THE HAPPY HAVEN
On Saturday, July 12, 1890, I was married to Stanley, at Westminster
Abbey. He was very ill at the time, with gastritis and malaria, but his
powerful will enabled him to go through with the ceremony.
We went straight to Melchet Court, lent to us for our honeymoon by
Louisa, Lady Ashburton. Stanley’s officer, Surgeon Parke, accompanied
us, and together we nursed Stanley back to health.
Stanley’s Journal contains the following passage:--
* * * * *
Saturday, 12th July, 1890.
Being very sick from a severe attack of gastritis, which came on last
Thursday evening, I was too weak to experience anything save a calm
delight at the fact that I was married, and that now I shall have a
chance to rest. I feel as unimpressed as if I were a child taking its
first view of the world, or as I did when, half-dead at Manyanga in
1881, I thought I had done with the world; it is all so very unreal.
During my long bachelorhood, I have often wished that I had but one tiny
child to love; but now, unexpectedly as it seems to me, I possess a
wife; my own wife,--Dorothy Stanley now, Dorothy Tennant this
morning,--daughter of the late Charles Tennant of Cadoxton Lodge, Vale
of Neath, Glamorgan, and of 2, Richmond Terrace, Whitehall, London.
* * * * *
On the 8th August, after nearly a month at Melchet, we went to Maloja in
the Engadine, where we spent a few quiet, happy weeks. Sir Richard
Burton and his wife were there. Stanley had last seen him in 1886.
* * * * *
Had a visit from Sir Richard F. Burton, one of the discoverers of Lake
Tanganyika. He seems much broken in health. Lady Burton, who copies
Mary, Queen of Scotland, in her dress, was with him. In the evening, we
met again. I proposed he should write his reminiscences. He said he
could not do so, because he should have to write of so many people. ‘Be
charitable to them, and write only of their best qualities,’ I
said.--‘I don’t care a fig for charity; if I write at all, I must write
truthfully, all I know,’ he replied.
He is now engaged in writing a book called ‘Anthropology of Men and
Women,’ a title, he said, that does not describe its contents, but will
suffice to induce me to read it. What a grand man! One of the real great
ones of England he might have been, if he had not been cursed with
cynicism. I have no idea to what his Anthropology refers, but I would
lay great odds that it is only another means of relieving himself of a
surcharge of spleen against the section of humanity who have excited his
envy, dislike, or scorn. If he had a broad mind, he would curb these
tendencies, and thus allow men to see more clearly his grander
qualities.
* * * * *
From Maloja, we went to the Lake of Como, visited Milan, and spent a
night at Captain Camperio’s delightful house, ‘La Santa,’ near Monza.
Stanley thus describes it:--
* * * * *
Camperio and Casati, the African travellers, were at the station to
greet us. After twenty minutes’ drive from Monza we reached Camperio’s
place; it was formerly a convent, and has been in possession of the
family two hundred years. Captain Camperio has been the devoted friend
and patron of Casati for many years, and was the cause of his going to
Africa. It appears that Casati, far from being a champion of Emin, is
now resentful towards him, because Emin, as usual with him, has been
neglectful of his friend’s susceptibilities. Casati has done very well
with his Book.
* * * * *
Captain Camperio and his delightful family were soon fast friends with
us. A few years later he died, and so La Santa became only a happy
memory. We now turned homeward, going first to Geneva, then to Paris,
and, finally, on the 3rd October, 1890, to Ostend, where we stayed at
Hôtel Fontaine, as guests of the King. We dined at the Châlet Royal, and
the next day Stanley took a long walk with the King. Thus we spent four
days, Stanley walking daily with His Majesty. We dined every evening at
the Châlet Royal. On the 8th, we left Ostend. State-cabins were given to
us, and a Royal lunch served.
We now returned to London, and, on October 22nd, Stanley received his D.
C. L., at Durham; on the 23rd, we went to Cambridge, where he received
the LL. D., from the University. In June, Stanley had been made D. C.
L., by Oxford, and, soon after, LL. D., by Edinburgh. The University of
Halle had bestowed its Degree of Doctor of Philosophy in 1879.[42]
On the 29th October, we sailed for America. Stanley had undertaken a
lecture tour, under the management of Major Pond. It was a tremendous
experience; the welcome we received everywhere, and the kindness shown
to us, were something very wonderful.
We remained over a week in New York, where Stanley lectured, and then we
visited all the great Eastern cities.
Stanley, in his Journal, writes:--
* * * * *
The untidiness and disorder of the streets of New York strike me as
being terrible for so rich a city, and such an energetic population. The
streets are cut up by rails in a disgraceful fashion. The noise of
bells, and wheels, and horses’ hoofs, dins the ears. Telegraph-posts,
with numberless wires, obstruct the view, and suggest tall wire-fences;
furlongs of posters meet the eye everywhere, and elevated railroads
choke the view of the sky. The man who invented the hideous ‘Elevated’
deserves to be expelled from civilisation, and the people who permitted
themselves to be thus tortured have certainly curious tastes. If they
were of my mind, they would pull these structures down, and compel the
shareholders to build it in such a manner that, while it might be more
useful and safe, it would not be such an eyesore, nor so suggestive of
insolence and tyranny on one side, and of slavish submission on the
people’s side.
The view from our hotel-window shows me the street ploughed-up, square
blocks of granite lying as far as the eye can see, besides planking,
boarding, piles of earth, and stacks of bricks. I counted one hundred
and seventy-four lines of wire in the air, rows of mast-like
telegraph-poles, untrimmed and unpainted, in the centre of the American
Metropolis! What taste!
* * * * *
We now travelled over the States and Canada, in a special Pullman-car,
which had been named ‘Henry M. Stanley.’ It was palatial, for we had our
own kitchen and cook, a dining-car, which, at night was converted into a
dormitory, a drawing-room with piano, three state-bedrooms, and a
bath-room.
After visiting all the Eastern cities, and Canada, we returned to New
York. On Sunday, the 25th January, 1891, we dined with Cyrus Field (who
laid the first Atlantic Cable), at 123, Gramercy Park, and met General
W. T. Sherman, David Dudley Field, Charles A. Dana, and others.
On the 31st, Stanley went to a Banquet given by the Press Club. The
following is the entry in his Journal:--
* * * * *
Was dined by the Press Club. General Sherman was present, with a
rubicund complexion, and in an exceedingly amiable mood. He and I
exchanged pleasant compliments to each other in our after-dinner
speeches.
* * * * *
On the 14th February, at Chicago, Stanley wrote in his Journal:--
* * * * *
The sad news reached us to-day of the death of General W. T. Sherman,
the Leader of the Great March through Georgia, and the last of the
Immortal Three--Grant, Sheridan, Sherman. His last public appearance was
at the Press Club Banquet to me in New York. At the time of his death he
was the most popular man in New York, and well deserved the popularity.
In his speech at the Press Club, I recognised an oratorical power few
men not knowing him would have suspected. He had the bearing of one who
could impress, also those easy gestures which fix the impression, and
the pathos which charms the ear, and affects the feelings. When we
remember what he was, and that we saw in him the last of that splendid
trio who, by their native worth, proved themselves possessors of that
old American patriotism of Revolutionary days, not genius, but fine
military talents, directed by moderating single-mindedness to one common
and dear object,--when we consider this, the effect of General Sherman’s
presence may be better understood than described.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, 21st March. A Fresno newspaper, in commenting
on my personal appearance, said that I was only five feet, three inches,
and quoted Cæsar and Napoleon as examples of what small men are capable
of. The Los Angeles ‘Herald’ informed _its_ readers this morning, that I
am six feet, four inches! The truth is, I am five feet, five and a half
inches in my socks.
Sunday, 20th March, 1891. Reached New Orleans after thirty-two years’
absence. I left it in 1859, and return to it in 1891. I drove with D. to
the French Market, down Tchapitoulas St., St. Andrew’s St.,
Annunciation St., Charles Avenue, to St. Charles Hotel. Took a walk with
D. to Tchapitoulas St., then to the Levee; gazed across the full view,
and pointed to ‘Algiers’ opposite, where I had often sported.
Monday, 30th March. Rose at six-thirty and went with D. to French
Market, to treat her to what I have often boasted of, ‘a cup of the best
coffee in the world.’ The recipe appears to be two pounds of Java Coffee
to one and a half gallons of water. Monsieur L. Morel owned the
coffee-stand. He came from France in 1847. Very likely I must have drunk
coffee, many a time, as a boy, at his stand!
We walked home by Charles Street, well known to me. New Orleans changes
but slowly.
From New Orleans we visited Chattanooga. Went to the top of Lookout
Mountain. People are very kind and attentive to us wherever we go, but I
wish the lectures were over; I am very weary.
* * * * *
On Saturday, April 4th, we visited Nashville. Stanley’s entry is simply
‘Dear old Nashville!’
This tour was very exhausting. The constant travelling, lecturing, and
social demands made upon us, taxed Stanley’s strength severely. By
nature shy and retiring, he shrank from ovations, and wished, above all
things, to pass unnoticed. This letter written to me from our private
car when I was in Colorado, where he joined me a few days later, will
give an idea of his feelings:--
* * * * *
I spend most of my time in my own little cabin, writing or reading,
enduring the breaks on my privacy because they are a necessity, each
time invoking more patience, and beseeching Time to hurry on its lagging
movement that I might once more taste of absolute freedom. Meanwhile,
what pleasure I obtain is principally in reading, unless I come to a
little town, and can slip, unobserved, out-of-doors for a walk. I often
laugh at the ridiculous aspect of my feelings, as I am compelled to
become shifty and cunning, to evade the eager citizens’ advances. I feel
like Cain, hurrying away with his uneasy conscience after despatching
Abel, or a felonious cashier departing with his plunder! When I finally
succeed in getting off without attracting anyone, you would be amused
could you peep in underneath my waistcoat and observe the sudden lifting
of the feelings, just like the sudden lighting of a waste of angry sea
by the full sun, warm, bland, and full of promise. Then away I go
against the keen, cold wind, but the feelings are rejoicing, laughing,
babbling of fun and enjoyment; and the undertone of the great harmony is
_Freedom_! I am free! Block after block is passed without a glance,
until I get to the quieter parts, and then I straighten out, take a long
breath, expressing by the act the indescribable relief I have of being
away from the talking man, with his wayward moods, and exceeding
sensitiveness.
I sometimes think with a shiver of what I shall have to endure in
London: just because a person sends a polite invitation to dinner, or
tea, or reception, one must note it down as a binding engagement for
that evening or afternoon. One must not forget it; one must think of it,
and cut out that period of existence from his short life, to eat and
drink at the express hour! This is not freedom! To be free is to have no
cares at all, no thought of the next hour, or the next day, or the next
month; to be as we were at Melchet,--early breakfast, walk out, sit on
chair or bench, walk in, or walk out, as though irresponsible beings.
How I did enjoy Melchet! Afterwards came busy, exacting life,
preparation for lectures, etc. All Europe and America were not so
pleasant as lovely, dreamy Melchet.
There are butterflies and bees in the world; the butterflies like to
play amid the flowers, I am content to belong to the bee class. The bees
do not envy the butterflies, do not think at all about them, and that is
the same with me. I might stand it for a week, perhaps a month; but the
utter waste of life would begin to present itself, until, at last, my
mind would conceive an accusing phantom, composed of lost days and
weeks, with their hosts of lost opportunities ever reproaching me for my
devotion to the inane and profitless. Ah, no, I must be doing
_something_; no matter what it appears to others, if to me it satisfies
the craving for doing or learning, that is enough.
* * * * *
On April 15, 1891, we sailed for Liverpool. Stanley ends the Journal of
our American tour with the words:--
* * * * *
The greatest part of America is unequalled for its adaptability for the
service of man, and her people are doing the utmost they can to utilize
its productiveness. They have every right to be grateful for their land,
and I think they are both grateful and proud of it.
The American farmer, of whom but little mention is made, is one of the
finest natures in existence. Milton’s description of Adam, ‘the great
Sire of all,’ a little altered, would befit the typical American farmer.
I never see one but I feel inclined to say to him, ‘Good and honest man,
all blessings attend thee!’ His life is without reproach, his soul
without fear, he has faith in God, he is affectionate, serene in
demeanour; there is confidence in his gait, and he understands and loves
the kindly earth. The typical American merchant is a sober and solid
man, shrewd and practical, a pillar of the Commonwealth, and daringly
enterprising on occasion.
* * * * *
We now returned to London, and from there Stanley went on a lecturing
tour over England and Scotland. I did not accompany him throughout, but
joined him at different places, so that I possess some delightful
letters written to me when we were apart. In one he writes:--
* * * * *
Rest! Ah, my dear! we both need it--I more than you. Absolute stillness,
somewhere in remote and inaccessible places, in an island, or in the
air, only certain articles of food and comfort being indispensable. Then
let me wake to strains of music, and I think I should rise to life
again! Until then, existence is mere prolonged endurance.
* * * * *
Stanley all his life had a passion for reading, when he could not be
‘doing.’ He delighted in reading Cæsar, Thucydides, Xenophon, Polybius,
and lighter books also did not come amiss. From Cheltenham, he wrote:--
* * * * *
I have begun again on Thucydides. Gladstone’s ‘Gleanings’ are ended.
They are all good. Strange! how I detect the church-going, God-fearing,
conscientious Christian, in almost every paragraph. Julian Corbett’s
‘Drake’ is fair; I am glad I read it, and refreshed myself with what I
knew before of the famous sailor.
* * * * *
From the Bell Hotel, Gloucester, he wrote, June 3, 1891:--
* * * * *
I had a long walk into the country, which is simply buried under bushy
green of grass and leaves.
I saw the largest river in England yesterday: it appears to be a little
wider than what I could hop over with a pole in my best days. It was a
dirty, rusty-coloured stream, but the meadows were fat. The country
seems to perspire under its covering of leafy verdure. I always loved
the English country, and my secret attachment for it seemed to me well
confirmed to-day, as I thrilled with admiration and affection for all I
saw.
June 4th. Took a walk along the heights of Clifton! What a picture of
the Severn Gorge--woods, cliffs, villas, good roads, rosy-cheeked
children, romping school-boys, fond mamas, and a score of other
things--one can get from the Suspension Bridge!
* * * * *
His next letter was from Clifton:--
* * * * *
You press me to accept the invitation to preside at the Eisteddfod. I
feel that we, the people of Wales generally, and I, are not in such
close sympathy as to enable me to say anything sufficiently pleasing to
their ears. How could it be otherwise? The Eisteddfod, as I understand
it, is for the purpose of exciting interest in the Welsh nationality and
language. My travels in the various continents have ill-prepared me for
sympathising with such a cause. If I were to speak truly my mind, I
should recommend Welshmen to turn their attention to a closer study of
the English language, literature, and characteristics, for it is only by
that training that they can hope to compete with their English brothers
for glory, honour, and prosperity. There is no harm in understanding the
Welsh language, but they should be told by sensible men that every hour
they devote to it, occupies time that might be better employed in
furthering their own particular interests. But who will dare tell men,
so devoted to their own people and country as the Welsh, the real truth?
_I_ am not the man! There is no object to be gained save the good of the
Welsh people themselves, who, unfortunately, fail to see it in that
light, and would accordingly resent whatever was said to them. I am so
ignorant of the blessings attending these _local studies_, that my
speech would be barren and halting. If I could only feel a portion of
what the fervid Welshman feels, I might carry through the day a bearing
as though I enjoyed it all, but I fear I shall hang my head in
self-abasement.
Now if it were a British community that met to celebrate British
glories, what themes and subjects! But how can I shout for Cambria? What
_is_ Cambria, _alone_? What has she done, what hope for her, separate
and distinct from her big sister Britannia, or rather Anglia? United,
they are great; but divided, neither is aught. Now do you understand to
what a hard shift I am put? I shall be hooted out of the country,
because my stubborn tongue cannot frame agreeable fictions!
* * * * *
June 16, 1891, he wrote to me:--
* * * * *
You ought to have been with me at Carnarvon, simply to be amazed at the
excitement in North Wales, along the line, as I stepped from the train;
the people, hard-featured, homely creatures, rushed up, the crowd being
enormous. Yesterday I had a striking explanation of why and wherefore
the woman in the Scriptures kissed the hem of the Master’s garment: as I
moved through the crowd, I felt hands touch my coat, then, getting
bolder, they rubbed me on the back, stroked my hair, and, finally,
thumped me hard, until I felt that the honours were getting so weighty I
should die if they continued long. Verily, there were but few thumps
between me and death! A flash of fierceness stole over me for a second,
and I turned to the crowd; but they all smiled so broadly that, poor,
dear, mad creatures, I forgave them, or, at least, resolved to submit.
Well! until 11.45 P.M., from 5 P.M., I was either talking at the pitch
of my voice to six thousand people, or being wrung by the hand by
highly-strung, excited people. Were it not for the prayer, ‘God bless
you, Stanley! God prosper your work, Stanley! The Lord be praised for
you, my man!’ I could have done anything but feel grateful, the strain
on my nerves was so exhausting. But I need prayers, and their blessings
were precious.
The streets were full; eight excursion trains had brought the country
folk; they blocked the way of the carriage, coming in, and going out.
Dear sons of toil and their sisters, the grand stout-hearted mothers who
bore them, and the grey-haired sires! My heart went out to them; for,
underneath all, I felt a considerable admiration for them--indeed, I
always had. I feel what all this means, just as I know what is passing
in the African’s heart, when I suddenly make him rich, instead of
hurting him. There is a look, as of a lifting-up of the soul into the
eyes, which explains as fully as words.
June 20th, 1891. I have nine more lectures to deliver, and then, God and
man willing, I shall cast me down for rest.
I have just begun to read Walter Scott’s ‘Journal.’ I like it immensely.
The Life of Houghton is dull; his own letters are the best in it, but
there is no observation, or judgment upon things; merely a series of
letters upon town-talk; what he did, seldom, however, what he thought.
Where you see his thought, it is worth reading twice.
It is a great relief at last to be able to ‘speak my mind,’ not to be
chilled and have to shrink back. Between mother and child, _you_ know
the confidence and trust that exist; _I_ never knew it; and now, by
extreme favour of Providence, the last few years of my life shall be
given to know this thoroughly. Towards you I begin trustfully to exhibit
my thoughts and feelings; as one, unaccustomed to the security of a
bank, places his hard-earned money in the care of a stranger, professing
belief in its security, yet inwardly doubting, so I shyly revealed this
and that, until now, when I give up all, undoubting, perfect in
confidence.
June 29th. To-morrow, a lecture at Canterbury will finish my present
course. And then I shall be at large to look at everything on earth with
different eyes. Think of the novel liberty of lying in bed as long as I
please, to take coffee in bed, the morning cigar and bath, without an
inward monitor nagging persistently and urging to duty! By the way,
apropos of that word, M. said yesterday she disliked the word ‘duty.’ I
wonder if she has been reading Jeremy Bentham, who wrote to the same
effect.
Duty, though an imperious, is a very necessary master; but I shall be
very glad to pass a few weeks, at least, owing no duty but that which I
shall owe to your pleasure and mine.
CANTERBURY, July 1st, 8.30 A.M. I have risen thus early to celebrate my
emancipation from the thraldom imposed upon me by lecture agents and my
own moral weakness, to write to you.
I have seen the time when I could have written gloriously about this
singular old town; I love it no less now than I did years ago when I
first saw it, but I am much busier with various things now than then.
The old Fountain Hotel is a typical English inn. I heard a little bit of
vocal music from the Cathedral choir, and very much admired it. What a
fine old Cathedral it is! But oh! how the religion that built it has
faded! The worship of the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth, who, we
were taught in our youth, sat in the Heaven of Heavens, has been so
superseded by that degrading worship of gold and Society!
Apropos of this, I picked up at a book-stall yesterday a little brochure
called ‘Cæsar’s Column,’ a tale of the twentieth century, by Ignatius
Donnelly. I read it through. It pretends to be a series of letters from
a man named Gabriel, a visitor to New York from the State of Uganda,
Central Africa. They are directed to one Heinreich, a resident of the
village of Stanley! He describes the marvellous inventions of the age,
especially the air-demons, which are air-warships loaded with bombs,
charged with poisonous fumes, which, dropped from above in the streets,
destroy a quarter of a million soldiers. The armed force of the State
thus disposed of, the _canaille_ proceed to exterminate the devotees of
Society and the cold, selfish civilisation, or rather that methodical
system founded upon spoliation and oppression of the poor which the
wealthy have initiated by huge trusts, etc., wherein there is no thought
of mercy, justice, or sweet charity.
The end of all is destruction and utter extermination of the wealthy
classes over Europe and America, and the quick upheaval of everything
resembling Order and Law by the Anarchist clan, and the two continents
relapse, fast enough, into barbarism, in consequence. It is a powerful
story--impossible, of course; but some of its readers will rise from
reading it, thoughtful, and a small seedling of good may, or ought, to
come from it.
* * * * *
* * * * *
At last, Stanley’s holiday came, and we went to Switzerland at the end
of July. The fine mountain air, the beauty of the scenery, long walks,
peace and quiet, gave Stanley what he so needed--physical and mental
rest. Of an evening, we read aloud, retiring very early, as Stanley had
the African habit of rising at six.
I persuaded Stanley sometimes to play at cards, but he never much cared
to do so; he not only thought cards a great waste of time, but he also
thought playing for money discreditable; he wanted all the time he
could get for reading, or planning something he meant to do, or write.
He was, in fact, an inveterate worker.
We were returning to England at the end of August, when Stanley, in a
damp mountain-meadow at Mürren, slipped and broke his left ankle. He
suffered a good deal, the injury bringing on malaria; but the bone
united without shortening the leg, and, in time, the lameness
disappeared. This accident prevented his presiding at the Eisteddfod.
* * * * *
* * * * *
On the 2nd October, Stanley went to Ostend, by invitation of the King of
the Belgians. Mr. Mounteney Jephson accompanied him. Stanley wrote to
me:--
* * * * *
The King does not look greyer than I remember him during the last two
years. He tells me he will be fifty-seven next April, and that he feels
the approach of age, one sign of which is loss of memory. He cannot
remember names. I told him that that fact did not strike me as
suggestive of age, since the longer we lived the more names we had to
remember, and there was a limit to one’s power of remembering.
* * * * *
Stanley then wrote at length his conversation with the King; but I will
not give it here.
* * * * *
After dinner, we adjourn to the King’s private room to smoke. Baron
Goffinet takes charge of Jephson, and shows him the Casino. The King
tells me he walks twenty-five kilometres every day: his daily life
begins at 5.30 A.M., when he takes a cup of tea; he breakfasts at 8.30.
All his letters for his Ministers are written by himself between 6 A.M.
and breakfast, and, at 10 o’clock, they are sent to the Ministers. He
says he has been twenty-six years in active service.
After dinner, the King cautiously approached and sounded me on the
possibility of my resuming my duties on the Congo.
I pointed to my broken leg, for I am still very lame.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘not now, but when you return from Australia, sound in
health and limb.’
‘We shall see, Your Majesty,’ I said.
‘I have a big task on hand for you, when you are ready,’ were his last
words.
* * * * *
In October, 1891, we left England for a visit to Australia, New Zealand,
and Tasmania, travelling viâ Brindisi, some twelve miles from which our
train came into collision with a goods train. Stanley thus describes the
accident:--
* * * * *
At 3.45 P.M., we were rattling along at forty miles an hour, when the
train jostled dangerously at the northern end of a siding. D. and I cast
enquiring glances at each other, but, finding we were not derailed,
resumed our composure. A second later there was an explosion like that
of a rocket, and, the next second, there was a jar and a slight shock.
‘Lift up your feet,’ I cried to D.; and, at the words, my window burst
into a shower of finely-powdered glass, which fell over me, and we stood
stock-still. Rising on my crutch, I looked through the broken window and
discovered four freight trucks, crumpled up into a pitiful wreck, just
ahead of us, within about fifty yards of a levelled wall, and I then saw
that our engine and van were lying on their side. Our escape was a
narrow one, for our coupé compartment came next to the van. Fortunately,
there was no loss of life.
* * * * *
I regret that space does not allow me to quote Stanley’s descriptions of
persons and places during his half-year in Australia. I give one or two
personal passages from his Journal.
* * * * *
AUCKLAND, December 30th. Sir George Grey called on us in the afternoon,
and took us out to show us the Public Library. There we saw valuable old
Missals, with wonderful paintings of scroll-work and impossible leafage.
In another room, he showed us private letters from Livingstone, received
by him when Governor of Cape Colony. There were also some from Speke.
Livingstone’s letters are marked ‘_Private_.’ He must have recognised a
kind of cousinship in Sir George, to have delivered himself so frankly.
He wrote strongly and earnestly to one whom he rightly supposed would
understand him.
Sir George, a traveller himself, and likewise a strong man, would
appreciate him. It did me good to see his handwriting, and also to see
letters of Speke.
I doubt whether Speke will ever be thoroughly known to the world, though
there was much that was great and good in him; but Speke, unfortunately,
could not express himself.
It was a keen pleasure to read these old letters, which breathed of
work, loyalty of soul, human duties, imperial objects, and moral
obligations, and then to look up at the face of the venerable statesman
to whom they were addressed, and trace the benevolence, breadth of
mind, and intelligence which elicited the spontaneous, free expression
of their hopes from these travellers and pioneers. It is so elevating to
see a man who is not tainted with meanness and pettiness, with whom one
can talk as to a Father-confessor, without fear of being misunderstood,
and without risk of finding it in the newspapers of the next day.
Sir George has a grand, quiet face, and a pair of round blue eyes
beaming with kindness, and the light of wisdom. There are others like
him in the world, no doubt, but it is only by a rare chance we meet
them. Should I be asked what gave me the most pleasure in life, I would
answer that it was the meeting with wise and good elders, who, while
retaining a vivid interest in the affairs of life, could, from their
height of knowledge and experience, approve what I had done, and bid me
strive on, undaunted, undismayed.
* * * * *
I here give a letter from Sir George Grey, written a month later:
* * * * *
* * * * *
AUCKLAND, 29th Jan., 1892.
MY DEAR STANLEY,--This is the 52nd Anniversary of New Zealand, a public
holiday.
I am left in perfect tranquillity, with full time for calm reflection,
for all are gone on some party of pleasure. I have occupied my morning
in following your sufferings and trials as recorded in Parke’s
‘Experiences in Equatorial Africa.’ After reading, with the greatest
pleasure, pages 512, 513, and 514, these have set me reflecting upon
what you have done for the Empire by your services, and what has been
the reward given publicly to you by the authorities of that
Empire--well, neglect!
I am inclined to think it is best that the matter should stand thus.
All of danger, sorrow, suffering, trial of every kind that man could
endure, you have undergone.
From all of these you have emerged unshaken, triumphant, every
difficulty overcome, reverenced by those who served under you, Africa
opened to the world, the unknown made manifest to all. So to have
suffered, so to have succeeded, must have done much to form a truly
great character, the remembrance of which will go down to posterity.
Yet one thing was wanting to render the great drama in which you have
been the great actor complete. Could the man who had done all this, and
supported such various trials, bear that--perhaps hardest of all--cold
neglect, and the absence of national recognition and national reward for
what he had accomplished? From this trial, as from all the others you
have undergone, you have come out a conqueror--calm, unmoved, and
uncomplaining. Your own character has been improved by this new trial,
which will add an interest to your history in future times; and I sit
here, not lamenting that you move amongst your fellow-men untitled,
undecorated, but with a feeling that all has taken place for the best.
I had wished to write to you on several points. I was much struck by a
statement in Parke’s journal, that at one point it only took fifteen
minutes to walk from the headwaters of the Nile to those of the
Congo.[43] This distance could hardly be shown upon a small map, and
probably caused an error in the old maps, or in verbal descriptions from
which the old maps were made.
But I shall weary you with this long letter. I hope we shall meet again
before long, but I fear some time may elapse before I can start for
England. I feel that I owe duties to New Zealand, Australia, and the
Cape, and, until I have at least partially fulfilled them, I hesitate to
indulge my longing once more to revisit my early home, and my many
relatives.
Will you give my regards to Mrs. Stanley, and tell her that the
interesting photograph of yourself which you were good enough to send me
has been handsomely framed and adorns the Public Library.
Yours truly,
G. GREY.
* * * * *
February 12th, TASMANIA. A curious thing happened this morning. I am
obliged to rise at an early hour on account of habits contracted during
more than twenty years of African travel, and to avail myself of the
silent hours of the morning to procure an exercise-walk for the sake of
health. At 5.30 I was shaving, and somehow my thoughts ran persistently
on what Colonel J. A. Grant (the companion of Speke) said to me in the
Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster, on my marriage day, July 12th, 1890.
Said he, ‘I must take this opportunity to say a long good-bye, for,
after to-day, I don’t suppose you will care to come to my symposium and
talk about Africa.’--‘Why?’ I asked.--‘Oh! well, you are married now,
and marriage often parts the best of male friends.’--‘Oh, come!’ I
replied, ‘I can’t see how my marriage will affect our friendship; I will
make it a point to disprove what you say.’ Then Grant and I were
separated. ‘And it is quite true,’ I reflected; ‘we have not met since,
somehow. But I will make it a point to visit Grant the first evening
after I reach London.’ And I shook my razor at the figure in the mirror,
to confirm the mental vow. A short time afterwards, I went down; the
hotel was not yet opened. As I put my hand on the knob of the door to
open it, the morning paper was thrust underneath the door by the
newspaper-boy outside. Anxious to read the cablegrams from London, I
seized the paper, and the first news to catch my attention was,--‘Death
of Colonel J. A. Grant, the Nile Explorer.’ What an odd coincidence!
This is the second time in my experience that a person thousands of
miles away from me has been suddenly suggested to me a few moments
preceding an announcement of this kind. From the day I parted with
Grant, till this morning, his words had not once recurred to my mind.
On the other occasion, the message came as an apparition. I was in the
centre of some hundreds of men,[44] and the vision of a woman lying on
her bed, dying, appeared to me suddenly. I heard her voice plainly,
every item of furniture in the room was visible to me; in fact, I had as
vivid a picture of the room, and all within it, as though I stood there
in broad daylight. The vision, clear as it was, passed away, and I awoke
to the reality of things around me. I was bewildered to find that no one
had witnessed any abstraction on my part, though one was so close, that
he touched me. Yet, in spirit, I had been six thousand miles away, and
saw my own figure at the bedside of the dying woman; months after, when
I had actually arrived in Europe, I was told that she had died a few
hours later.
* * * * *