A CHAPTER OF MISFORTUNES.
Death of my Sister's Husband and of my Brother James--An Accident on
Marston Moor--Sir George Wombwell's Story of the Charge of the Light
Brigade--His Adventure on the Ouse--Editing a Daily Newspaper from a Sick
Bed--Reflections on Death--Death of my Mother--Serious Illness of my Only
Daughter.
There is a great deal of truth in the lines which declare that sorrows
and troubles do not come alone--"they come not single spies, but in
battalions." I have had experience of the fact more than once in my own
life; but never was it presented to me in such overwhelming force as in
the year 1880. On January 1st in that year I attended the funeral of my
only sister's husband at Kilmarnock. He, the Rev. William Bathgate, D.D.,
was a Scottish minister, a man of culture and refinement, and the author
of some theological works which had attained considerable popularity. His
death is associated in my mind with a great public calamity, the fall of
the Tay Bridge, when a train with all its passengers was destroyed. The
wind that toppled over the Tay Bridge proved fatal to my brother-in-law.
It was on a Sunday night--the last Sunday of 1879--and he had gone to
visit one of the Sunday schools attached to his church. The furious gale,
which about the same time destroyed the Tay Bridge, burst in its full
fury upon him soon after he had left his house, and after battling
against it for some time he found himself so much exhausted that he was
unable to move. It was only with the assistance of a kindly passer-by
that he was enabled to return home. Half an hour later he died in my
sister's presence, without a sound or a movement. I began the year,
consequently, in melancholy circumstances, in attendance at his funeral.
A few weeks later, at the beginning of February, a loss which I felt
still more keenly fell upon me. My elder brother, James, who had been my
constant companion from boyhood, and who had spent the closing years of
his life in intimate association with me at Leeds, died after a lingering
illness. The loss of one who had been for so many years my closest
companion and my most confidential friend, with whom I consulted over
almost every step of my life, was irreparable, and to this hour I
continue to feel the lack of his sympathy and advice in moments of
personal perplexity. Always more or less of an invalid, he lived much in
the life of his brothers, and his cheery fortitude, kindly humour, and
unfailing sympathy made his loss keenly felt in our family circle. He
died, by a strange coincidence, on the tenth anniversary of the death of
my first wife.
Three months later, I myself met with an accident which not only entailed
great suffering upon me, but almost cost me my life. It was in the month
of May, when, after the severe exertions imposed upon me by the General
Election--of which I shall speak fully later on--I had left Leeds for a
few days' rest and change. Sir George Wombwell, of Balaclava fame, had
invited a small party--of whom I was one--to join him on a driving tour
among the abbeys and ruins of the East Riding. The other members of the
party were William Black, Bret Harte, who had not long before taken up
his residence in England, and C. O. Shepard, the American Consul at
Bradford. Our rendezvous was at York, on a certain Saturday, and we had
agreed to spend that afternoon in visiting the battlefield of Marston
Moor. We drove out to the field in the highest spirits. I, in particular,
was elated at the thought of my escape from the drudgery of my office, as
well as by the prospect of the agreeable companionship of Black and
Harte, not to speak of Shepard, who was an admirable teller of American
stories, of which he possessed an inexhaustible fund.
We were crossing the battlefield on foot when we found our way stopped by
a hedge. It was a long way round to the gate of the field, and the hedge
did not seem very formidable. At all events, Black and Shepard cleared it
at a bound, and laughingly challenged Harte and me to follow their
example. But we were prudent men, and openly congratulated ourselves upon
that fact when we discovered a gap, through which it seemed possible to
pass quite easily. Harte passed through without difficulty, and I
followed his example. I had to jump about eighteen inches from the bank
of the hedge into the field. Nothing seemed simpler. Yet when I landed on
my feet one of them was caught in some mysterious way in a hole in the
ground, and whilst it was held as in a vice, my body was wrenched round
on the axis of my knee. To this day I do not understand how it happened.
All I knew at the moment was that something had given way in the
knee-joint, and that when I attempted to put my foot to the ground after
extricating it from the hole in which it had been caught "the pains of
hell gat hold upon me." I suppose I must, up to that time, have been
fairly free from physical torments of any kind. I had certainly no
conception, before that moment, that it was possible for a human being to
suffer such torture as I had then to endure.
I turned away my face from my companions so that they might not see that
I was suffering, and they went on unconscious of anything having
happened. I set off to follow them, supporting myself as best I could
with an umbrella which I chanced to be carrying. When they saw that I
limped they inquired the cause, but I reassured them by saying that it
was nothing more than a slight sprain. I was determined that I would not
spoil sport, or cast a shadow over the good spirits of our party. But,
Heavens, how that knee tortured me! I suppose I was a fool. Indeed the
doctor told me so the next morning, with some heat and quite unnecessary
emphasis. But I went on at the moment as if nothing had happened,
crawling with the aid of my umbrella across field after field, and even
climbing up some steps in order to see the room where Cromwell slept the
night before--or was it the night after?--the battle. Then I walked on
to the place where our carriage was waiting for us. It was standing at a
little country public-house. "I am going in here to get a drink," said I
to Black. "What!" cried he. "Drink anything here? Why, they'll poison you!"
"So much the better," I retorted, and then my friends began to realise
that I was hurt. They consulted together as to the stimulant that was
most likely to be innocuous, and finally decided upon gin. I had never
drunk gin in my life before. I now tossed off three glasses in quick
succession. It was very nasty, and it did not take away the pain, but it
made me feel rather less like dying than I had done before.
Somehow or other I got back to York, and, with the aid of the hotel
porter, undressed and got to bed. By this time my knee was enormously
swollen, but I was so ignorant of the actual position of affairs that I
honestly thought that all that was necessary to put me right again was a
rest of a few hours. Unfortunately, I was not allowed even that
homoeopathic remedy. We were to dine with Sir George Wombwell at the
Yorkshire Club that evening. I proposed to stay in bed at the hotel, but
to this Black demurred. He hated to meet strangers, and he declared that
if I did not go with him to the club he would not go at all. So once more
the porter was requisitioned, and with his help I managed to get into
evening clothes. Arrived at the club, the quick, soldierly eye of Sir
George Wombwell instantly detected my condition, and diagnosed it more
accurately than either I or my companions had done. I remained to dinner,
but a leg-rest was provided for me, and everything done to make me feel
comfortable, whilst Sir George sent a messenger to Mr. Husband, an
eminent surgeon of York, asking him to see me at the hotel as early as
possible next morning.
The evening passed like a nightmare, but I still have a vivid
recollection of the account which Sir George Wombwell gave me of his
famous ride with the Light Brigade at Balaclava. His horse was shot under
him whilst they were charging for the guns, and, being left behind whilst
the brigade thundered onward, he was made prisoner by the Russian
cavalry, which closed in behind our English horse. His captivity lasted,
however, for but a few minutes. The cry was raised that the English were
returning from their mad but heroic enterprise, and instantly the
Russians scattered and fled. As Lord Cardigan, who was riding in front of
the remnant of the shattered brigade, passed Wombwell, he shouted, "Catch
a horse, you d--d young fool, and come with us!"--advice which Wombwell
promptly took. He found the charger of a Russian officer, and, mounting
it, came back in safety with the few survivors of the awful day.
That was not, however Wombwell declared, the occasion on which his life
had been in greatest peril. Years afterwards, he and Sir Charles Slingsby
and a number of the members of the York and Anisty Hunt were crossing the
Ouse in a ferryboat, when some of the horses were seized with panic, and
the boat was upset. Sir Charles Slingsby and a number of others--twelve,
I believe, in all--were drowned, Wombwell being one of the few who
escaped. This he regarded as a much more dangerous adventure than the
charge of the Light Brigade. Someone at the dinner-table told a story
about this tragedy which Wombwell, I thought, hardly liked. The
ferry-boat was upset in the river adjoining Sir Charles Slingsby's
estate. One of his tenants who had heard of the disaster, and had been
told that only one of the baronets had escaped, was hurrying to the scene
of the catastrophe, when he met Sir George Wombwell riding home. As soon
as the man saw Sir George he flung up his hands, and in accents of dismay
cried, "Eh! but they've drowned t'wrang baronet!"
On the morning after this dinner, Mr. Husband visited me and inspected my
knee. I told him that I meant to stay in bed during the day, but hoped he
would allow me to keep an engagement I had made to dine at the Cavalry
Barracks in the evening. Eyeing me with great severity, the good surgeon
said: "You are a man of intelligence, or at least you ought to be,
considering the position you hold. You must surely know that you have met
with an injury that will keep you in bed for weeks, at least." And he
hinted, not obscurely, that still worse things than prolonged confinement
to bed would certainly befall me if I did not take the greatest care of
my injured leg. So there ended all my hopes of a pleasant holiday. The
next day I was taken back to Leeds in a state of absolute helplessness,
and, being got to bed in my own house, had to remain there for nine
mortal weeks.
Some of the experiences of that time were curious. Phlebitis had set in,
and for a time I was in serious danger from the formation of a clot of
blood in one of the arteries. As is pretty generally known, whilst this
state of things exists death may occur at any moment from the stoppage of
the heart through the clot getting free and passing into the central
organ. It was curious to lie in this condition for several days, never
knowing at night whether I should see the sun rise again. But I was very
much struck by the fact that I became easily reconciled to my state, and
did not feel the slightest apprehension with regard to the course of the
disease. I was almost free from pain, and was able to carry on my work as
regularly as if I had been in attendance at the _Mercury_ office.
Every evening I dictated my leading article to a shorthand writer. A
telephone--at that time a great novelty--was put up by the side of my bed
and connected with my room at the _Mercury_ office, and by this
means I was kept in constant communication with the members of my staff.
Thus my time passed pleasantly enough. When I was not dictating I was
reading, and during my confinement I re-read the whole of the Waverley
novels. It was when I was once more enjoying the romantic adventures of
"Ivanhoe" that I was seized, one afternoon, with the premonitory symptoms
which my doctors had told me would indicate the approach of death. At my
urgent request they had enlightened me upon this point, and I had learned
that death from the accidental stoppage of the heart would be without
pain, and would simply be preceded by a feeling of faintness. It was a
feeling of this kind which suddenly stole over me as I was reading
"Ivanhoe." I felt it deepening, and laid aside my book under the firm
conviction that I would never again read printed page. Asking for some
stimulant, I was given some brandy and water, but it seemed to have no
effect in checking the ever-increasing faintness. So I closed my eyes in
the drowsy belief that I should never open them again in this world. I
felt no pain, no agitation, no fear. Half an hour later I awoke from a
placid sleep, and, to my great surprise, found that I was decidedly
better than I had been for some time. This seemed, indeed, to have been
the crisis of my illness, and from that point I slowly recovered. My
doctors conjectured that a minute clot of blood had really passed through
my heart, producing the faintness from which I had suffered, but not
causing death.
I have dwelt at unconscionable length upon this incident of my accidental
injury and subsequent illness, but I have done so for the very reason
that, sooner or later, experiences of this kind come to most of us, and
it may be of some use to state exactly, not only the wonderful rapidity
with which a man by the simplest misadventure may imperil his life, but
the sensations with which he greets the apparent approach of death. All
who have suffered from severe illness must know how readily the invalid
accustoms himself to seclusion from the world, and how quickly the
panorama of passing life seems to fade into insignificance. The outside
world becomes, at such a time, a mere passing show which has but a
secondary interest for the man who can take no part in it. As for the
approach of death, I believe, from my own experience, that there is
nothing to which a sick man more easily reconciles himself. Certainly,
since those days in 1880 I have lost any fear I may have had before of
that inevitable end which awaits us all. It is the recovery from a severe
illness of accidental injury that is the really trying thing. For many
weeks after I left my bed I was a cripple, compelled to use crutches in
moving about, and suffering from extreme weakness. I went to Bridlington,
a watering-place on the Yorkshire coast, to recruit, and, hiring a small
trawling boat, I spent every day upon the sea, beating up and down the
fine bay trawling for fish. In this way I got plenty of fresh air without
bodily fatigue, whilst I had the enjoyment of one of my favourite
pursuits.
Shortly after my return from Bridlington, and whilst I was still
crippled, another great misfortune befell me. This was the death, on the
5th of August, of my mother, a woman of distinct culture and intellectual
power, to whom her children had been indebted for many things in addition
to the motherly love which she lavished upon them all so freely. It was,
I think, the shock of her death, and the exertion of the railway journey
to my brother Stuart's house at Wilmslow, Cheshire, which I took in order
that I might see her before she died, that brought about a relapse in my
condition. In the hope that I should benefit by it, my doctors ordered me
a long sea voyage. It was the first I had ever undertaken. I sailed from
Liverpool on the _Sidon_, one of the Cunard Company's steamers, for
a round trip through the Mediterranean to Constantinople and back. The
_Sidon_ was a slow old boat, and we took ten days to reach Malta,
the first place of stoppage. I never enjoyed ten days so much before or
since. The novelty of life at sea charmed me, whilst the freedom from all
work and anxiety was delightful. Every day I seemed to have acquired a
fresh stock of vigour, and by the time we reached Malta I could no longer
pretend to be an invalid. It was fortunate for me that my health had
undergone this wonderful improvement, for we had no sooner cast anchor in
the busy harbour of Valetta than a telegram was put into my hands,
announcing that my only daughter Nellie had been struck down by typhoid
on the very day on which I sailed from England.
There was no opportunity at the moment of getting back from Malta to
England direct, and I had consequently to continue my voyage to Syra,
Smyrna, and Constantinople, getting telegrams, of course, at each place
as to the condition of the invalid. At Constantinople I had an urgent
summons from my daughter's medical attendants, and started at an hour's
notice for home by the overland route, such as it then was. Leaving
Constantinople on a Tuesday at two o'clock by the Austrian Lloyd steamer
for Varna, I reached my own house in Yorkshire shortly after midnight on
the following Sunday. I believe I established on that occasion a record
in travelling from the Bosphorus to Leeds. I have described this overland
journey in "Gladys Fane." It was an experience worth remembering,
especially in these days of _trains de luxe_, when the traveller
passes from Calais to Constantinople without a change of carriage. From
Constantinople to Varna I had an exceedingly rough passage in the
Austrian boat, and at Varna the weather was so bad that it was with
difficulty that I persuaded the captain to allow me to land in time to
catch the through train. The whole of the following day we were passing
through the gloomy uplands of Bulgaria. Crossing the Danube at Rustchuk
in the evening, we reached Bucharest by nine o'clock at night. Here was
the only opportunity I had during my journey of obtaining a night's rest,
and I eagerly availed myself of it. Remembering Brofft's extortions on
the occasion of my previous visit to Bucharest, I went to a new hotel
which had just been opened, one of the advertised attractions of which
was its moderate charges.
The next morning, when I was preparing for my early start by train, the
proprietor of the hotel came to have a chat with me, and I explained to
him the reason why I had chosen his house in preference to Brofft's.
"Quite right, sir!" he exclaimed with great heartiness. "Everybody says
the same thing. Take my word for it, sir, Brofft is a thief." At that
moment my bill was handed to me. It was more extortionate than anything I
had known at Brofft's. "That is as it may be." I said, turning to the
landlord, "but I think you will agree with me that if Brofft is a thief,
he is not the only one in Bucharest." Things, I hope, have changed since
then. If they have not done so I am sorry for the tourist who unwittingly
includes Bucharest in the round of the holiday vacation. From Bucharest
to London, and thence to Leeds, I came practically without a break, and
on reaching my own home once more, in the dead of the night, I had the
joy of knowing that the crisis of my daughter's illness was passed, and
that she was spared to me. Here ends the chronicle of my misfortunes
during the year 1880. It is but a trivial tale, and one that, I fear,
will have small interest for the reader, but I have ventured to tell it
as an illustration of the adage that troubles never come singly. In the
quarter of a century that has elapsed since then I have not had to
encounter such a series of misfortunes as came upon me in the first nine
months of that ill-omened year.