issue in a manner the gravity of which indicated conception of its momentous importance, and in a judicial tone that befitted the occasion. Doubtless without intentional irony he adopted the method Mr. Gladstone made familiar at great crises. There were, he said, three courses open to them. They might support the second reading; they might vote against it; they might abstain from voting. He declined to take the responsibility of advocacy of one or other, confining himself to brief summary of what would follow on adoption of the several courses. He suggested that, in order to arrive at unmistakable decision by the broadest process, they should take a second ballot. On the first division, of the fifty-five silently and solemnly taking part in it, thirty-nine voted against the second reading, three declaring in favour of it, whilst thirteen stood aside. On the second ballot, the three who voted for the second reading on the understanding conveyed by Mr. Gladstone at a meeting of the Liberal Party held at the Foreign Office on May 27, that the Bill would thereafter be dropped, to be brought in again the following year, minus the clause excluding Irish members from Westminster-stood to their guns. Of the abstainers, nine went over to the majority, and the fate of the Government was sealed. At one o'clock on the morning of June 8, 1886, the division was called, and by a majority of thirty in a House of 656 members the Home Rule Bill was thrown out. Of the 345 members who achieved this stroke, only 250 were Conservatives, a number impotent to withstand the rush of the crusade led by Mr. Gladstone. It was the ninety-three Dissentient Liberals, the united forces of Mr. Chamberlain and Lord Hartington, who turned the scale. XVI. THE DUNMOW FLITCH. OCTOBER 29, 1873, I count as the most fortunate day of my life. Upon it I married the daughter of my old schoolmaster, an acquaintance going back to childhood. Whatever measure of success I have obtained in life is largely owing to her counsel, example and inspiration. On September 14, 1897, the following paragraph appeared in the Daily News': Mr. and Mrs. Henry Lucy yesterday visited Dunmow. Inquiry into the circumstances and conditions of their married life satisfying the requirements of the ancient institution, they were awarded a flitch of bacon. The presentation was made by Mr. John Aird, M.P., in a graceful speech. The announcement had a remarkable run through town and country papers. Sir Wilfrid Lawson, even more ready than Mr. Silas Wegg, dropped into poetry: And is it true that you have gained The Matrimonial laurel, And have you all these years remained No ripple on the glassy sea, How very good you both must be Sir Charles M'Laren, less accustomed to woo the muses, was also led astray : For wedded lives without a hitch Our Lucys, who the genial cake Now, for their lovers' faith unshaken, In triumph carry off the bacon. Phil May drew an exquisite sketch showing me riding off triumphantly on pig-back. Most amusing in the multitude of commentaries on the event was the remark of a Press Gallery man of the old school joining in conversation on the topic in the Smoking Room. Always the way,' he remarked gruffly, puffing at his pipe. To him that hath shall be given. Lucy can afford to pay for flitches of bacon. There's many a better fellow has to buy it by the pound; yet he gets the flitch.' A pleasing communication evoked by the incident was a letter written from Sir Charles and Lady M'Laren's country house in Denbighshire. The writer, sister of John Bright, mother of Sir Charles M'Laren, was one of the sweetest-natured, daintiestmannered ladies I was ever privileged to know. In face she was beautiful. In spite of her many years her mind was as alert, her interest in affairs as keen, as if she were still thirty. She wrote to a friend in Edinburgh : Mr. and Mrs. Lucy are here. Don't you remember how interested we were two years ago in reading of their having won the Dunmow Flitch of Bacon, and thinking it showed much moral courage in claiming it? But I can understand now how they claimed and won it. They have between them a beautiful and interesting combination of mental conditions, such as go to make the wheels of daily life go smoothly round. Mrs. L. has a most sweet unselfish nature-whilst her husband can relieve the seriousness of life by intelligent and intellectual humour. He is gifted intellectually as you know, and she exerts a refining spiritual influence over all. This latter quality has been very sweet and comforting to me in the conversations I have had with her. In short I have felt it a privilege to be here with them, though regretting much that the need of rest after some months of entertaining at home has necessitated my keeping my own room a good deal-a real self-denial for me, as you may suppose. Your friend, Sir Wilfrid Lawson, judged wrongly. There can be no dulness in such a life. There can be great and pleasing variety without the unpleasantness of opposition. After this it is painful to be obliged to confess that the whole thing was a hoax. What really happened was that, in accordance with custom extending over many years, we were spending a week in the autumn with Sir John and Lady Aird. He had no country house, but early in the year made his selection out of mansions in the market for temporary occupation. As soon as arrangements were made, he hospitably engaged us for a week's stay. In this year he found his rest house in Essex, not far distant from Dunmow, famous chiefly for its ancient custom of bestowing a prize of a flitch of bacon upon a couple who can vow that their married life has been undisturbed by quarrelsome words. One afternoon we drove thither. John Aird pulled up the carriage at a grocer's shop, entered and presently returned, accompanied by an aproned man carrying a flitch of bacon. This, Sir John, with bared head, and, as the paragraph lapsing into truth says, in a graceful speech presented to Mrs. Lucy. How these things get into the papers, I know no more than did Mr. Crummles when he read in the local sheet a paragraph extolling the gifts of his theatrical company, and making light of Charles Kean, or Phelps, in comparison with its manager. There are thousands of people, in addition to my friend of the Press Gallery, who to this day firmly believe that Mrs. Lucy and I submitted ourselves and our case to the ancient tribunal at Dunmow, and won the flitch of bacon against all comers. XVII. FRED BURNABY. I MET Fred Burnaby up in a balloon, forming an acquaintance rapidly ripening into friendship that lasted to the day of his untimely death at Abu Klea. The date was the autumn of 1874. Some weeks earlier a couple of French aeronauts, M. and Madame Durouf, had arranged to make an ascent from Calais. The wind was high, blowing out across the Channel. If they mounted their fate was inevitable. They would be driven out to sea with little chance of escape from drowning. They wanted to postpone the ascent, but maddened by the jeers of the throng who had paid for admission to the grounds whence ascent was to be made, they entered the car, the ropes were loosened, and the balloon was soon over the sea and out of sight. Dropping into the water the passengers were happily rescued by a passing boat, and brought to an English port. Arrangements were subsequently made for an ascent from the grounds of the Crystal Palace, and all the world went down to see them off. Having lately joined the staff of the Daily News,' and anxious to distinguish myself, I resolved to accompany them. Unfortunately the idea had occurred to many others. When I approached Mr. Coxwell with a five-pound note in proffered payment of the fare, he, with many protestations of regret, informed me there was no room. Every available seat in the car had been taken and paid for in advance. This was disappointing, there being left for me nothing but the commonplace task of describing the ascent from the safety of terra firma. In quite a new reading of the saying, the wind was tempered to the shorn lamb. Just before the balloon was timed to start a storm sprang up. The great globe of silk swayed hither and thither in fearsome fashion. Mr. Glaisher, who was in charge of the expedition, looking at the darkening sky, sniffing the growing storm, put his veto upon Madame Durouf joining the voyagers. "We are not in France,' he said. 'An English crowd will not insist upon a woman facing danger for their amusement. The voyage will be rough, the descent perilous, so Madame had better stay with us.' If Madame was not going, there would be room for me. I pointed this out to Mr. Coxwell, but he was inexorable. He held in his hand a list of at least thirty people who had booked seats. When everything was ready, the French aeronaut and Mr. Coxwell's assistant aboard, the list of names was called aloud. Only the wind howling among the trees made answer. 'Il faut partir,' said M. Durouf, looking anxiously at the angry sky. A middle-aged gentleman who had come to town from Cambridge, and early secured his seat, fearlessly took it. I followed, making myself as scarce as possible at the bottom of the car. Then tumbled in a handsome fellow, six feet four in height, broadchested to boot. I remember wondering when he would finish getting his full length in. This was Fred Burnaby, at the time ranking as Captain in the Horse Guards Blue, unknown to fame outside the barracks, with Khiva unapproached, the wilds of Asia Minor untrodden by his horse's hoofs. He told me later he had run down to see the ascent, and was strolling about the grounds in company with Musurus Pasha, the Turkish Minister. When the defection of the dauntless thirty was apparent, he instantly seized the situation. If they didn't go there would be room for him. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he got aboard the car just as the ropes were let go, and the balloon with a mighty rush soared upwards. He had arranged a dinner party at his rooms in St. James's Street that night. How they fared I forgot to ask. Certainly Burnaby was not with them, being at the appointed dinner hour seated with me in a tumble-down market-cart, as we made our way after our aerial voyage through an Essex lane towards the nearest railway station. As things turned out, we had a delightful trip, rising to a height of 3000 feet clear of the storm. It was in the following year that Burnaby made his famous Ride to Khiva. I have before me as I write an early copy of the fascinating story. In his almost illegible handwriting it is inscribed H. Lucy, Esqre., from his sincere friend the author. Oct. 27th, 1876.' Under this pen-and-ink blotch is written, happily in pencil, 'Two maps still to come.' His next book, 'On Horseback through Asia Minor,' for the publication of which I arranged with Sampson Low, is inscribed To Mrs. Lucy, from her sincere friend the author. November 4, 1877.' It is pretty to see how Burnaby, addressing a lady, with instinctive politeness, makes desperate effort to write legibly; and almost succeeds. On ordinary occasions his letters and MS. suggested that they were written with a skewer dipped in a blacking pot. On all his journeys save the last, which ended at Abu Klea, he brought Mrs. Lucy a present from the far-off land. We still have, |