  Illustration: Blood and another man at a dining table, discussing a prospectus. Now William Blood, or, as I still Affectionately call him, Bill, Was of a different stamp; One who, in other ages born Had turned to strengthen and adorn The Senate or the Camp. But Fortune, jealous and austere, Had marked him for a great career Of more congenial kind— A sort of modern Buccaneer, Commercial and refined. Like all great men, his chief affairs Were buying stocks and selling shares. He occupied his mind In buying them by day from men Who needed ready cash, and then At evening selling them again To those with whom he dined. But such a task could never fill His masterful ambition That rapid glance, that iron will, Disdained (and rightfully) to make A profit here and there, or take His two per cent. commission. His soul with nobler stuff was fraught; The love of country, as it ought, Haunted his every act and thought. To that he lent his mighty powers, To that he gave his waking hours, Of that he dreamed in troubled sleep, Till, after many years, the deep Imperial emotion, That moves us like a martial strain, Turned his Napoleonic brain To company promotion. Illustration: Blood in a checkered suit waving a walking stick at our traveller who is relaxing and smoking in a chair. He failed, and it was better so: It made our expedition. One day (it was a year ago) He came on foot across the town, And said his luck was rather down, And would I lend him half-a-crown? I did, but on condition (Drawn up in proper legal shape, Witnessed and sealed, and tied with tape, And costing two pound two), That, “If within the current year He made a hundred thousand clear,” He should accompany me in A Project I had formed with Sin To go to Timbuctoo. Later, we had a tiff because I introduced another clause, Of which the general sense is, That Blood, in the unlikely case Of this adventure taking place, Should pay the whole expenses. Blood swore that he had never read Or seen the clause. But Blood is dead. Well, through a curious stroke of luck, That very afternoon he struck A new concern, in which, By industry and honest ways, He grew (to his eternal praise!) In something less than sixty days Inordinately rich. Let me describe what he became The day that he succeeded,— Though, in the searching light that Fame Has cast on that immortal name, The task is hardly needed. The world has very rarely seen A deeper gulf than stood between The men who were my friends. And, speaking frankly, I confess They never cared to meet, unless It served their private ends. Sin loved the bottle, William gold; ’Twas Blood that bought and Sin that sold, In all their mutual dealings. Blood never broke the penal laws; Sin did it all the while, because He had the finer feelings. Blood had his dreams, but Sin was mad: While Sin was foolish, Blood was bad, Sin, though I say it, was a cad. (And if the word arouses Some criticism, pray reflect How twisted was his intellect, And what a past he had!) But Blood was exquisitely bred, And always in the swim, And people were extremely glad To ask him to their houses. Be not too eager to condemn: It was not he that hunted them, But they that hunted him. In this fair world of culture made For men of his peculiar trade, Of all the many parts he played, The part he grew to like the best Was called “the self-respecting guest.” And for that very reason He found himself in great request At parties in the season, Wherever gentlemen invest, From Chelsea to Mayfair. From Lath and Stucco Gate, S.W., To 90, Berkeley Square. The little statesmen in the bud, The big provincial mayor, The man that owns a magazine, The authoress who might have been; They always sent a card to Blood, And Blood was always there. At every dinner, crush or rout, A little whirlpool turned about The form immoveable and stout, That marked the Millionaire. Illustration: Men in evening dress (tailcoats), with Blood, who is quite stout, in the center. Sin (you remember) could not stay In any club for half a day, When once his name was listed; But Blood belonged to ninety-four, And would have joined as many more Had any more existed. Sin at a single game would lose A little host of I.O.U.’s, And often took the oath absurd To break the punters or his word Before it was completed. Blood was another pair of shoes: A man of iron, cold and hard, He very rarely touched a card, But when he did he cheated. These gentlemen are bulls and bears, Their club has very curious chairs. Illustration: Four men sitting at a table playing cards. One is Blood and he appears to be cheating. Again the origin of Sin, Was doubtful and obscure; Whereas, the Captain’s origin Was absolutely sure. A document affirms that he Was born in 1853 Upon a German ship at sea, Just off the Grand Canary. And though the log is rather free And written too compactly, We know the weather to a T, The longitude to a degree, The latitude exactly, And every detail is the same; We even know his Mother’s name. As to his father’s occupation, Creed, colour, character or nation, (On which the rumours vary); He said himself concerning it, With admirably caustic wit, “I think the Public would much rather Be sure of me than of my father.” The contrast curiously keen Their characters could yield Was most conspicuously seen Upon the Tented Field. Was there by chance a native tribe To cheat, cajole, corrupt, or bribe?— In such conditions Sin would burn To plunge into the fray, While Blood would run the whole concern From fifty miles away. He had, wherever honours vain Were weighed against material gain A judgment, practical and sane, Peculiarly his own. In this connection let me quote An interesting anecdote Not generally known. Before he sailed he might have been (If he had thought it paid him) A military man of note. Her gracious Majesty the Queen Would certainly have made him, In spite of his advancing years, A Captain of the Volunteers. Illustration: Blood and another man standing and talking. A certain Person of the Sort That has great influence at Court, Assured him it was so; And said, “It simply lies with you To get this little matter through. You pay a set of trifling fees To me—at any time you please——” Blood stopped him with a “No!” “This signal favour of the Queen’s Is very burdensome. It means A smart Review (for all I know), In which I am supposed to show Strategical ability: And after that tremendous fights And sleeping out on rainy nights, And much responsibility. Thank you: I have my own position, I need no parchment or commission, And everyone who knows my name Will call me ‘Captain’ just the same.” There was our leader in a phrase: A man of strong decisive ways, But reticent Though not an Englishman, I own, Perhaps it never will be known What England lost in him! This reticence, which some have called hypocrisy Was but the sign of nature’s aristocracy. |
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