Henty's study was an ideal room for a writer, with all kinds of
suggestive objects around, such as would be useful to a man who wrote
about war's alarms; for he did not go upon any of his adventurous
journeys without keeping in mind the walls of the study, which was
practically a museum. It must be quite five-and-twenty years since,
after dining with him one evening, Henty took the writer into his den to
show and describe (from out of the cloud emitted by a favourite
brier-root pipe which he used steadily) the various weapons hanging from
the walls, some of which were very beautiful, in spite of the purpose
for which they had been formed. One memorable, clumsy-looking,
straight, two-edged sword seemed to be about as unsuitable for causing
destruction and death as it could have been made. It was Indian, of
considerable length, and peculiar in this way. The armourer who made it
had so contrived that the hilt was fused, as it were, into a gauntlet
for the protection of the knuckles of the man who wielded it, and the
handle was exactly the reverse of that joined to an ordinary sword, for
the warrior who grasped it would have to take hold at right angles to
the course of the blade, in fact, precisely as a gardener would take
hold of a spade. To us this seems a curious clumsy fashion, but it is
one which we find repeated in many of the Indian knives or daggers, and
to some extent in the Malay creese, which, roughly speaking, bears round
towards right angles like the butt of a horse pistol.
On commenting upon the peculiarity of the great Indian sword, and the
impossibility of a man using it to thrust, or make an adequate cut,
Henty rose from his seat and gave the writer an exemplification of how
such a weapon would be used by a native foot-soldier in a melee.
Single-handed, he would rush into a crowd with outstretched arm
stiffened by the steel gauntlet-like hilt, and would clear a space all
round him by the murderous sweep of the blade which he wielded, turning
himself into a sort of human windmill. In fact, in the hands of a
strong man it was about the most horrible, butcher-like weapon ever
invented for the destruction of human life. By comparison, as the great
blade was replaced with its fellows, a far preferable death would have
been inflicted by a gracefully-curved, razor-edged, exquisitely forged
and grained Damascus blade. This had probably been the pride of some
Mahratta chief, some keen, dark, aquiline-nosed soldier whose hands must
have been as delicate as a woman's, for the hilt of this, as well as
those of its fellows upon the wall, seemed toy-like in the grip of such
a man as Henty.
He possessed quite a museum of such objects as these, and his armoury of
trophies went on growing till his death, when he was the possessor of an
endless number of choice little treasures. These were considerably
added to by his son, Captain C.J. Henty, in the shape of weapons
collected during the late Boer War (where he distinguished himself in
command of the detachment of volunteers of the London Irish Rifles), and
by another son during the latter's adventurous life in the Wild West.
A treasure of Henty's own collecting was a beautiful suit of Northern
Indian armour, exquisitely damascened and inlaid with gold, the
skullcap-like spiked helmet being provided with sliding face-guard and
hood of chain mail, while the almost gauze-like steel shirt, with
sleeves, breast, and arm-plates of beautiful workmanship, were all
perfect. From Abyssinia came a silver shield, massive and brilliantly
polished, and trophy after trophy had been garnered in other countries,
including weapons from China and Japan. About one and all of these
treasures, from the most costly weapons to the spears, arrows, and
shields of savage warfare, the owner could discourse eloquently and
well, for concerning each he had some history or anecdote to tell.
He was much liked in the little social company he affected, and here his
discourse and ways seemed to show how warmly he felt towards his
companions; while of his thorough sincerity he unobtrusively gave them
most ample proof.
In such coteries of literary and artistic men, workers for the ordinary
income as well as for the praise of the world, there are, of course,
some who prosper far beyond their highest hopes, and, sad to say, more
who, in spite of every effort, only gain disappointment, with its
concomitants--poverty and despair. It was in such cases as these that,
with evident care that his action should not hurt the feelings of a
friend, Henty's hand, so to speak, glided unseen towards his pocket, to
plunge in pretty deeply, and return far better filled than those of his
fellows who had taken similar action. And this was not from the
possession of wealth, but from true fellow-feeling and generosity of
heart.
He numbered fewer friends, perhaps, than others who were his colleagues
and fellow-workers, but those whom he classed as intimates were of the
more sterling metal, stamped with the brand of solidity, and the most
lasting in their wear; while they on their side, possibly from their
being the choice of one who, after the long gatherings of experience,
was no mean judge of human nature, were no doubt as staunch as he.
Certainly they enjoyed the satisfaction of being numbered among his
friends.
Washington Irving, in his _Knickerbocker Papers_, when describing the
sages among the old Dutch settlers in the Hudson region, refers to the
way in which they were looked up to for their wisdom and for the
character they obtained and kept by much smoking and preserving silence,
in addition to never being found out. This comes to mind when thinking
over Henty's quiet, stolid way in after-dinner communion at his clubs.
He always looked calm, grave, and thoughtful, but, unlike the old Dutch
settlers recorded by that charming American writer, he did think; he
thought deeply, but spoke little. When he did open his lips though, he
was outspoken, plain, straightforward, and to the point.
As a rule he left speaking to those who were gifted, or cursed, with
fluency. Debating was a horror to be avoided and denounced; but all the
same it was no unusual thing for him to be chosen to preside at a social
dinner, or to take the chair at a committee meeting, and when this
happened he always distinguished himself.
A fellow-member of one of his clubs supplies the writer with a
characteristic anecdote, which carries with it an impression of the
downright, straightforward character and outspoken nature of Henty in
his utter detestation of sharp practice in every form. The incident
occurred during the after-dinner conversation, throughout which the
subject of this memoir sat like a modern literary Jupiter in the midst
of the clouds of smoke which he had largely helped to evolve. Out of
this smoke he could be seen glowering at one of the speakers. This man
was a stranger to him, and he had listened to him in silence, quite
unaware that he was a city journalist connected with one of the
financial papers. The speaker had been making a great and verbose use
of his knowledge of his own particular subject, and for a long time
Henty had sat and frowned at him. No better term could possibly be
found for describing my old friend's aspect at the time. It suggested a
revival of Samuel Johnson visiting his old haunts, and those who knew
Henty became silent listeners too, in the full expectation that he would
be moved to show his displeasure, and would make some remark upon the
revelations about the peculiar ways of transacting business occasionally
carried out in the neighbourhood of Throgmorton Street.
But Jupiter was still silent, and the fluent speaker prattled on about
bulls and bears, about the great _coups_ that were made, and about the
immense profits of some and the heavy losses and ruin of the weak and
foolish who, in the fierce race for wealth, were tempted in their folly
into city gambling.
Matters went on, and Henty grew more heated. The smoke of his brier
pipe rolled out in increased volume; his eyes grew more fierce; but no
interruption came, and as he still remained silent, a feeling of
disappointment began to grow among those who knew him best. He was only
waiting, however, until the financial discourse died out, not for want
of material, since, unfortunately, that is always too plentiful, but
more probably on account of weariness on the speaker's part. Then, to
the great satisfaction of Henty's listeners, he growled out: "Well, have
you done? Now I will tell you what I think about financial newspapers
and their conductors.--They are a set of confounded thieves."
It is recorded of him that he was upon one occasion called upon to
preside at a meeting in which someone was suspected of having been a
defaulter in a case in which full confidence had been placed. It was a
serious matter, one which had been fully discussed, and at last it fell
to Henty's lot to give something like the casting vote. He had been
seated very silently, full of severe earnestness, till with stern,
solemn dignity he stood up to speak, his words shaping themselves for
some time like those of a prosecuting counsel, till at last he finished
by being almost denunciatory in tone, as with grim irony he exclaimed:
"And then he told us that lie! Now, why should he have told us such a
lie as that, when he knew very well that he must be found out? If he
wanted to tell a lie," he continued, his voice growing more cutting in
his bitter sarcasm, "why did he not choose one that we had not a chance
of finding out?"