NORTHERN INDIA AND JOURNEY HOME

From Benares we went to Lucknow, where we had the good fortune to meet Sir Frederick (afterwards Lord) Roberts, and Lady Roberts, who were exceedingly kind to us during our stay. We had one most interesting expedition under their auspices. We and some others met them by appointment at Dilkusha, a suburban, ruined house of the former King of Oude from which Sir Colin Campbell had started to finally relieve Outram and Havelock in November 1857. Roberts, then a young subaltern, was, as is well known, of the party, and he took us as nearly as possible over the ground which they had traversed. Havelock, who had previously brought relief to the garrison, but not enough to raise the siege of Lucknow, had sent word to Sir Colin not to come the same way that he had, as it entailed too much fighting and loss to break right through the houses held by the rebels, but to keep more to the right. Sir Frederick pointed out the scenes of several encounters with the enemy, and one spot where he, sent on a message, was nearly lost—also Secunderabagh, a place with a strong wall all round it, where the British found and killed two thousand rebels, the British shouting “Remember Cawnpore!” to each man as they killed him.

Each party—Campbell’s, and Havelock’s who advanced to join them—put flags on the buildings they captured as signals to their friends. At last they respectively reached the Moti Mahal or Pearl Palace. Here Sir Frederick showed us the wall on which the two parties, one on either side, worked till they effected a breach and met each other. Then Sir Colin Campbell, who was at the Mess House just across the road, came forward and was greeted by Generals Outram and Havelock—and the relief was complete.

Sir Frederick had not seen the wall since the breach had been built up again, but he pointed out its whereabouts, and Jersey found the new masonry which identified the spot. Colonel May, who had come with us from Dilkusha, then took us over the Residency in which he, then a young engineer, had been shut up during the whole of the siege. It was amazing to see the low walls which the besieged had managed to defend for so long, particularly as they were then overlooked by comparatively high houses held by the rebels which had since been levelled to the ground. Colonel May indicated all the posts, and the places of greatest danger, but there was danger everywhere, except perhaps in the underground rooms in which 250 women and children of the 32nd were lodged. Cannon-balls were always flying about—he told us of one lady the back of whose chair was blown away while she was sitting talking to him just outside the house, and of a cannon-ball which passed between the knees of a Mrs. Kavanagh, while she was in the verandah, without injuring her. We also saw the place where the rebels twice assembled in thousands crying “Give us Gubbins Sahib and we will go away.” They particularly hated Mr. Gubbins, as he was Financial Commissioner.

Sir Frederick said the ladies seemed quite dazed as they came out, and told us of one whom he knew who came out with two children, but subsequently lost her baby, while her husband was killed in the Mutiny. She, he said, never fully recovered her senses. No wonder, poor woman! One quaint thing we were told was that the rebels played themselves into quarters every evening with “God save the Queen.”

One unfortunate incident marred an otherwise delightful time at Lucknow. A sham fight took place, and Sir Frederick Roberts was good enough to lend a horse to Jersey and a beautiful pony to Villiers in order that they might witness it. Villiers, boylike, tried to ride his pony up the steep bank of a nullah. It fell back with him, and he suffered what was called a “green fracture,” the bones of his forearm being bent near the wrist. They had to be straightened under chloroform. We were able to leave Lucknow two days later, but the arm rather hampered him during the rest of our journey.

Delhi was our next stopping-place, where we had a most interesting time, being entertained by the Officer Commanding, Colonel Hanna—who had during the siege been employed in helping to keep open the lines of communication so as to supply food and munitions to the troops on the Ridge. He was therefore able to show us from personal knowledge all the scenes of the fighting and relief, as well as all the well-known marvels of architecture and the glories left by the great Moghuls. His house was near the old fortifications, which I believe are now demolished for sanitary reasons, but it was then a joy to look out of the windows, and see the little golden-brown squirrels which frequented the old moat, with the two marks on their backs left by Krishna’s fingers when he caressed their progenitors.

We were thrilled by his stories of events of which he had been an eye-witness, culminating in his account of the three days during which the British troops were permitted to sack the reconquered city. My husband remarked that he would not have stopped them at the end of three days. “Yes, you would, had you been there,” said Colonel Hanna. It must be very hard to restrain men maddened by weeks of hardship and the recollection of atrocities perpetrated by their foes, if they are once let loose in the stronghold of their enemies. The troops camped on the Ridge, and losing their bravest from hour to hour seem to have had at least one advantage over the defenders of Lucknow—they did not suffer from the terrible shortage of water.

Without attempting an account of all the palaces, tombs, and mosques which we saw, I must just say that nothing that I have ever seen is so impressive in its way as the view from the Kotab Minar after you have scaled the 375 steps to its tapering summit. Over the great plain are scattered the vestiges of deserted cities built by the conquerors and emperors of two thousand years, a history culminating on the Ridge of Delhi, where Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress, and where her grandson received in person the homage of the feudatory princes and chiefs over whom he was destined to rule. Even the Campagna of Rome has not that array of skeletons of past and bygone cities actually displayed before the eyes of the beholder, each bearing the name of some ruler whose name and deeds are half remembered although his dynasty has passed away.

One of these cities is Tughlakabad, with the tomb of Tughlak and his son Juna. The latter was a horrid tyrant who maimed and ill-treated many victims. His cousin and successor Feroz seems to have been a merciful and pious ruler: he compensated the injured as far as possible and got them to write deeds of indemnity, which he placed in Juna’s tomb that the latter might present them on the day of judgment. One cannot help thinking that Feroz rather than Juna may benefit from this action at the Great Assize.

On January 12th we went to spend Saturday to Monday with Major and Mrs. Paley at Meerut. Our nephew George Wombwell was laid up at Colonel Morris’s house there with typhoid fever. He seemed to be recovering, and after making arrangements for a nurse and every attention we returned to Delhi on Monday. We were afraid to keep Villiers in a cantonment station with illness about. Alas! Jersey was summoned back a few days later, when we were at Agra, as George became worse, and died. It was very sad.

At Agra we went first to Lauri’s Hotel, but Sir John Tyler, Superintendent of the Jail, persuaded us to come and stay with him, which was really a great thing, as Villiers had by no means completely recovered from the effect of his accident, and Sir John being a surgeon was able to look after him. Needless to say we visited the famous Taj by moonlight and by day, each time finding fresh beauties. I venture to quote a sentence about it from an article which I wrote concerning India published in The Nineteenth Century, because Sir Edwin Arnold was polite enough to say that I had discovered a fault which had escaped the observation of himself and his fellows:

Among the many wonders of Agra and its neighbourhood I was specially impressed by the Tomb of the Great Akbar at Sekundra. As in the case of the Taj, the real tomb is underneath the building, but in the Taj the Show Tomb is simply in a raised chamber something like a chapel, whereas Akbar’s Show Tomb is on a platform at the summit of a series of red sandstone buildings piled on each other and gradually diminishing in size. The tomb, most beautifully carved, is surrounded by a finely worked marble palisade and arcade running round the platform. Presumptuously, I took this mighty erection as an ideal for a scene in a child’s story, Eric, Prince of Lorlonia.

We were also delighted with Futtehpore-Sekree, the great city which Akbar built and then deserted because it had no water. It reminded us of Pompeii, though perhaps it had less human interest it had a greater imprint of grandeur. The great Archway or High Gate, erected 1602 to commemorate Akbar’s conquests in the Deccan, has a striking Arabic inscription, concluding with the words:

The greatest possible art has been lavished on the tomb of the hermit Sheikh Suleem. This holy man had a baby six months old when Akbar paid him a visit. Seeing his father look depressed instead of elated by the honour, the precocious infant asked the cause. The hermit must have been too much absorbed in religious meditation to study the habits of babies, for instead of being startled by the loquacity of his offspring he confided to him that he grieved that the Emperor could not have an heir unless some other person sacrificed his child. “By your worship’s leave,” said baby, “I will die that a Prince may be born,” and before the father had time to remonstrate calmly expired. As a result of this devotion Jehanghir was born, and Akbar built Futtehpore-Sekree in the neighbourhood of the hermit’s abode.

When Sheikh Suleem died he was honoured with a splendid tomb inlaid with mother-of-pearl and enclosed in a marble summer-house with a beautifully carved screen to which people who want children tie little pieces of wool. Apparently a little addition to the offering of wool is desirable, as the priest who acted as guide assured us that an English officer who had a blind child tied on the wool, but also promised our informant a hundred rupees if the next was all right. The next was a boy with perfect eyesight and the priest had his reward.

Beside the baby’s tomb, which is in an outer cemetery, we saw a little tomb erected by a woman whose husband was killed in the Afghan War over one of his old teeth!

We were fortunate in having Sir John Tyler as our host at Agra, for as Superintendent of the Jail he was able to ensure that we should have the best possible carpets, which we wanted for Osterley, made there. They were a long time coming, but they were well worth it. Abdul Kerim, Queen Victoria’s Munshi, was a friend of his, in fact I believe that Sir John had selected him for his distinguished post. He was on leave at Agra at the time of our visit, and we went to a Nautch given at his father’s house in honour of the Bismillah ceremony of his nephew.

From Agra we visited Muttra, where we were the guests of the Seth Lachman Das—a very rich and charitable old man of the Bunyah (banker and money-lender) caste. He lodged us in a bungalow generally let to some English officers who were temporarily absent, and he and his nephew did all in their power to show us the sights at Muttra and in the neighbourhood.

Amongst other sacred spots we were taken to Krishna’s birthplace. It was curious that though, throughout India, there are magnificent temples and rock-carvings in honour of Vishnu and his incarnation Krishna, his birthplace was only marked by a miserable little building with two dolls representing Krishna’s father and mother.

The legend of Krishna’s babyhood is a curious echo of the birth of our Lord and the crossing of the Red Sea combined. It seems that a wicked Tyrant wanted to kill the child but his foster-father carried him over the river near Muttra, and as soon as the water touched the infant’s feet it receded and they passed over dry shod. In memory of this event little brass basins are sold with an image within of the man carrying the child in his arms. The child’s foot projects, and if one pours water into the basin it runs away as soon as it touches the toe. I do not know what may be the hydraulic trick, but certainly it is necessary to put the brass basin into a larger one before trying the experiment to receive the water which runs out at the bottom. The little birthplace building was in the courtyard of a mosque—part of which was reserved for the Hindus.

The Seth had built a temple in Muttra itself, where he annually expended large sums in feeding the poor, and he and his family had erected a still finer one at Brindaban, a famous place of pilgrimage in the neighbourhood, where they had set up a flag-staff 120 feet high overlaid with real gold. Seth Lachman Das maintained at his own expense twenty-five priests and fifteen attendants besides fifty boys who were fed and instructed in the Shastras. As at Madura, we were struck by these rich men’s apparent faith in their own religion.

After visiting Deeg and Bhurtpore, we reached the pretty Italian-looking town of Ulwar. The Maharajah, who was an enlightened potentate, had unfortunately gone into camp, but we were interested in the many tokens of his care for his subjects and of his artistic tastes. He kept men executing illuminations like the old monks.

When we visited the jail I was admitted to the quarters of the female prisoners, who seemed quite as anxious to show the labels which they carried recording their crimes, as schoolchildren are to display their exercises or needlework when one visits a school. One smiling woman brought me a label inscribed “Bigamy,” which struck me as rather ludicrous considering the circumstances, and also a little unfair to the criminal. Indian men are allowed several wives—why was she punished for having more than one husband? Probably, however, she was safer locked up in prison than left at the mercy of two husbands, one of whom would almost certainly have cut off her nose if he had an access of jealousy.

After Ulwar we spent a few days at that most attractive city, Jeypore, called by Sir Edwin Arnold the “City of Victory,” a victorious Maharajah having transferred his capital there from the former picturesque town of Amber. The principal street of Jeypore has houses on either side painted pink, which has a brilliant effect in the sunlight, but when we were there the paint certainly wanted renewing. The Maharajah was a rarely intelligent man, and he had a particularly clever and agreeable Dewan—or Prime Minister. We made great friends with the English doctor—Dr. Hendley—who not only attended some of the native nobles, but also was able to superintend the English lady doctor and thereby help the native ladies. Formerly when a child was born a live goat was waved over its head and the blood of a cock sprinkled on it and its mother. Mother and child were then kept for a fortnight without air, and with a charcoal fire constantly burning, more charcoal being added if the child cried. Mercifully the younger ladies and their husbands were beginning to realise the comfort of English treatment on these occasions.

On our way from Muttra to Ahmedabad we slept at the Rajpootana Hotel, about sixteen miles from Mount Abu Station, in order to visit the Dilwarra Temples of the Jains. The Jains are a sect of very strict Buddhists—almost the only representatives of the Buddhists left in Hindustan proper. Ceylon and Burmah are Buddhist, so are some of the lands on the Northern Frontier, but the Brahmins contrived to exterminate Buddhism in the great Peninsula in the eighth century after it had spread and flourished there for about a thousand years. These Dilwarra temples are well worth a visit. The pious founder is said to have bought the land for as many pieces of silver as would cover it, and to have paid £18,000,000 sterling for building, besides £560,000 for levelling the site on the steep hill.Without attempting to guarantee the accuracy of these figures, it may safely be said that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find any buildings in the world of which the interiors present an equal amount of highly finished artistic labour. Outside the temples are low and not imposing, inside they are one mass of minute and elaborate sculpture. You stand beneath a dome with saints or angels worthy of a Gothic cathedral rising to its central point. Around are arcades with pillars and arches, beyond which are numerous small chapels or shrines, each with the figure of a large cross-legged Rishi or Saint with little rishis in attendance. Every inch of arch, arcade, and ceiling is adorned with marvellous carving of ornaments, or of men, ships, and animals. We were told that the central figure in each temple was “Of the Almighty,” who seemed to exact as tribute to his power a fearful noise of cymbals and tomtoms. He appeared to be not exactly a deity, but a divine emanation. The really perfect Jain wore a piece of muslin over his mouth to avoid destroying the life of even invisible insects, but such extreme virtue was, I fancy, rare and must have been highly uncomfortable.

From Ahmedabad we went to Bhownugger, where we were received in great state by the young Maharajah symptuously attired in green velvet and the Star of India, and attended by his high officials and a guard of honour. We felt very dirty and dusty after a hot journey (thermometer in railway carriages nearly 100°) when received with so much splendour, but we liked the Maharajah immensely and he became devoted to my husband.

He gave us a splendid time with all sorts of “tamashas” while we were his guests, but we were specially interested in his personality. He had been educated in the college for young chiefs at Ajmere and had acquired a very high standard of ideas of right and wrong and of his duty to his people. I expect that, like the rest of us, he often found it hard to carry his theories into practice, and it was rather pathetic when, speaking of what he wished to do, he added, “We must do the best we can and leave the rest to God”—then, looking up at the chandelier hanging in the bungalow in which he entertained us, he continued, “God is like that light, and the different religions are the different colours through which He shines.”

One of his difficulties, poor man, was in his matrimonial arrangements. He had married two or three ladies of high rank, as considered suitable by the Brahmins, but he had also married to please himself a fair maiden of lower caste. He then learnt that if he did not get rid of her the Brahmins meant to get rid of him. Thereupon he took the Political Officer of that part of the country, Captain Ferris, into the middle of the tennis ground, as the only spot free from the risk of spies, and poured his griefs into the Englishman’s sympathetic bosom. Captain Ferris’s solution was that Mrs. Ferris should call upon the despised Rani, as she did on the more orthodox wives, and that the Maharajah should cling to his English adviser for several days, driving about with him and never leaving him, which would for the time being prevent attempts at assassination. What was to happen afterwards I do not know. Perhaps the Brahmins became aware that any foul play would bring the English raj down upon them. Anyhow, the Maharajah lived to pay a visit to England and came to see us there—though he did not attain old age.We heard a good deal of the harm resulting from the great expense of native marriages, including the temptation to infanticide. In the district about Ahmedabad the lower castes do not forbid second marriages, and these are less expensive than the first. Therefore a girl was sometimes married to a bunch of flowers, which was then thrown down a well. The husband thus disposed of, the widow could contract a second alliance quite cheaply.

We then spent two nights as guests of the Thakur Sahib of Limbdi, who, like the other Kathiawar Princes of Morvi and Gondal, had been in England for the Jubilee, and whom we had known there. All three, particularly Limbdi and Gondal, were enlightened men, with various schemes for promoting the welfare of their subjects. The life of many of these Indian Chiefs recalls the days of Scottish Clans. When we were driving with Limbdi he would point out labouring men who saluted as he passed as his “cousins,” and finally told us that he had six thousand blood relations.

On February 14th we arrived at Baroda, where we were most hospitably entertained by Sir Harry and Lady Prendergast. Baroda, like so many Indian cities, offered a picture of transition, or at least blending of East and West. As is well known, the late Gaikwar poisoned the British Resident. He was tried by a Tribunal of three Indians and three British. The former acquitted, the latter condemned him. He was deposed and three boys of the family were selected of whom the Maharanee was allowed to adopt one as heir. She chose the present Gaikwar, who was educated under British auspices, but has not always been happy in his relations with the British Government. He however proved quite loyal during the late war. When we were at Baroda he had been decorating his Palace in an inferior European style. He had bought some fair pictures, but would only give an average of £100, as he said that neither he nor his subjects were capable of appreciating really good ones. In contrast to these modern arrangements we saw the “Chattries” of former Gaikwars. These were funny little rooms, something like small loose boxes in a garden surrounding a shrine. In one was a doll, representing Kunda Rao’s grandfather, in another the ashes of his father under a turban with his photograph behind, in yet a third the turbans of his mother and two other sons. In each room there were a bed, water and other vessels, and little lights burning, the idea being that all should be kept in readiness lest the spirits should return to occupy the apartments. After all, the rooms of the late Queen of Hanover were until lately, perhaps are still, kept as in her lifetime, provided with flowers and with a lady-in-waiting in daily attendance; so East and West are much alike in their views of honour due to the departed.

Back to Bombay for yet five happy days with our dear friends Lord and Lady Reay before saying farewell to India on February 22nd. We had had a truly interesting experience during our three and a half months in the Eastern Empire, and were deeply impressed by the manner in which so many races were knit together under British rule. How far all this may endure under the new attempts at Constitution-making by Occidentals for Orientals remains to be seen. When we paid this first of our visits to India it was perfectly evident that the idea of the Queen-Empress was the corner-stone of government. My husband talked to many natives, Maharajahs and officials, and would sometimes refer to the leaders of the great English political parties. Their names seemed to convey nothing to the Indians, but they always brought the conversation back to “The Empress.” Disraeli was criticised in England for having bestowed that title on his Mistress, but we had constant opportunities of seeing its hold upon the Oriental mind. “Give my best respects to the Empress,” was a favourite mission given to Jersey by his Maharajah friends. He conscientiously tried to acquit himself thereof when we saw the Queen, who was a good deal amused when he painstakingly pronounced their titles and names.

I once heard a story which shows the effect of the Royal ideal on quite a different class. A census was in progress and a large number of hill-tribes had to be counted. These people had been told a legend that the reason for this reckoning was that the climate in England had become so hot that a large number of the women were to be transported there to act as slaves and fan the Queen—also the men were to be carried off for some other servile purpose. Consequently the mass of the people hid themselves, to the great embarrassment of the officials. One extremely capable man, however, knew the people well and how to deal with them. He contrived to induce the leading tribesmen to come and see him. In reply to his inquiry they confessed their apprehensions. “You fools,” said the Englishman, “it is nothing of the sort. I will tell you the reason. You have heard of the Kaiser-i-Hind?” Yes—they had heard of her. “And you have heard of the Kaiser-i-Roum?” (the Czar). They had also heard of him. “Well, the Kaiser-i-Roum paid a visit to the Kaiser-i-Hind, and when they had finished their curry and rice they began talking. He said he had more subjects than she, the Kaiser-i-Hind said she had most. To settle the matter they laid a heavy bet and both sent orders to count their people. If you don’t let yourselves be counted the Kaiser-i-Hind will lose the bet and your faces will be blackened.” The tale of the bet appealed to their sporting instincts. All difficulties disappeared. The tribesmen rushed to be counted—probably two or three times over.

Again, it was curious to notice how the English language was weaving its net over India.

At Jeypore an English-speaking native official had been told off to take us about during our stay. When we were thanking him and saying good-bye, he remarked that the next person whom he was to conduct was a judge from Southern India. The judge was a native Indian, but as he did not know the language of the Jeypore State he had sent in advance to ask to be provided with a guide who could speak English. Formerly the lingua franca of the upper, or educated, classes was Persian, of the lower ones Urdu—the kind of Hindustani spoken by the Mohammedan, and afterwards by the English army. Of course both languages still prevail, but all educated Indians learn English in addition to two or three of the hundred-odd languages spoken in the Peninsula. On a later visit a Hyderabad noble was taking my daughter and me to see various sights. I noticed that he talked to a good many natives in the course of our excursion, and as they appeared to be of different castes and occupations, I asked him at last how many languages he had talked during the day. After a little reflection he reckoned up six. It will not be such a very easy matter to get all these people into the category of enlightened electors.On our voyage home I occupied myself by writing the article already mentioned as appearing in The Nineteenth Century—from which I extract the following supplement to my recollections:

In May 1889—The National Review also published the following verses, which I wrote after reading Sir Alfred Lyall’s “Meditations of a Hindu Prince.” I called them “Meditations of a Western Wanderer”:

“All the world over, meseemeth, wherever my footsteps have trod,
The nations have builded them temples, and in them have imaged their God.
Of the temples the Nature around them has fashioned and moulded the plan,
And the gods took their life and their being from the visions and longings of man.
“So the Greek bade his marble be instinct with curves of the rock-riven foam,
Within it enshrining the Beauty and the Lore of his sunlitten home;
And the Northman hewed deep in the mountain and reared his huge pillars on high,
And drank to the strength of the thunder and the force flashing keen from the sky.
“But they knew, did those builders of old time, that wisdom and courage are vain,
That Persephone rises in springtide to sink in the winter again,
That the revelling halls of Walhalla shall crumble when ages have rolled
O’er the deep-rooted stem of the World-ash and the hardly-won Treasure of gold.
“I turn to thee, mystical India, I ask ye, ye Dreamers of earth,
Of the Whence and the Whither of spirit, of the tale of its birth and rebirth.
For the folks ye have temples and legends and dances to heroes and kings,
But ye sages know more, would ye tell it, of the soul with her god-given wings.
“Ah, nations have broken your barriers; ah, empires have drunk of your stream,
And each ere it passed bore its witness, and left a new thought for your dream:
The Moslem saith, ‘One is the Godhead,’ the Brahmin ‘Inspiring all,’
The Buddhist, ‘The Law is Almighty, by which ye shall stand or shall fall.’
“Yea, verily One the All-Father; yea, Brahmin, all life is from Him,
And Righteous the Law of the Buddha, but the path of attainment is dim.
Is God not afar from His creature—the Law over-hard to obey?
Wherein shall the Life be of profit to man seeing evil bear sway?

“Must I ask of the faith which to children and not to the wise is revealed?
By it shall the mist be uplifted? By it shall the shrine be unsealed?
Must I take it, the often-forgotten yet echoing answer of youth—
‘’Tis I,’ saith the Word of the Father, ‘am the Way and the Life and the Truth’?
“The Truth dwelleth ay with the peoples, let priests hide its light as they will;
’Tis spirit to spirit that speaketh, and spirit aspireth still;
Wherever I seek I shall find it, that infinite longing of man
To rise to the house of his Father, to end where his being began.
“And the secret that gives him the power, the message that shows him the way,
Is the Light he will struggle to follow, the Word he perforce will obey.
It is not the voice of the whirlwind, nor bolt from the storm-kindled dome;
’Tis stillness that bringeth the tidings—the child knows the accents of home.”

We had a calm voyage to Suez in the Bengal. It was fortunate that it was calm—for the Bengal was quite an old-fashioned ship. I think only something over 3,000 tons—different from the Arcadia, then the show-ship of the P. and O. fleet. I was amused once to come across an account by Sir Richard Burton of a voyage which he took in the Bengal years before, when he described the P. and O. as having done away with the terrors of ocean travel by having provided such a magnificent vessel.

We spent nine days at Cairo and Alexandria and saw the usual sights, then quite new to us; but it is generally a mistake to visit one great land with a history and antiquities of its own when the mind has just been captured by another. Anyhow, we were so full of the glories of India that Egypt failed to make the appeal to us which she would otherwise have done, and which she did on subsequent visits. The mosques in particular seemed to us inferior to the marble dreams of Delhi and Agra. Moreover on this occasion we did not ascend the Nile and see the wonderful temples. The one thing which really impressed me was the Sphinx, though I regret to say that my husband and son entirely declined to share my feelings. Lord Kitchener was then, as Adjutant to Sir Francis Grenfell, Colonel Kitchener. He afterwards became a great friend of ours, but we first made his acquaintance on this visit to Cairo. We had a most interesting inspection of the Barrage works under the guidance of Sir Colin Moncrieff and dined with the Khedive, and at the British Agency.

From Alexandria we went by an Egyptian steamer—at least a steamer belonging to an Egyptian line—to Athens, which we reached on March 15th, accompanied by Lady Galloway. On this voyage I performed the one heroic deed of my life, with which bad sailors like myself will sympathise. The crew of this ship was mainly Turkish—the native Egyptians being no good as seamen, but the captain, Losco by name, was a Maltese and exceedingly proud of being a British subject.

The first day of our voyage on the BÉhÉra was calm, and we sat cheerfully at dinner listening to his conversation. He was particularly emphatic in his assertions that he understood something of English cuisine, I believe taught by his mother, and above all he understood the concoction of an English plum-pudding and that it must be boiled for twenty-four hours. Said he, “You shall have a plum-pudding for dinner tomorrow.” Then and there he sent for the steward and gave him full instructions. Next evening the plum-pudding duly appeared, but meantime the wind had freshened and the sea had risen. Under such conditions I am in the habit of retiring to my cabin and remaining prostrate until happier hours dawn—but was I to shake, if not shatter, the allegiance of this British subject by failing in my duty to a British pudding? I did not flinch. I sat through the courses until the pudding was on the table. I ate and praised, and then retired.

We reached Athens early on the following morning and forgot rough seas and plum-puddings in the pleasure of revisiting our former haunts and showing them to Jersey and Villiers. The King and Queen were again good enough to ask us to luncheon and dinner, and this time we also found the British Minister, Sir Edmund Monson, who had been absent on our previous visit. He kindly included Villiers, though barely sixteen years old, in an invitation to dinner, and much amusement was caused in diplomatic circles by the very pretty daughter of the American Minister, Clarice Fearn. She was about seventeen and had evidently been almost deprived of young companionship during her sojourn at Athens. She was seated at the British Legation between Villiers and a French Secretary no longer in his first youth, so she promptly turned to the latter and said, “I am not going to talk to you, I am going to talk to Lord Villiers”; result, an animated conversation between the youngsters throughout dinner. She at once acquired the nickname of “La belle-fille de l’avenir,” and long afterwards a man who had been at the British Legation some time subsequent to our visit said that he had always heard her called this, though he had never known the reason. I need hardly add that “Society” at Athens was very small and easily amused. Poor “belle-fille de l’avenir,” I saw her again when she and her sister stayed for a time at Somerville College at Oxford, but she died quite young. Her sister, Mrs. Barton French, still lives.

For the rest I need not recapitulate Greek experiences beyond transcribing part of a letter to my mother which contains an account of the domestic life of the Greek Royal Family in those bygone days:

Further on in the same letter I write:

My mother sent the long letter of which this formed part to my aunt Theodora Guest, who made a characteristic comment. She allowed the wisdom of the prayer, but continued—“but in praying for neither poverty nor riches, I should be careful to add ‘especially not the former,’ for I don’t see that poverty ensures peace, or security from murder—and it would be hard to be poor all one’s life and be murdered at the end! Better be rich and comfortable if only for a time. Still I would not be Empress of Russia for something, and that poor innocent Grecian princess is to be pitied.”

This was written April 1889. What would my mother, my aunt, or myself have said now?

The baby of our luncheon party was Christopher, now the husband of Mrs. Leeds. The poor little Princess whose doom we feared had a more merciful one than many of her relations. She married the Grand Duke Paul later in 1889 and died in 1891 after the birth of her second child. Taken indeed from the evil to come. Her children were adopted by the Grand Duchess Serge, who I believe has been murdered in the late Terror—but I do not know what has happened to the children.

To turn to something more cheerful. A delightful woman, a real Mrs. Malaprop, had lately been at Athens and much enlivened the British Legation both by her remarks and her credulity. With her the Parthenon was the “Parthian,” the Odeum (an ancient theatre) the “Odium,” Tanagra became “Tangiers,” and so on. She told Mr. Haggard that she did not like the “Parthian,” it was too big. “Oh,” he said, “you ought to like it, for you have heard of the Parthian shafts—those” (pointing to the columns) “are the original Parthian shafts.” “How very interesting!” said she. He then proceeded to inform her that the Odeum was used for music (which was true), but added that the music was so bad that they all hated it, and therefore the place was called the “Odium”—also “very interesting.” She was taken for an excursion in Thessaly, where there were sheep-pens on the mountains, and one happened to be fenced in a shape something like an irregular figure 8. Another lady pointed this out and gravely informed her that that was how the Pelasgians numbered their mountains. “Oh, Charles,” shouted the victim to her husband, “do look—the Pelasgians numbered their hills—one, two, three—there is number eight!”