of doors,
<strong>in</strong> sickness and <strong>in</strong> health, <strong>in</strong> pleasure and <strong>in</strong> work, we will tell
you what to do, and we will see to it that you do it. Don’t you
worry yourself about anyth<strong>in</strong>g.”
And the German doesn’t. Where there is no policeman to be
found, he wanders about till he comes to a police notice posted
on a wall. This he reads; then he goes and does what it says.
I remember <strong>in</strong> one German town — I forget which; it is immaterial;
the <strong>in</strong>cident could have happened <strong>in</strong> any — notic<strong>in</strong>g
an open gate lead<strong>in</strong>g to a garden <strong>in</strong> which a concert was be<strong>in</strong>g
given. There was noth<strong>in</strong>g to prevent anyone who chose from
walk<strong>in</strong>g through that gate, and thus ga<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g admittance to the
concert without pay<strong>in</strong>g. In fact, of the two gates quarter of a
mile apart it was the more convenient. Yet of the crowds that
passed, not one attempted to enter by that gate. They plodded
steadily on under a blaz<strong>in</strong>g sun to the other gate, at which a
man stood to collect the entrance money. I have seen German
youngsters stand long<strong>in</strong>gly by the marg<strong>in</strong> of a lonely sheet of
ice. They could have skated on that ice for hours, and nobody
have been the wiser. The crowd and the police were at the
other end, more than half a mile away, and round the corner.
Noth<strong>in</strong>g stopped their go<strong>in</strong>g on but the knowledge that they
ought not. Th<strong>in</strong>gs such as these make one pause to seriously
wonder whether the Teuton be a member of the s<strong>in</strong>ful human
family or not. Is it not possible that these placid, gentle folk
may <strong>in</strong> reality be angels, come down to earth for the sake of a
glass of beer, which, as they must know, can only <strong>in</strong> Germany
be obta<strong>in</strong>ed worth the dr<strong>in</strong>k<strong>in</strong>g?
In Germany the country roads are l<strong>in</strong>ed with fruit trees.
There is no voice to stay man or boy from pick<strong>in</strong>g and eat<strong>in</strong>g
the fruit, except conscience. In England such a state of th<strong>in</strong>gs

— 383 —
would cause public <strong>in</strong>dignation. Children would die of cholera
by the hundred. The medical profession would be worked off
its legs try<strong>in</strong>g to cope with the natural results of over-<strong>in</strong>dulgence
<strong>in</strong> sour apples and unripe walnuts. Public op<strong>in</strong>ion would
demand that these fruit trees should be fenced about, and thus
rendered harmless. Fruit growers, to save themselves the expense
of walls and pal<strong>in</strong>gs, would not be allowed <strong>in</strong> this manner
to spread sickness and death throughout the community.
But <strong>in</strong> Germany a boy will walk for miles down a lonely
road, hedged with fruit trees, to buy a pennyworth of pears
<strong>in</strong> the village at the other end. To pass these unprotected fruit
trees, droop<strong>in</strong>g under their burden of ripe fruit, strikes the Anglo-Saxon
m<strong>in</strong>d as a wicked waste of opportunity, a flout<strong>in</strong>g of
the blessed gifts of Providence.
I do not know if it be so, but from what I have observed of
the German character I should not be surprised to hear that
when a man <strong>in</strong> Germany is condemned to death he is given a
piece of rope, and told to go and hang himself. It would save
the State much trouble and expense, and I can see that German
crim<strong>in</strong>al tak<strong>in</strong>g that piece of rope home with him, read<strong>in</strong>g up
carefully the police <strong>in</strong>structions, and proceed<strong>in</strong>g to carry them
out <strong>in</strong> his own back kitchen.
The Germans are a good people. On the whole, the best people
perhaps <strong>in</strong> the world; an amiable, unselfish, k<strong>in</strong>dly people.
I am positive that the vast majority of them go to Heaven.
Indeed, compar<strong>in</strong>g them with the other Christian nations of
the earth, one is forced to the conclusion that Heaven will
be chiefly of German manufacture. But I cannot understand
how they get there. That the soul of any s<strong>in</strong>gle <strong>in</strong>dividual German
has sufficient <strong>in</strong>itiative to fly up by itself and knock at
St. Peter’s door, I cannot believe. My own op<strong>in</strong>ion is that they
are taken there <strong>in</strong> small companies, and passed <strong>in</strong> under the
charge of a dead policeman.
Carlyle said of the Prussians, and it is true of the whole German
nation, that one of their chief virtues was their power of
be<strong>in</strong>g drilled. Of the Germans you might say they are a people

— 384 —
who will go anywhere, and do anyth<strong>in</strong>g, they are told. Drill
him for the work and send him out to Africa or Asia under
charge of somebody <strong>in</strong> uniform, and he is bound to make an
excellent colonist, fac<strong>in</strong>g difficulties as he would face the devil
himself, if ordered. But it is not easy to conceive of him as a
pioneer. Left to run himself, one feels he would soon fade away
and die, not from any lack of <strong>in</strong>telligence, but from sheer want
of presumption.
The German has so long been the soldier of Europe, that
the military <strong>in</strong>st<strong>in</strong>ct has entered <strong>in</strong>to his blood. The military
virtues he possesses <strong>in</strong> abundance; but he also suffers from the
drawbacks of the military tra<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g. It was told me of a German
servant, lately released from the barracks, that he was <strong>in</strong>structed
by his master to deliver a letter to a certa<strong>in</strong> house, and
to wait there for the answer. The hours passed by, and the man
did not return. His master, anxious and surprised, followed. He
found the man where he had been sent, the answer <strong>in</strong> his hand.
He was wait<strong>in</strong>g for further orders. The story sounds exaggerated,
but personally I can credit it.
The curious th<strong>in</strong>g is that the same man, who as an <strong>in</strong>dividual
is as helpless as a child, becomes, the moment he puts
on the uniform, an <strong>in</strong>telligent be<strong>in</strong>g, capable of responsibility
and <strong>in</strong>itiative. The German can rule others, and be ruled by
others, but he cannot rule himself. The cure would appear
to be to tra<strong>in</strong> every German for an officer, and then put him
under himself. It is certa<strong>in</strong> he would order himself about with
discretion and judgment, and see to it that he himself obeyed
himself with smartness and precision.
For the direction of German character <strong>in</strong>to these channels,
the schools, of course, are chiefly responsible. Their everlast<strong>in</strong>g
teach<strong>in</strong>g is duty. It is a f<strong>in</strong>e ideal for any people; but before
buckl<strong>in</strong>g to it, one would wish to have a clear understand<strong>in</strong>g as
to what this “duty” is. The German idea of it would appear to
be: “bl<strong>in</strong>d obedience to everyth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> buttons.” It is the antithesis
of the Anglo-Saxon scheme; but as both the Anglo-Saxon
and the Teuton are prosper<strong>in</strong>g, there must be good <strong>in</strong> both

— 385 —
methods. Hitherto, the German has had the blessed fortune to
be exceptionally well governed; if this cont<strong>in</strong>ue, it will go well
with him. When his troubles will beg<strong>in</strong> will be when by any
chance someth<strong>in</strong>g goes wrong with the govern<strong>in</strong>g mach<strong>in</strong>e.
But maybe his method has the advantage of produc<strong>in</strong>g a cont<strong>in</strong>uous
supply of good governors; it would certa<strong>in</strong>ly seem so.
As a trader, I am <strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to th<strong>in</strong>k the German will, unless
his temperament considerably change, rema<strong>in</strong> always a long
way beh<strong>in</strong>d his Anglo-Saxon competitor; and this by reason
of his virtues. To him life is someth<strong>in</strong>g more important than
a mere race for wealth. A country that closes its banks and
post-offices for two hours <strong>in</strong> the middle of the day, while it
goes home and enjoys a comfortable meal <strong>in</strong> the bosom of its
family, with, perhaps, forty w<strong>in</strong>ks by way of dessert, cannot
hope, and possibly has no wish, to compete with a people that
takes its meals stand<strong>in</strong>g, and sleeps with a telephone over its
bed. In Germany there is not, at all events as yet, sufficient dist<strong>in</strong>ction
between the classes to make the struggle for position
the life and death affair it is <strong>in</strong> England. Beyond the landed
aristocracy, whose boundaries are impregnable, grade hardly
counts. Frau Professor and Frau Candlestickmaker meet at
the weekly Kaffee-Klatsch and exchange scandal on terms of
mutual equality. The livery-stable keeper and the doctor hobnob
together at their favourite beer hall. The wealthy master
builder, when he prepares his roomy waggon for an excursion
<strong>in</strong>to the country, <strong>in</strong>vites his foreman and his tailor to jo<strong>in</strong> him
with their families. Each br<strong>in</strong>gs his share of dr<strong>in</strong>k and provisions,
and return<strong>in</strong>g home they s<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> chorus the same songs.
So long as this state of th<strong>in</strong>gs endures, a man is not <strong>in</strong>duced to
sacrifice the best years of his life to w<strong>in</strong> a fortune for his dotage.
His tastes, and, more to the po<strong>in</strong>t still, his wife’s, rema<strong>in</strong>
<strong>in</strong>expensive. He likes to see his flat or villa furnished with
much red plush upholstery and a profusion of gilt and lacquer.
But that is his idea; and maybe it is <strong>in</strong> no worse taste than is
a mixture of bastard Elizabethan with imitation Louis XV, the
whole lit by electric light, and smothered with photographs.

— 386 —
Possibly, he will have his outer walls pa<strong>in</strong>ted by the local artist:
a sangu<strong>in</strong>ary battle, a good deal <strong>in</strong>terfered with by the front
door, tak<strong>in</strong>g place below, while Bismarck, as an angel, flutters
vaguely about the bedroom w<strong>in</strong>dows. But for his Old Masters
he is quite content to go to the public galleries; and “the Celebrity
at Home” not hav<strong>in</strong>g as yet taken its place amongst the
<strong>in</strong>stitutions of the Fatherland, he is not impelled to waste his,
money turn<strong>in</strong>g his house <strong>in</strong>to an old curiosity shop.
The German is a gourmand. There are still English farmers
who, while tell<strong>in</strong>g you that farm<strong>in</strong>g spells starvation, enjoy
their seven solid meals a day. Once a year there comes a week’s
feast throughout Russia, dur<strong>in</strong>g which many deaths occur from
the over-eat<strong>in</strong>g of pancakes; but this is a religious festival, and
an exception. Tak<strong>in</strong>g him all round, the German as a trencherman
stands pre-em<strong>in</strong>ent among the nations of the earth. He
rises early, and while dress<strong>in</strong>g tosses off a few cups of coffee,
together with half a dozen hot buttered rolls. But it is not until
ten o’clock that he sits down to anyth<strong>in</strong>g that can properly be
called a meal. At one or half-past takes place his chief d<strong>in</strong>ner.
Of this he makes a bus<strong>in</strong>ess, sitt<strong>in</strong>g at it for a couple of hours.
At four o’clock he goes to the café, and eats cakes and dr<strong>in</strong>ks
chocolate. The even<strong>in</strong>g he devotes to eat<strong>in</strong>g generally — not a
set meal, or rarely, but a series of snacks, — a bottle of beer and
a Belegte-semmel or two at seven, say; another bottle of beer
and an Aufschnitt at the theatre between the acts; a small bottle
of white w<strong>in</strong>e and a Spiegeleier before go<strong>in</strong>g home; then a
piece of cheese or sausage, washed down by more beer, previous
to turn<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> for the night.
But he is no gourmet. French cooks and French prices are
not the rule at his restaurant. His beer or his <strong>in</strong>expensive
native white w<strong>in</strong>e he prefers to the most costly clarets or
champagnes. And, <strong>in</strong>deed, it is well for him he does; for one is
<strong>in</strong>cl<strong>in</strong>ed to th<strong>in</strong>k that every time a French grower sells a bottle
of w<strong>in</strong>e to a German hotel- or shop-keeper, Sedan is rankl<strong>in</strong>g
<strong>in</strong> his m<strong>in</strong>d. It is a foolish revenge, see<strong>in</strong>g that it is not the German
who as a rule dr<strong>in</strong>ks it; the punishment falls upon some

— 387 —
<strong>in</strong>nocent travell<strong>in</strong>g Englishman. Maybe, however, the French
dealer remembers also Waterloo, and feels that <strong>in</strong> any event
he scores.
In Germany expensive enterta<strong>in</strong>ments are neither offered
nor expected. Everyth<strong>in</strong>g throughout the Fatherland is homely
and friendly. The German has no costly sports to pay for, no
showy establishment to ma<strong>in</strong>ta<strong>in</strong>, no purse-proud circle to
dress for. His chief pleasure, a seat at the opera or concert, can
be had for a few marks; and his wife and daughters walk there
<strong>in</strong> home-made dresses, with shawls over their heads. Indeed,
throughout the country the absence of all ostentation is to
English eyes quite refresh<strong>in</strong>g. Private carriages are few and far
between, and even the droschke is made use of only when the
quicker and cleaner electric car is not available.
By such means the German reta<strong>in</strong>s his <strong>in</strong>dependence. The
shopkeeper <strong>in</strong> Germany does not fawn upon his customers.
I accompanied an English lady once on a shopp<strong>in</strong>g excursion
<strong>in</strong> Munich. She had been accustomed to shopp<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong>
London and New York, and she grumbled at everyth<strong>in</strong>g the
man showed her. It was not that she was really dissatisfied; this
was her method. She expla<strong>in</strong>ed that she could get most th<strong>in</strong>gs
cheaper and better elsewhere; not that she really thought she
could, merely she held it good for the shopkeeper to say this.
She told him that his stock lacked taste — she did not mean
to be offensive; as I have expla<strong>in</strong>ed, it was her method; — that
there was no variety about it; that it was not up to date; that
it was commonplace; that it looked as if it would not wear. He
did not argue with her; he did not contradict her. He put the
th<strong>in</strong>gs back <strong>in</strong>to their respective boxes, replaced the boxes on
their respective shelves, walked <strong>in</strong>to the little parlour beh<strong>in</strong>d
the shop, and closed the door.
“Isn’t he ever com<strong>in</strong>g back?” asked the lady, after a couple of
m<strong>in</strong>utes had elapsed.
Her tone did not imply a question, so much as an exclamation
of mere impatience.
“I doubt it,” I replied.

— 388 —
“Why not?” she asked, much astonished.
“I expect,” I answered, “you have bored him. In all probability
he is at this moment beh<strong>in</strong>d that door smok<strong>in</strong>g a pipe and
read<strong>in</strong>g the paper.”
“What an extraord<strong>in</strong>ary shopkeeper!” said my friend, as she
gathered her parcels together and <strong>in</strong>dignantly walked out.
“It is their way,” I expla<strong>in</strong>ed. “There are the goods; if you
want them, you can have them. If you do not want them, they
would almost rather that you did not come and talk about
them.”
On another occasion I listened <strong>in</strong> the smoke-room of a German
hotel to a small Englishman tell<strong>in</strong>g a tale which, had I
been <strong>in</strong> his place, I should have kept to myself.
“It doesn’t do,” said the little Englishman, “to try and beat a
German down. They don’t seem to understand it. I saw a first
edition of The Robbers <strong>in</strong> a shop <strong>in</strong> the Georg Platz. I went <strong>in</strong>
and asked the price. It was a rum old chap beh<strong>in</strong>d the counter.
He said: ‘Twenty-five marks,’ and went on read<strong>in</strong>g. I told him I
had seen a better copy only a few days before for twenty — one
talks like that when one is barga<strong>in</strong><strong>in</strong>g; it is understood. He
asked me ‘Where?’ I told him <strong>in</strong> a shop at Leipsig. He suggested
my return<strong>in</strong>g there and gett<strong>in</strong>g it; he did not seem to
care whether I bought the book or whether I didn’t. I said:
“‘What’s the least you will take for it?’
“‘I have told you once,’ he answered; ‘twenty-five marks.’ He
was an irritable old chap.
“I said: ‘It’s not worth it.’
“‘I never said it was, did I?’ he snapped.
“I said: ‘I’ll give you ten marks for it.’ I thought, maybe, he
would end by tak<strong>in</strong>g twenty.
“He rose. I took it he was com<strong>in</strong>g round the counter to get
the book out. Instead, he came straight up to me. He was a biggish
sort of man. He took me by the two shoulders, walked me
out <strong>in</strong>to the street, and closed the door beh<strong>in</strong>d me with a bang.
I was never more surprised <strong>in</strong> all my life.

— 389 —
“Maybe the book was worth twenty-five marks,” I suggested.
“Of course it was,” he replied; “well worth it. But what a notion
of bus<strong>in</strong>ess!”
If anyth<strong>in</strong>g change the German character, it will be the
German woman. She herself is chang<strong>in</strong>g rapidly — advanc<strong>in</strong>g,
as we call it. Ten years ago no German woman car<strong>in</strong>g for her
reputation, hop<strong>in</strong>g for a husband, would have dared to ride a
bicycle: to-day they sp<strong>in</strong> about the country <strong>in</strong> their thousands.
The old folks shake their heads at them; but the young men,
I notice, overtake them and ride beside them. Not long ago it
was considered unwomanly <strong>in</strong> Germany for a lady to be able to
do the outside edge. Her proper skat<strong>in</strong>g attitude was thought
to be that of cl<strong>in</strong>g<strong>in</strong>g limpness to some male relative. Now she
practises eights <strong>in</strong> a corner by herself, until some young man
comes along to help her. She plays tennis, and, from a po<strong>in</strong>t of
safety, I have even noticed her driv<strong>in</strong>g a dog-cart.
Brilliantly educated she always has been. At eighteen she
speaks two or three languages, and has forgotten more than
the average Englishwoman has ever read. Hitherto, this education
has been utterly useless to her. On marriage she has
retired <strong>in</strong>to the kitchen, and made haste to clear her bra<strong>in</strong> of
everyth<strong>in</strong>g else, <strong>in</strong> order to leave room for bad cook<strong>in</strong>g. But
suppose it beg<strong>in</strong>s to dawn upon her that a woman need not
sacrifice her whole existence to household drudgery any more
than a man need make himself noth<strong>in</strong>g else than a bus<strong>in</strong>ess
mach<strong>in</strong>e. Suppose she develop an ambition to take part <strong>in</strong> the
social and national life. Then the <strong>in</strong>fluence of such a partner,
healthy <strong>in</strong> body and therefore vigorous <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d, is bound to be
both last<strong>in</strong>g and far-reach<strong>in</strong>g.
For it must be borne <strong>in</strong> m<strong>in</strong>d that the German man is exceptionally
sentimental, and most easily <strong>in</strong>fluenced by his women
folk. It is said of him, he is the best of lovers, the worst of
husbands. This has been the woman’s fault. Once married, the
German woman has done more than put romance beh<strong>in</strong>d her;
she has taken a carpet-beater and driven it out of the house. As

— 390 —
a girl, she never understood dress<strong>in</strong>g; as a wife, she takes off
such clothes even as she had, and proceeds to wrap herself up
<strong>in</strong> any odd articles she may happen to f<strong>in</strong>d about the house;
at all events, this is the impression she produces. The figure
that might often be that of a Juno, the complexion that would
sometimes do credit to a healthy angel, she proceeds of malice
and <strong>in</strong>tent to spoil. She sells her birth-right of admiration and
devotion for a mess of sweets. Every afternoon you may see
her at the café, load<strong>in</strong>g herself with rich cream-covered cakes,
washed down by copious draughts of chocolate. In a short time
she becomes fat, pasty, placid, and utterly un<strong>in</strong>terest<strong>in</strong>g.
When the German woman gives up her afternoon coffee and
her even<strong>in</strong>g beer, takes sufficient exercise to reta<strong>in</strong> her shape,
and cont<strong>in</strong>ues to read after marriage someth<strong>in</strong>g else than the
cookery-book, the German Government will f<strong>in</strong>d it has a new
and unknown force to deal with. And everywhere throughout
Germany one is confronted by unmistakable signs that the old
German Frauen are giv<strong>in</strong>g place to the newer Damen.
Concern<strong>in</strong>g what will then happen one feels curious. For the
German nation is still young, and its maturity is of importance
to the world. They are a good people, a lovable people, who
should help much to make the world better.
The worst that can be said aga<strong>in</strong>st them is that they have
their fail<strong>in</strong>gs. They themselves do not know this; they consider
themselves perfect, which is foolish of them. They even go so
far as to th<strong>in</strong>k themselves superior to the Anglo-Saxon: this is
<strong>in</strong>comprehensible. One feels they must be pretend<strong>in</strong>g.
“They have their po<strong>in</strong>ts,” said George; “but their tobacco is
a national s<strong>in</strong>. I’m go<strong>in</strong>g to bed.”
We rose, and lean<strong>in</strong>g over the low stone parapet, watched
the danc<strong>in</strong>g lights upon the soft, dark river.
“It has been a pleasant Bummel, on the whole,” said Harris;
“I shall be glad to get back, and yet I am sorry it is over, if you
understand me.”
“What is a ‘Bummel’?” said George. “How would you translate
it?”

— 391 —
“A ‘Bummel’,” I expla<strong>in</strong>ed, “I should describe as a journey,
long or short, without an end; the only th<strong>in</strong>g regulat<strong>in</strong>g it be<strong>in</strong>g
the necessity of gett<strong>in</strong>g back with<strong>in</strong> a given time to the
po<strong>in</strong>t from which one started. Sometimes it is through busy
streets, and sometimes through the fields and lanes; sometimes
we can be spared for a few hours, and sometimes for a
few days. But long or short, but here or there, our thoughts are
ever on the runn<strong>in</strong>g of the sand. We nod and smile to many as
we pass; with some we stop and talk awhile; and with a few we
walk a little way. We have been much <strong>in</strong>terested, and often a
little tired. But on the whole we have had a pleasant time, and
are sorry when ’tis over.”

INHALT
THREE MEN IN A BOAT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
PUBLISHER’S ADVERTISEMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
AUTHOR’S ADVERTISEMENT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
PREFACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
CHAPTER I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
CHAPTER II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
CHAPTER III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
CHAPTER IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
CHAPTER V . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
CHAPTER VI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
CHAPTER VII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
CHAPTER VIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
CHAPTER IX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
CHAPTER X . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
CHAPTER XI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
CHAPTER XII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
CHAPTER XIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
CHAPTER XIV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
CHAPTER XV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
CHAPTER XVI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
CHAPTER XVII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
CHAPTER XVIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182
CHAPTER XIX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
THREE MEN ON THE BUMMEL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199
CHAPTER I . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
CHAPTER II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214
CHAPTER III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
CHAPTER IV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 240
CHAPTER V . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256
CHAPTER VI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271
CHAPTER VII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 285
CHAPTER VIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 296
CHAPTER IX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 310
CHAPTER X . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 326
CHAPTER XI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 338
CHAPTER XII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 351
CHAPTER XIII . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 365
CHAPTER XIV . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 380