Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin, by Robert Louis Stevenson

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Transcribed from the 1901 Charles Scribner’s Sonsedition by David Price,dollhouse furniture for 11 year olds under 20 dollars email [email protected]

MEMOIR
OF
FLEEMING JENKIN

BY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

NEWYORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1901

PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.

On the death of Fleeming Jenkin,his family and friends determined to publish a selection of hisvarious papers; by way of introduction, the following pages weredrawn up; and the whole, forming two considerable volumes, hasbeen issued in England.  In the States, it has not beenthought advisable to reproduce the whole; and the memoirappearing alone, shorn of that other matter which was at once itsoccasion and its justification, so large an account of a man solittle known may seem to a stranger out of all proportion. But Jenkin was a man much more remarkable than the mere bulk ormerit of his work approves him.  It was in the world, in thecommerce of friendship, by his brave attitude towards life, byhis high moral value and unwearied intellectual effort, that hestruck the minds of his contemporaries.  His was anindividual figure, such as authors delight to draw, and all mento read of, in the pages of a novel.  His was a face worthpainting for its own sake.  If the sitter shall not seem tohave justified the portrait, if Jenkin, after his death, shallnot continue to make new friends, the fault will be altogethermine.

R. L S.

Saranac, Oct., 1887.

CHAPTER I.

The Jenkins of Stowting—Fleeming’sgrandfather—Mrs. Buckner’sfortune—Fleeming’s father; goes to sea; at St.Helena; meets King Tom; service in the West Indies; end of hiscareer—The Campbell-Jacksons—Fleeming’smother—Fleeming’s uncle John.

In the reign of Henry VIII., afamily of the name of Jenkin, claiming to come from York, andbearing the arms of Jenkin ap Philip of St. Melans, are foundreputably settled in the county of Kent.  Persons of stronggenealogical pinion pass from William Jenkin, Mayor of Folkestonein 1555, to his contemporary ‘John Jenkin, of the Citie ofYork, Receiver General of the County,’ and thence, by wayof Jenkin ap Philip, to the proper summit of any Cambrianpedigree—a prince; ‘Guaith Voeth, Lord ofCardigan,’ the name and style of him.  It may suffice,however, for the present, that these Kentish Jenkins must haveundoubtedly derived from Wales, and being a stock of someefficiency, they struck root and grew to wealth and consequencein their new home.

Of their consequence we have proof enough in the fact that notonly was William Jenkin (as already mentioned) Mayor ofFolkestone in 1555, but no less than twenty-three times in thesucceeding century and a half, a Jenkin (William, Thomas, Henry,or Robert) sat in the same place of humble honour.  Of theirwealth we know that in the reign of Charles I., Thomas Jenkin ofEythorne was more than once in the market buying land, andnotably, in 1633, acquired the manor of Stowting Court. This was an estate of some 320 acres, six miles from Hythe, inthe Bailiwick and Hundred of Stowting, and the Lathe of Shipway,held of the Crown in capiteby the service of six men anda constable to defend the passage of the sea at Sandgate. It had a chequered history before it fell into the hands ofThomas of Eythorne, having been sold and given from one toanother—to the Archbishop, to Heringods, to theBurghershes, to Pavelys, Trivets, Cliffords, Wenlocks,Beauchamps, Nevilles, Kempes, and Clarkes: a piece of Kentishground condemned to see new faces and to be no man’shome.  But from 1633 onward it became the anchor of theJenkin family in Kent; and though passed on from brother tobrother, held in shares between uncle and nephew, burthened bydebts and jointures, and at least once sold and bought in again,it remains to this day in the hands of the direct line.  Itis not my design, nor have I the necessary knowledge, to give ahistory of this obscure family.  But this is an age whengenealogy has taken a new lease of life, and become for the firsttime a human science; so that we no longer study it in quest ofthe Guaith Voeths, but to trace out some of the secrets ofdescent and destiny; and as we study, we think less of SirBernard Burke and more of Mr. Galton.  Not only do ourcharacter and talents lie upon the anvil and receive their temperduring generations; but the very plot of our life’s storyunfolds itself on a scale of centuries, and the biography of theman is only an episode in the epic of the family.  From thispoint of view I ask the reader’s leave to begin this noticeof a remarkable man who was my friend, with the accession of hisgreat-grandfather, John Jenkin.

This John Jenkin, a grandson of Damaris Kingsley, of thefamily of ‘Westward Ho!’ was born in 1727, andmarried Elizabeth, daughter of Thomas Frewen, of Church House,Northiam.  The Jenkins had now been long enoughintermarrying with their Kentish neighbours to be Kentish folkthemselves in all but name; and with the Frewens in particulartheir connection is singularly involved.  John and his wifewere each descended in the third degree from another ThomasFrewen, Vicar of Northiam, and brother to Accepted Frewen,Archbishop of York.  John’s mother had married aFrewen for a second husband.  And the last complication wasto be added by the Bishop of Chichester’s brother, CharlesBuckner, Vice-Admiral of the White, who was twice married, firstto a paternal cousin of Squire John, and second to Anne, onlysister of the Squire’s wife, and already the widow ofanother Frewen.  The reader must bear Mrs. Buckner in mind;it was by means of that lady that Fleeming Jenkin began life as apoor man.  Meanwhile, the relationship of any Frewen to anyJenkin at the end of these evolutions presents a problem almostinsoluble; and we need not wonder if Mrs. John, thus exercised inher immediate circle, was in her old age ‘a greatgenealogist of all Sussex families, and muchconsulted.’  The names Frewen and Jenkin may almostseem to have been interchangeable at will; and yet Fate proceedswith such particularity that it was perhaps on the point of namethat the family was ruined.

The John Jenkins had a family of one daughter and fiveextravagant and unpractical sons.  The eldest, Stephen,entered the Church and held the living of Salehurst, where heoffered, we may hope, an extreme example of the clergy of theage.  He was a handsome figure of a man; jovial and jocular;fond of his garden, which produced under his care the finestfruits of the neighbourhood; and like all the family, very choicein horses.  He drove tandem; like Jehu, furiously.  Hissaddle horse, Captain (for the names of horses are piouslypreserved in the family chronicle which I follow), was trained tobreak into a gallop as soon as the vicar’s foot was thrownacross its back; nor would the rein be drawn in the nine milesbetween Northiam and the Vicarage door.  Debt was theman’s proper element; he used to skulk from arrest in thechancel of his church; and the speed of Captain may have comesometimes handy.  At an early age this unconventional parsonmarried his cook, and by her he had two daughters and oneson.  One of the daughters died unmarried; the otherimitated her father, and married ‘imprudently.’ The son, still more gallantly continuing the tradition, enteredthe army, loaded himself with debt, was forced to sell out, tookrefuge in the Marines, and was lost on the Dogger Bank in thewar-ship Minotaur.  If he did not marry below him,like his father, his sister, and a certain great-uncle William,it was perhaps because he never married at all.

The second brother, Thomas, who was employed in the GeneralPost-Office, followed in all material points the example ofStephen, married ‘not very creditably,’ and spent allthe money he could lay his hands on.  He died without issue;as did the fourth brother, John, who was of weak intellect andfeeble health, and the fifth brother, William, whose brief careeras one of Mrs. Buckner’s satellites will fall to beconsidered later on.  So soon, then, as the Minotaurhad struck upon the Dogger Bank, Stowting and the line of theJenkin family fell on the shoulders of the third brother,Charles.

Facility and self-indulgence are the family marks; facility(to judge by these imprudent marriages) being at once theirquality and their defect; but in the case of Charles, a man ofexceptional beauty and sweetness both of face and disposition,the family fault had quite grown to be a virtue, and we find himin consequence the drudge and milk-cow of his relatives. Born in 1766, Charles served at sea in his youth, and smelt bothsalt water and powder.  The Jenkins had inclined hitherto,as far as I can make out, to the land service. Stephen’s son had been a soldier; William (fourth ofStowting) had been an officer of the unhappy Braddock’s inAmerica, where, by the way, he owned and afterwards sold anestate on the James River, called, after the parental seat; ofwhich I should like well to hear if it still bears thename.  It was probably by the influence of Captain Buckner,already connected with the family by his first marriage, thatCharles Jenkin turned his mind in the direction of the navy; andit was in Buckner’s own ship, the Prothée,64, that the lad made his only campaign.  It was in the daysof Rodney’s war, when the Prothée, we read,captured two large privateers to windward of Barbadoes, and was‘materially and distinguishedly engaged’ in both theactions with De Grasse.  While at sea Charles kept ajournal, and made strange archaic pilot-book sketches, part plan,part elevation, some of which survive for the amusement ofposterity.  He did a good deal of surveying, so that here wemay perhaps lay our finger on the beginning of Fleeming’seducation as an engineer.  What is still more strange, amongthe relics of the handsome midshipman and his stay in thegun-room of the Prothée, I find a code of signalsgraphically represented, for all the world as it would have beendone by his grandson.

On the declaration of peace, Charles, because he had sufferedfrom scurvy, received his mother’s orders to retire; and hewas not the man to refuse a request, far less to disobey acommand.  Thereupon he turned farmer, a trade he was topractice on a large scale; and we find him married to a MissSchirr, a woman of some fortune, the daughter of a Londonmerchant.  Stephen, the not very reverend, was still alive,galloping about the country or skulking in his chancel.  Itdoes not appear whether he let or sold the paternal manor toCharles; one or other, it must have been; and the sailor-farmersettled at Stowting, with his wife, his mother, his unmarriedsister, and his sick brother John.  Out of the six people ofwhom his nearest family consisted, three were in his own house,and two others (the horse-leeches, Stephen and Thomas) he appearsto have continued to assist with more amiability thanwisdom.  He hunted, belonged to the Yeomanry, owned famoushorses, Maggie and Lucy, the latter coveted by royaltyitself.  ‘Lord Rokeby, his neighbour, called himkinsman,’ writes my artless chronicler, ‘andaltogether life was very cheery.’  At Stowting histhree sons, John, Charles, and Thomas Frewen, and his youngerdaughter, Anna, were all born to him; and the reader should herebe told that it is through the report of this second Charles(born 1801) that he has been looking on at these confusedpassages of family history.

In the year 1805 the ruin of the Jenkins was begun.  Itwas the work of a fallacious lady already mentioned, Aunt AnneFrewen, a sister of Mrs. John.  Twice married, first to hercousin Charles Frewen, clerk to the Court of Chancery, BrunswickHerald, and Usher of the Black Rod, and secondly to AdmiralBuckner, she was denied issue in both beds, and being veryrich—she died worth about 60,000l., mostly inland—she was in perpetual quest of an heir.  Themirage of this fortune hung before successive members of theJenkin family until her death in 1825, when it dissolved and leftthe latest Alnaschar face to face with bankruptcy.  Thegrandniece, Stephen’s daughter, the one who had not‘married imprudently,’ appears to have been thefirst; for she was taken abroad by the golden aunt, and died inher care at Ghent in 1792.  Next she adopted William, theyoungest of the five nephews; took him abroad with her—itseems as if that were in the formula; was shut up with him inParis by the Revolution; brought him back to Windsor, and got hima place in the King’s Body-Guard, where he attracted thenotice of George III. by his proficiency in German.  In1797, being on guard at St. James’s Palace, William took acold which carried him off; and Aunt Anne was once more leftheirless.  Lastly, in 1805, perhaps moved by the Admiral,who had a kindness for his old midshipman, perhaps pleased by thegood looks and the good nature of the man himself, Mrs. Bucknerturned her eyes upon Charles Jenkin.  He was not only to bethe heir, however, he was to be the chief hand in a somewhat wildscheme of family farming.  Mrs. Jenkin, the mother,contributed 164 acres of land; Mrs. Buckner, 570, some atNorthiam, some farther off; Charles let one-half of Stowting to atenant, and threw the other and various scattered parcels intothe common enterprise; so that the whole farm amounted to nearupon a thousand acres, and was scattered over thirty miles ofcountry.  The ex-seaman of thirty-nine, on whose wisdom andubiquity the scheme depended, was to live in the meanwhilewithout care or fear.  He was to check himself in nothing;his two extravagances, valuable horses and worthless brothers,were to be indulged in comfort; and whether the year quite paiditself or not, whether successive years left accumulated savingsor only a growing deficit, the fortune of the golden aunt shouldin the end repair all.

On this understanding Charles Jenkin transported his family toChurch House, Northiam: Charles the second, then a child ofthree, among the number.  Through the eyes of the boy wehave glimpses of the life that followed: of Admiral and Mrs.Buckner driving up from Windsor in a coach and six, twopost-horses and their own four; of the house full of visitors,the great roasts at the fire, the tables in the servants’hall laid for thirty or forty for a month together; of the dailypress of neighbours, many of whom, Frewens, Lords, Bishops,Batchellors, and Dynes, were also kinsfolk; and the parties‘under the great spreading chestnuts of the old forecourt,’ where the young people danced and made merry to themusic of the village band.  Or perhaps, in the depth ofwinter, the father would bid young Charles saddle his pony; theywould ride the thirty miles from Northiam to Stowting, with thesnow to the pony’s saddle girths, and be received by thetenants like princes.

This life of delights, with the continual visible comings andgoings of the golden aunt, was well qualified to relax the fibreof the lads.  John, the heir, a yeoman and a fox-hunter,‘loud and notorious with his whip and spurs,’ settleddown into a kind of Tony Lumpkin, waiting for the shoes of hisfather and his aunt.  Thomas Frewen, the youngest, isbriefly dismissed as ‘a handsome beau’; but he hadthe merit or the good fortune to become a doctor of medicine, sothat when the crash came he was not empty-handed for the war oflife.  Charles, at the day-school of Northiam, grew so wellacquainted with the rod, that his floggings became matter ofpleasantry and reached the ears of Admiral Buckner. Hereupon that tall, rough-voiced, formidable uncle entered withthe lad into a covenant: every time that Charles was thrashed hewas to pay the Admiral a penny; everyday that he escaped, theprocess was to be reversed.  ‘I recollect,’writes Charles, ‘going crying to my mother to be taken tothe Admiral to pay my debt.’  It would seem by theseterms the speculation was a losing one; yet it is probable itpaid indirectly by bringing the boy under remark.  TheAdmiral was no enemy to dunces; he loved courage, and Charles,while yet little more than a baby, would ride the great horseinto the pond.  Presently it was decided that here was thestuff of a fine sailor; and at an early period the name ofCharles Jenkin was entered on a ship’s books.

From Northiam he was sent to another school at Boonshill, nearRye, where the master took ‘infinite delight’ instrapping him.  ‘It keeps me warm and makes yougrow,’ he used to say.  And the stripes were notaltogether wasted, for the dunce, though still very‘raw,’ made progress with his studies.  It wasknown, moreover, that he was going to sea, always a ground ofpre-eminence with schoolboys; and in his case the glory was notaltogether future, it wore a present form when he came driving toRye behind four horses in the same carriage with anadmiral.  ‘I was not a little proud, you maybelieve,’ says he.

In 1814, when he was thirteen years of age, he was carried byhis father to Chichester to the Bishop’s Palace.  TheBishop had heard from his brother the Admiral that Charles waslikely to do well, and had an order from Lord Melville for thelad’s admission to the Royal Naval College atPortsmouth.  Both the Bishop and the Admiral patted him onthe head and said, ‘Charles will restore the oldfamily’; by which I gather with some surprise that, even inthese days of open house at Northiam and golden hope of myaunt’s fortune, the family was supposed to stand in need ofrestoration.  But the past is apt to look brighter thannature, above all to those enamoured of their genealogy; and theravages of Stephen and Thomas must have always given matter ofalarm.

What with the flattery of bishops and admirals, the finecompany in which he found himself at Portsmouth, his visits home,with their gaiety and greatness of life, his visits to Mrs.Buckner (soon a widow) at Windsor, where he had a pony kept forhim, and visited at Lord Melville’s and LordHarcourt’s and the Leveson-Gowers, he began to have‘bumptious notions,’ and his head was ‘somewhatturned with fine people’; as to some extent it remainedthroughout his innocent and honourable life.

In this frame of mind the boy was appointed to theConqueror, Captain Davie, humorously known as GentleJohnnie.  The captain had earned this name by his style ofdiscipline, which would have figured well in the pages ofMarryat: ‘Put the prisoner’s head in a bag and givehim another dozen!’ survives as a specimen of his commands;and the men were often punished twice or thrice in a week. On board the ship of this disciplinarian, Charles and his fatherwere carried in a billy-boat from Sheerness in December, 1816:Charles with an outfit suitable to his pretensions, atwenty-guinea sextant and 120 dollars in silver, which wereordered into the care of the gunner.  ‘The old clerksand mates,’ he writes, ‘used to laugh and jeer me forjoining the ship in a billy-boat, and when they found I was fromKent, vowed I was an old Kentish smuggler.  This to mypride, you will believe, was not a little offensive.’

The Conquerorcarried the flag of Vice-Admiral Plampin,commanding at the Cape and St. Helena; and at that all-importantislet, in July, 1817, she relieved the flagship of Sir PulteneyMalcolm.  Thus it befel that Charles Jenkin, coming too latefor the epic of the French wars, played a small part in thedreary and disgraceful afterpiece of St. Helena.  Life onthe guard-ship was onerous and irksome.  The anchor wasnever lifted, sail never made, the great guns were silent; nonewas allowed on shore except on duty; all day the movements of theimperial captive were signalled to and fro; all night the boatsrowed guard around the accessible portions of the coast. This prolonged stagnation and petty watchfulness in what Napoleonhimself called that ‘unchristian’ climate, toldcruelly on the health of the ship’s company.  Ineighteen months, according to O’Meara, the Conquerorhad lost one hundred and ten men and invalided home one hundredand seven, being more than a third of her complement.  Itdoes not seem that our young midshipman so much as once set eyeson Bonaparte; and yet in other ways Jenkin was more fortunatethan some of his comrades.  He drew in water-colour; not sobadly as his father, yet ill enough; and this art was so rareaboard the Conquerorthat even his humble proficiencymarked him out and procured him some alleviations.  AdmiralPlampin had succeeded Napoleon at the Briars; and here he hadyoung Jenkin staying with him to make sketches of the historichouse.  One of these is before me as I write, and gives astrange notion of the arts in our old English Navy.  Yet itwas again as an artist that the lad was taken for a run to Rio,and apparently for a second outing in a ten-gun brig. These, and a cruise of six weeks to windward of the islandundertaken by the Conquerorherself in quest of health,were the only breaks in three years of murderous inaction; and atthe end of that period Jenkin was invalided home, having‘lost his health entirely.’

As he left the deck of the guard-ship the historic part of hiscareer came to an end.  For forty-two years he continued toserve his country obscurely on the seas, sometimes thanked forinconspicuous and honourable services, but denied any opportunityof serious distinction.  He was first two years in theLarne, Captain Tait, hunting pirates and keeping a watchon the Turkish and Greek squadrons in the Archipelago. Captain Tait was a favourite with Sir Thomas Maitland, HighCommissioner of the Ionian Islands—King Tom as he wascalled—who frequently took passage in theLarne.  King Tom knew every inch of theMediterranean, and was a terror to the officers of thewatch.  He would come on deck at night; and with his broadScotch accent, ‘Well, sir,’ he would say, ‘whatdepth of water have ye?  Well now, sound; and ye’lljust find so or so many fathoms,’ as the case might be; andthe obnoxious passenger was generally right.  On oneoccasion, as the ship was going into Corfu, Sir Thomas came upthe hatchway and cast his eyes towards the gallows. ‘Bangham’—Charles Jenkin heard him say to hisaide-de-camp, Lord Bangham—‘where the devil is thatother chap?  I left four fellows hanging there; now I canonly see three.  Mind there is another thereto-morrow.’  And sure enough there was another Greekdangling the next day.  ‘Captain Hamilton, of theCambrian, kept the Greeks in order afloat,’ writesmy author, ‘and King Tom ashore.’

From 1823 onward, the chief scene of Charles Jenkin’sactivities was in the West Indies, where he was engaged off andon till 1844, now as a subaltern, now in a vessel of his own,hunting out pirates, ‘then very notorious’ in theLeeward Islands, cruising after slavers, or carrying dollars andprovisions for the Government.  While yet a midshipman, heaccompanied Mr. Cockburn to Caraccas and had a sight ofBolivar.  In the brigantine Griffon, which hecommanded in his last years in the West Indies, he carried aid toGuadeloupe after the earthquake, and twice earned the thanks ofGovernment: once for an expedition to Nicaragua to extort, underthreat of a blockade, proper apologies and a sum of money due tocertain British merchants; and once during an insurrection in SanDomingo, for the rescue of certain others from a perilousimprisonment and the recovery of a ‘chest of money’of which they had been robbed.  Once, on the other hand, heearned his share of public censure.  This was in 1837, whenhe commanded the Romneylying in the inner harbour ofHavannah.  The Romneywas in no proper sense aman-of-war; she was a slave-hulk, the bonded warehouse of theMixed Slave Commission; where negroes, captured out of slaversunder Spanish colours, were detained provisionally, till theCommission should decide upon their case and either set them freeor bind them to apprenticeship.  To this ship, already aneye-sore to the authorities, a Cuban slave made his escape. The position was invidious; on one side were the tradition of theBritish flag and the state of public sentiment at home; on theother, the certainty that if the slave were kept, theRomneywould be ordered at once out of the harbour, andthe object of the Mixed Commission compromised.  Withoutconsultation with any other officer, Captain Jenkin (thenlieutenant) returned the man to shore and took theCaptain-General’s receipt.  Lord Palmerston approvedhis course; but the zealots of the anti-slave trade movement(never to be named without respect) were much dissatisfied; andthirty-nine years later, the matter was again canvassed inParliament, and Lord Palmerston and Captain Jenkin defended byAdmiral Erskine in a letter to the Times(March 13,1876).

In 1845, while still lieutenant, Charles Jenkin acted asAdmiral Pigot’s flag captain in the Cove of Cork, wherethere were some thirty pennants; and about the same time, closedhis career by an act of personal bravery.  He had proceededwith his boats to the help of a merchant vessel, whose cargo ofcombustibles had taken fire and was smouldering under hatches;his sailors were in the hold, where the fumes were already heavy,and Jenkin was on deck directing operations, when he found hisorders were no longer answered from below: he jumped down withouthesitation and slung up several insensible men with his ownhand.  For this act, he received a letter from the Lords ofthe Admiralty expressing a sense of his gallantry; and prettysoon after was promoted Commander, superseded, and could neveragain obtain employment.

In 1828 or 1829, Charles Jenkin was in the same watch withanother midshipman, Robert Colin Campbell Jackson, who introducedhim to his family in Jamaica.  The father, the HonourableRobert Jackson, Custos Rotulorum of Kingston, came of a Yorkshirefamily, said to be originally Scotch; and on the mother’sside, counted kinship with some of the Forbeses.  The motherwas Susan Campbell, one of the Campbells of Auchenbreck. Her father Colin, a merchant in Greenock, is said to have beenthe heir to both the estate and the baronetcy; he claimedneither, which casts a doubt upon the fact, but he had prideenough himself, and taught enough pride to his family, for anystation or descent in Christendom.  He had fourdaughters.  One married an Edinburgh writer, as I have it ona first account—a minister, according to another—aman at least of reasonable station, but not good enough for theCampbells of Auchenbreck; and the erring one was instantlydiscarded.  Another married an actor of the name of Adcock,whom (as I receive the tale) she had seen acting in a barn; butthe phrase should perhaps be regarded rather as a measure of thefamily annoyance, than a mirror of the facts.  The marriagewas not in itself unhappy; Adcock was a gentleman by birth andmade a good husband; the family reasonably prospered, and one ofthe daughters married no less a man than ClarksonStanfield.  But by the father, and the two remaining MissCampbells, people of fierce passions and a truly Highland pride,the derogation was bitterly resented.  For long the sisterslived estranged then, Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Adcock werereconciled for a moment, only to quarrel the more fiercely; thename of Mrs. Adcock was proscribed, nor did it again pass hersister’s lips, until the morning when she announced:‘Mary Adcock is dead; I saw her in her shroud lastnight.’  Second sight was hereditary in the house; andsure enough, as I have it reported, on that very night Mrs.Adcock had passed away.  Thus, of the four daughters, twohad, according to the idiotic notions of their friends, disgracedthemselves in marriage; the others supported the honour of thefamily with a better grace, and married West Indian magnates ofwhom, I believe, the world has never heard and would not care tohear: So strange a thing is this hereditary pride.  Of Mr.Jackson, beyond the fact that he was Fleeming’sgrandfather, I know naught.  His wife, as I have said, was awoman of fierce passions; she would tie her house slaves to thebed and lash them with her own hand; and her conduct to her wildand down-going sons, was a mixture of almost insaneself-sacrifice and wholly insane violence of temper.  Shehad three sons and one daughter.  Two of the sons wentutterly to ruin, and reduced their mother to poverty.  Thethird went to India, a slim, delicate lad, and passed so whollyfrom the knowledge of his relatives that he was thought to belong dead.  Years later, when his sister was living inGenoa, a red-bearded man of great strength and stature, tanned byyears in India, and his hands covered with barbaric gems, enteredthe room unannounced, as she was playing the piano, lifted herfrom her seat, and kissed her.  It was her brother, suddenlyreturned out of a past that was never very clearly understood,with the rank of general, many strange gems, many cloudy storiesof adventure, and next his heart, the daguerreotype of an Indianprince with whom he had mixed blood.

The last of this wild family, the daughter, Henrietta Camilla,became the wife of the midshipman Charles, and the mother of thesubject of this notice, Fleeming Jenkin.  She was a woman ofparts and courage.  Not beautiful, she had a far highergift, the art of seeming so; played the part of a belle insociety, while far lovelier women were left unattended; and up toold age had much of both the exigency and the charm that markthat character.  She drew naturally, for she had notraining, with unusual skill; and it was from her, and not fromthe two naval artists, that Fleeming inherited his eye andhand.  She played on the harp and sang with something beyondthe talent of an amateur.  At the age of seventeen, sheheard Pasta in Paris; flew up in a fire of youthful enthusiasm;and the next morning, all alone and without introduction, foundher way into the presence of the prima donnaand beggedfor lessons.  Pasta made her sing, kissed her when she haddone, and though she refused to be her mistress, placed her inthe hands of a friend.  Nor was this all, for when Pastareturned to Paris, she sent for the girl (once at least) to testher progress.  But Mrs. Jenkin’s talents were not soremarkable as her fortitude and strength of will; and it was inan art for which she had no natural taste (the art of literature)that she appeared before the public.  Her novels, thoughthey attained and merited a certain popularity both in France andEngland, are a measure only of her courage.  They were atask, not a beloved task; they were written for money in days ofpoverty, and they served their end.  In the least thing aswell as in the greatest, in every province of life as well as inher novels, she displayed the same capacity of taking infinitepains, which descended to her son.  When she was about forty(as near as her age was known) she lost her voice; set herself atonce to learn the piano, working eight hours a day; and attainedto such proficiency that her collaboration in chamber music wascourted by professionals.  And more than twenty years later,the old lady might have been seen dauntlessly beginning the studyof Hebrew.  This is the more ethereal part of courage; norwas she wanting in the more material.  Once when aneighbouring groom, a married man, had seduced her maid, Mrs.Jenkin mounted her horse, rode over to the stable entrance andhorsewhipped the man with her own hand.

How a match came about between this talented and spirited girland the young midshipman, is not very I easy to conceive. Charles Jenkin was one of the finest creatures breathing;loyalty, devotion, simple natural piety, boyish cheerfulness,tender and manly sentiment in the old sailor fashion, were in himinherent and inextinguishable either by age, suffering, orinjustice.  He looked, as he was, every inch a gentleman; hemust have been everywhere notable, even among handsome men, bothfor his face and his gallant bearing; not so much that of asailor, you would have said, as like one of those gentle andgraceful soldiers that, to this day, are the most pleasant ofEnglishmen to see.  But though he was in these ways noble,the dunce scholar of Northiam was to the end no genius. Upon all points that a man must understand to be a gentleman, tobe upright, gallant, affectionate and dead to self, CaptainJenkin was more knowing than one among a thousand; outside ofthat, his mind was very largely blank.  He had indeed asimplicity that came near to vacancy; and in the first fortyyears of his married life, this want grew more accentuated. In both families imprudent marriages had been the rule; butneither Jenkin nor Campbell had ever entered into a more unequalunion.  It was the captain’s good looks, we maysuppose, that gained for him this elevation; and in some ways andfor many years of his life, he had to pay the penalty.  Hiswife, impatient of his incapacity and surrounded by brilliantfriends, used him with a certain contempt.  She was themanaging partner; the life was hers, not his; after hisretirement they lived much abroad, where the poor captain, whocould never learn any language but his own, sat in the cornermumchance; and even his son, carried away by his bright mother,did not recognise for long the treasures of simple chivalry thatlay buried in the heart of his father.  Yet it would be anerror to regard this marriage as unfortunate.  It not onlylasted long enough to justify itself in a beautiful and touchingepilogue, but it gave to the world the scientific work and what(while time was) were of far greater value, the delightfulqualities of Fleeming Jenkin.  The Kentish-Welsh family,facile, extravagant, generous to a fault and far from brilliant,had given the father, an extreme example of its humblevirtues.  On the other side, the wild, cruel, proud, andsomewhat blackguard stock of the Scotch Campbell-Jacksons, hadput forth, in the person of the mother all its force andcourage.

The marriage fell in evil days.  In 1823, the bubble ofthe Golden Aunt’s inheritance had burst.  She diedholding the hand of the nephew she had so wantonly deceived; atthe last she drew him down and seemed to bless him, surely withsome remorseful feeling; for when the will was opened, there wasnot found so much as the mention of his name.  He was deeplyin debt; in debt even to the estate of his deceiver, so that hehad to sell a piece of land to clear himself.  ‘Mydear boy,’ he said to Charles, ‘there will be nothingleft for you.  I am a ruined man.’  And herefollows for me the strangest part of this story.  From thedeath of the treacherous aunt, Charles Jenkin, senior, had stillsome nine years to live; it was perhaps too late for him to turnto saving, and perhaps his affairs were past restoration. But his family at least had all this while to prepare; they werestill young men, and knew what they had to look for at theirfather’s death; and yet when that happened in September,1831, the heir was still apathetically waiting.  Poor John,the days of his whips and spurs, and Yeomanry dinners, were quiteover; and with that incredible softness of the Jenkin nature, hesettled down for the rest of a long life, into something not farremoved above a peasant.  The mill farm at Stowting had beensaved out of the wreck; and here he built himself a house on theMexican model, and made the two ends meet with rustic thrift,gathering dung with his own hands upon the road and not at allabashed at his employment.  In dress, voice, and manner, hefell into mere country plainness; lived without the least carefor appearances, the least regret for the past or discontentmentwith the present; and when he came to die, died with Stoiccheerfulness, announcing that he had had a comfortable time andwas yet well pleased to go.  One would think there waslittle active virtue to be inherited from such a race; and yet inthis same voluntary peasant, the special gift of Fleeming Jenkinwas already half developed.  The old man to the end wasperpetually inventing; his strange, ill-spelled, unpunctuatedcorrespondence is full (when he does not drop into cookeryreceipts) of pumps, road engines, steam-diggers, steam-ploughs,and steam-threshing machines; and I have it on Fleeming’sword that what he did was full of ingenuity—only, as if bysome cross destiny, useless.  These disappointments he notonly took with imperturbable good humour, but rejoiced with aparticular relish over his nephew’s success in the samefield.  ‘I glory in the professor,’ he wrote tohis brother; and to Fleeming himself, with a touch of simpledrollery, ‘I was much pleased with your lecture, but whydid you hit me so hard with Conisure’s’(connoisseur’s, quasiamateur’s)‘engineering?  Oh, what presumption!—either ofyou or myself!’  A quaint, pathetic figure,this of uncle John, with his dung cart and his inventions; andthe romantic fancy of his Mexican house; and his craze about theLost Tribes which seemed to the worthy man the key of allperplexities; and his quiet conscience, looking back on a lifenot altogether vain, for he was a good son to his father whilehis father lived, and when evil days approached, he had provedhimself a cheerful Stoic.

It followed from John’s inertia, that the duty ofwinding up the estate fell into the hands of Charles.  Hemanaged it with no more skill than might be expected of a sailorashore, saved a bare livelihood for John and nothing for therest.  Eight months later, he married Miss Jackson; and withher money, bought in some two-thirds of Stowting.  In thebeginning of the little family history which I have beenfollowing to so great an extent, the Captain mentions, with adelightful pride: ‘A Court Baron and Court Leet areregularly held by the Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Henrietta CamillaJenkin’; and indeed the pleasure of so describing his wife,was the most solid benefit of the investment; for the purchasewas heavily encumbered and paid them nothing till some yearsbefore their death.  In the meanwhile, the Jackson familyalso, what with wild sons, an indulgent mother and the impendingemancipation of the slaves, was moving nearer and nearer tobeggary; and thus of two doomed and declining houses, the subjectof this memoir was born, heir to an estate and to no money, yetwith inherited qualities that were to make him known andloved.

CHAPTER II.  1833–1851.

Birth andChildhood—Edinburgh—Frankfort-on-the-Main—Paris—TheRevolution of 1848—The Insurrection—Flight toItaly—Sympathy with Italy—The Insurrection inGenoa—A Student in Genoa—The Lad and his Mother.

Henry Charles Fleeming Jenkin(Fleeming, pronounced Flemming, to his friends and family) wasborn in a Government building on the coast of Kent, nearDungeness, where his father was serving at the time in theCoastguard, on March 25, 1833, and named after Admiral Fleeming,one of his father’s protectors in the navy.

His childhood was vagrant like his life.  Once he wasleft in the care of his grandmother Jackson, while Mrs. Jenkinsailed in her husband’s ship and stayed a year at theHavannah.  The tragic woman was besides from time to time amember of the family she was in distress of mind and reduced infortune by the misconduct of her sons; her destitution andsolitude made it a recurring duty to receive her, her violencecontinually enforced fresh separations.  In her passion of adisappointed mother, she was a fit object of pity; but hergrandson, who heard her load his own mother with cruel insultsand reproaches, conceived for her an indignant and impatienthatred, for which he blamed himself in later life.  It isstrange from this point of view to see his childish letters toMrs. Jackson; and to think that a man, distinguished above all bystubborn truthfulness, should have been brought up to suchdissimulation.  But this is of course unavoidable in life;it did no harm to Jenkin; and whether he got harm or benefit froma so early acquaintance with violent and hateful scenes, is morethan I can guess.  The experience, at least, was formative;and in judging his character it should not be forgotten. But Mrs. Jackson was not the only stranger in their gates; theCaptain’s sister, Aunt Anna Jenkin, lived with them untilher death; she had all the Jenkin beauty of countenance, thoughshe was unhappily deformed in body and of frail health; and sheeven excelled her gentle and ineffectual family in all amiablequalities.  So that each of the two races from whichFleeming sprang, had an outpost by his very cradle; the one heinstinctively loved, the other hated; and the life-long war inhis members had begun thus early by a victory for what wasbest.

We can trace the family from one country place to another inthe south of Scotland; where the child learned his taste forsport by riding home the pony from the moors.  Before he wasnine he could write such a passage as this about aHallowe’en observance: ‘I pulled a middling-sizedcabbage-runt with a pretty sum of gold about it.  No witcheswould run after me when I was sowing my hempseed this year; mynuts blazed away together very comfortably to the end of theirlives, and when mamma put hers in which were meant for herselfand papa they blazed away in the like manner.’  Beforehe was ten he could write, with a really irritating precocity,that he had been ‘making some pictures from a book called“Les Français peints par euxmêmes.” . ..  It is full of pictures of all classes, with a descriptionof each in French.  The pictures are a little caricatured,but not much.’  Doubtless this was only an echo fromhis mother, but it shows the atmosphere in which hebreathed.  It must have been a good change for this artcritic to be the playmate of Mary Macdonald, theirgardener’s daughter at Barjarg, and to sup with her familyon potatoes and milk; and Fleeming himself attached some value tothis early and friendly experience of another class.

His education, in the formal sense, began at Jedburgh. Thence he went to the Edinburgh Academy, where he was theclassmate of Tait and Clerk Maxwell, bore away many prizes, andwas once unjustly flogged by Rector Williams.  He used toinsist that all his bad schoolfellows had died early, a beliefamusingly characteristic of the man’s consistentoptimism.  In 1846 the mother and son proceeded toFrankfort-on-the-Main, where they were soon joined by the father,now reduced to inaction and to play something like third fiddlein his narrow household.  The emancipation of the slaves haddeprived them of their last resource beyond the half-pay of acaptain; and life abroad was not only desirable for the sake ofFleeming’s education, it was almost enforced by reasons ofeconomy.  But it was, no doubt, somewhat hard upon thecaptain.  Certainly that perennial boy found a companion inhis son; they were both active and eager, both willing to beamused, both young, if not in years, then in character. They went out together on excursions and sketched old castles,sitting side by side; they had an angry rivalry in walking,doubtless equally sincere upon both sides; and indeed we may saythat Fleeming was exceptionally favoured, and that no boy hadever a companion more innocent, engaging, gay, and airy. But although in this case it would be easy to exaggerate itsimport, yet, in the Jenkin family also, the tragedy of thegenerations was proceeding, and the child was growing out of hisfather’s knowledge.  His artistic aptitude was of adifferent order.  Already he had his quick sight of manysides of life; he already overflowed with distinctions andgeneralisations, contrasting the dramatic art and nationalcharacter of England, Germany, Italy, and France.  If hewere dull, he would write stories and poems.  ‘I havewritten,’ he says at thirteen, ‘a very long story inheroic measure, 300 lines, and another Scotch story andinnumerable bits of poetry’; and at the same age he had notonly a keen feeling for scenery, but could do something with hispen to call it up.  I feel I do always less than justice tothe delightful memory of Captain Jenkin; but with a lad of thischaracter, cutting the teeth of his intelligence, he was sure tofall into the background.

The family removed in 1847 to Paris, where Fleeming was put toschool under one Deluc.  There he learned French, and (ifthe captain is right) first began to show a taste formathematics.  But a far more important teacher than Delucwas at hand; the year 1848, so momentous for Europe, wasmomentous also for Fleeming’s character.  The familypolitics were Liberal; Mrs. Jenkin, generous before all things,was sure to be upon the side of exiles; and in the house of aParis friend of hers, Mrs. Turner—already known to fame asShelley’s Cornelia de Boinville—Fleeming saw andheard such men as Manin, Gioberti, and the Ruffinis.  He wasthus prepared to sympathise with revolution; and when the hourcame, and he found himself in the midst of stirring andinfluential events, the lad’s whole character wasmoved.  He corresponded at that time with a young Edinburghfriend, one Frank Scott; and I am here going to draw somewhatlargely on this boyish correspondence.  It gives us at oncea picture of the Revolution and a portrait of Jenkin at fifteen;not so different (his friends will think) from the Jenkin of theend—boyish, simple, opinionated, delighting in action,delighting before all things in any generous sentiment.

‘February 23,1848.

‘When at 7 o’clock to-day I went out, I met alarge band going round the streets, calling on the inhabitants toilluminate their houses, and bearing torches.  This was allvery good fun, and everybody was delighted; but as they stoppedrather long and were rather turbulent in the Place de laMadeleine, near where we live’ [in the Rue Caumartin]‘a squadron of dragoons came up, formed, and charged at ahand-gallop.  This was a very pretty sight; the crowd wasnot too thick, so they easily got away; and the dragoons onlygave blows with the back of the sword, which hurt but did notwound.  I was as close to them as I am now to the other sideof the table; it was rather impressive, however.  At thesecond charge they rode on the pavement and knocked the torchesout of the fellows’ hands; rather a shame,too—wouldn’t be stood in England. . . .

[At] ‘ten minutes to ten . . . I went a long way alongthe Boulevards, passing by the office of Foreign Affairs, whereGuizot lives, and where to-night there were about a thousandtroops protecting him from the fury of the populace.  Afterthis was passed, the number of the people thickened, till abouthalf a mile further on, I met a troop of vagabonds, the wildestvagabonds in the world—Paris vagabonds, well armed, havingprobably broken into gunsmiths’ shops and taken the gunsand swords.  They were about a hundred.  These werefollowed by about a thousand (I am rather diminishing thanexaggerating numbers all through), indifferently armed with rustysabres, sticks, etc.  An uncountable troop of gentlemen,workmen, shopkeepers’ wives (Paris women dare anything),ladies’ maids, common women—in fact, a crowd of allclasses, though by far the greater number were of the betterdressed class—followed.  Indeed, it was a splendidsight: the mob in front chanting the“Marseillaise,” the national war hymn, graveand powerful, sweetened by the night air—though night inthese splendid streets was turned into day, every window wasfilled with lamps, dim torches were tossing in the crowd . . .for Guizot has late this night given in his resignation, and thiswas an improvised illumination.

‘I and my father had turned with the crowd, and wereclose behind the second troop of vagabonds.  Joy was onevery face.  I remarked to papa that “I would not havemissed the scene for anything, I might never see such a splendidone,” when plongwent one shot—every face wentpale—r-r-r-r-rwent the whole detachment, [and] thewhole crowd of gentlemen and ladies turned and cut.  Such ascene!—ladies, gentlemen, and vagabonds went sprawling inthe mud, not shot but tripped up; and those that went down couldnot rise, they were trampled over. . . . I ran a short timestraight on and did not fall, then turned down a side street, ranfifty yards and felt tolerably safe; looked for papa, did not seehim; so walked on quickly, giving the news as Iwent.’  [It appears, from another letter, the boy wasthe first to carry word of the firing to the Rue St.Honoré; and that his news wherever he brought it wasreceived with hurrahs.  It was an odd entrance upon life fora little English lad, thus to play the part of rumour in such acrisis of the history of France.]

‘But now a new fear came over me.  I had littledoubt but my papa was safe, but my fear was that he should arriveat home before me and tell the story; in that case I knew mymamma would go half mad with fright, so on I went as quick aspossible.  I heard no more discharges.  When I got halfway home, I found my way blocked up by troops.  That way orthe Boulevards I must pass.  In the Boulevards they werefighting, and I was afraid all other passages might be blocked up. . . and I should have to sleep in a hotel in that case, andthen my mamma—however, after a long détour, Ifound a passage and ran home, and in our street joined papa.

‘. . . I’ll tell you to-morrow the other factsgathered from newspapers and papa. . . . Tonight I have given youwhat I have seen with my own eyes an hour ago, and begantrembling with excitement and fear.  If I have been too longon this one subject, it is because it is yet before my eyes.

‘Monday, 24.

‘It was that fire raised the people.  There wasfighting all through the night in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette,on the Boulevards where they had been shot at, and at the PorteSt. Denis.  At ten o’clock, they resigned the house ofthe Minister of Foreign Affairs (where the disastrous volley wasfired) to the people, who immediately took possession ofit.  I went to school, but [was] hardly there when the rowin that quarter commenced.  Barricades began to befixed.  Everyone was very grave now; the externeswent away, but no one came to fetch me, so I had to stay. No lessons could go on.  A troop of armed men tookpossession of the barricades, so it was supposed I should have tosleep there.  The revolters came and asked for arms, butDeluc (head-master) is a National Guard, and he said he had onlyhis own and he wanted them; but he said he would not fire onthem.  Then they asked for wine, which he gave them. They took good care not to get drunk, knowing they would not beable to fight.  They were very polite and behaved extremelywell.

‘About 12 o’clock a servant came for a boy wholived near me, [and] Deluc thought it best to send me withhim.  We heard a good deal of firing near, but did not comeacross any of the parties.  As we approached the railway,the barricades were no longer formed of palings, planks, orstones; but they had got all the omnibuses as they passed, sentthe horses and passengers about their business, and turned themover.  A double row of overturned coaches made a capitalbarricade, with a few paving stones.

‘When I got home I found to my astonishment that in ourfighting quarter it was much quieter.  Mamma had just beenout seeing the troops in the Place de la Concorde, when suddenlythe Municipal Guard, now fairly exasperated, prevented theNational Guard from proceeding, and fired at them; the NationalGuard had come with their muskets not loaded, but at lengthreturned the fire.  Mamma saw the National Guard fire. The Municipal Guard were round the corner.  She wasdelighted for she saw no person killed, though many of theMunicipals were. . . . .

‘I immediately went out with my papa (mamma had justcome back with him) and went to the Place de la Concorde. There was an enormous quantity of troops in the Place. Suddenly the gates of the gardens of the Tuileries opened: werushed forward, out gallopped an enormous number of cuirassiers,in the middle of which were a couple of low carriages, said firstto contain the Count de Paris and the Duchess of Orleans, butafterwards they said it was the King and Queen; and then I heardhe had abdicated.  I returned and gave the news.

‘Went out again up the Boulevards.  The house ofthe Minister of Foreign Affairs was filled with people and“Hôtel du Peuple” written on it; theBoulevards were barricaded with fine old trees that were cut downand stretched all across the road.  We went through a greatmany little streets, all strongly barricaded, and sentinels ofthe people at the principal of them.  The streets were veryunquiet, filled with armed men and women, for the troops hadfollowed the ex-King to Neuilly and left Paris in the power ofthe people.  We met the captain of the Third Legion of theNational Guard (who had principally protected the people), badlywounded by a Municipal Guard, stretched on a litter.  He wasin possession of his senses.  He was surrounded by a troopof men crying “Our brave captain—we have himyet—he’s not dead!  Vive laRéforme!”  This cry was responded to byall, and every one saluted him as he passed.  I do not knowif he was mortally wounded.  That Third Legion has behavedsplendidly.

‘I then returned, and shortly afterwards went out againto the garden of the Tuileries.  They were given up to thepeople and the palace was being sacked.  The people werefiring blank cartridges to testify their joy, and they had acannon on the top of the palace.  It was a sight to see apalace sacked and armed vagabonds firing out of the windows, andthrowing shirts, papers, and dresses of all kinds out of thewindows.  They are not rogues, these French; they are notstealing, burning, or doing much harm.  In the Tuileriesthey have dressed up some of the statues, broken some, and stolennothing but queer dresses.  I say, Frank, you must not hatethe French; hate the Germans if you like.  The French laughat us a little, and call out Goddamin the streets; butto-day, in civil war, when they might have put a bullet throughour heads, I never was insulted once.

‘At present we have a provisional Government, consistingof Odion [sic] Barrot, Lamartine, Marast, and some others;among them a common workman, but very intelligent.  This isa triumph of liberty—rather!

‘Now then, Frank, what do you think of it?  I in arevolution and out all day.  Just think, what fun!  Soit was at first, till I was fired at yesterday; but to-day I wasnot frightened, but it turned me sick at heart, I don’tknow why.  There has been no great bloodshed, [though] Icertainly have seen men’s blood several times.  Butthere’s something shocking to see a whole armed populace,though not furious, for not one single shop has been broken open,except the gunsmiths’ shops, and most of the arms willprobably be taken back again.  For the French have nocupidity in their nature; they don’t like to steal—itis not in their nature.  I shall send this letter in a dayor two, when I am sure the post will go again.  I know Ihave been a long time writing, but I hope you will find thematter of this letter interesting, as coming from a personresident on the spot; though probably you don’t take muchinterest in the French, but I can think, write, and speak on noother subject.

‘Feb. 25.

‘There is no more fighting, the people have conquered;but the barricades are still kept up, and the people are in arms,more than ever fearing some new act of treachery on the part ofthe ex-King.  The fight where I was was the principal causeof the Revolution.  I was in little danger from the shot,for there was an immense crowd in front of me, though quitewithin gunshot.  [By another letter, a hundred yards fromthe troops.]  I wished I had stopped there.

‘The Paris streets are filled with the mostextraordinary crowds of men, women and children, ladies andgentlemen.  Every person joyful.  The bands of armedmen are perfectly polite.  Mamma and aunt to-day walkedthrough armed crowds alone, that were firing blank cartridges inall directions.  Every person made way with the greatestpoliteness, and one common man with a blouse, coming by accidentagainst her immediately stopped to beg her pardon in the politestmanner.  There are few drunken men.  The Tuileries isstill being run over by the people; they only broke two things, abust of Louis Philippe and one of Marshal Bugeaud, who fired onthe people. . . . .

‘I have been out all day again to-day, and precioustired I am.  The Republican party seem the strongest, andare going about with red ribbons in their button-holes. . . ..

‘The title of “Mister” is abandoned; theysay nothing but “Citizen,” and the people are shakinghands amazingly.  They have got to the top of the publicmonuments, and, mingling with bronze or stone statues, five orsix make a sort of tableau vivant, the top man holding upthe red flag of the Republic; and right well they do it, and verypicturesque they look.  I think I shall put this letter inthe post to-morrow as we got a letter to-night.

(On Envelope.)

‘M. Lamartine has now by his eloquence conquered thewhole armed crowd of citizens threatening to kill him if he didnot immediately proclaim the Republic and red flag.  He saidhe could not yield to the citizens of Paris alone, that the wholecountry must be consulted; that he chose the tricolour, for ithad followed and accompanied the triumphs of France all over theworld, and that the red flag had only been dipped in the blood ofthe citizens.  For sixty hours he has been quieting thepeople: he is at the head of everything.  Don’t beprejudiced, Frank, by what you see in the papers.  TheFrench have acted nobly, splendidly; there has been no brutality,plundering, or stealing. . . .  I did not like the Frenchbefore; but in this respect they are the finest people in theworld.  I am so glad to have been here.’

And there one could wish to stop with this apotheosis ofliberty and order read with the generous enthusiasm of a boy; butas the reader knows, it was but the first act of the piece. The letters, vivid as they are, written as they were by a handtrembling with fear and excitement, yet do injustice, in theirboyishness of tone, to the profound effect produced.  At thesound of these songs and shot of cannon, the boy’s mindawoke.  He dated his own appreciation of the art of actingfrom the day when he saw and heard Rachel recite the‘Marseillaise’ at the Français, thetricolour in her arms.  What is still more strange, he hadbeen up to then invincibly indifferent to music, insomuch that hecould not distinguish ‘God save the Queen’ from‘Bonnie Dundee’; and now, to the chanting of the mob,he amazed his family by learning and singing ‘Mourirpour la Patrie.’  But the letters, though theyprepare the mind for no such revolution in the boy’s tastesand feelings, are yet full of entertaining traits.  Let thereader note Fleeming’s eagerness to influence his friendFrank, an incipient Tory (no less) as further history displayed;his unconscious indifference to his father and devotion to hismother, betrayed in so many significant expressions andomissions; the sense of dignity of this diminutive ‘personresident on the spot,’ who was so happy as to escapeinsult; and the strange picture of the household—father,mother, son, and even poor Aunt Anna—all day in the streetsin the thick of this rough business, and the boy packed off aloneto school in a distant quarter on the very morrow of themassacre.

They had all the gift of enjoying life’s texture as itcomes; they were all born optimists.  The name of libertywas honoured in that family, its spirit also, but withinstringent limits; and some of the foreign friends of Mrs. Jenkinwere, as I have said, men distinguished on the Liberalside.  Like Wordsworth, they beheld

France standing on the top of golden hours
And human nature seeming born again.

At once, by temper and belief, they were formed to find theirelement in such a decent and whiggish convulsion, spectacular inits course, moderate in its purpose.  For them,

Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven.

And I cannot but smile when I think that (again likeWordsworth) they should have so specially disliked theconsequence.

It came upon them by surprise.  Liberal friends of theprecise right shade of colour had assured them, in Mrs.Turner’s drawing-room, that all was for the best; and theyrose on January 23 without fear.  About the middle of theday they heard the sound of musketry, and the next morning theywere wakened by the cannonade.  The French who had behavedso ‘splendidly,’ pausing, at the voice of Lamartine,just where judicious Liberals could have desired—theFrench, who had ‘no cupidity in their nature,’ werenow about to play a variation on the theme rebellion.  TheJenkins took refuge in the house of Mrs. Turner, the house of thefalse prophets, ‘Anna going with Mrs. Turner, that shemight be prevented speaking English, Fleeming, Miss H. and I (itis the mother who writes) walking together.  As we reachedthe Rue de Clichy, the report of the cannon sounded close to ourears and made our hearts sick, I assure you.  The fightingwas at the barrier Rochechouart, a few streets off.  AllSaturday and Sunday we were a prey to great alarm, there came somany reports that the insurgents were getting the upperhand.  One could tell the state of affairs from the extremequiet or the sudden hum in the street.  When the news wasbad, all the houses closed and the people disappeared; whenbetter, the doors half opened and you heard the sound of menagain.  From the upper windows we could see each dischargefrom the Bastille—I mean the smoke rising—and alsothe flames and smoke from the Boulevard la Chapelle.  Wewere four ladies, and only Fleeming by way of a man, anddifficulty enough we had to keep him from joining the NationalGuards—his pride and spirit were both fired.  Youcannot picture to yourself the multitudes of soldiers, guards,and armed men of all sorts we watched—not close to thewindow, however, for such havoc had been made among them by thefiring from the windows, that as the battalions marched by, theycried, “Fermez vos fenêtres!” and it was verypainful to watch their looks of anxiety and suspicion as theymarched by.’

‘The Revolution,’ writes Fleeming to Frank Scott,‘was quite delightful: getting popped at and run at byhorses, and giving sous for the wounded into little boxes guardedby the raggedest, picturesquest, delightfullest, sentinels; butthe insurrection! ugh, I shudder to think at [sic]it.’  He found it ‘not a bit of fun sittingboxed up in the house four days almost. . . I was the onlygentlemanto four ladies, and didn’t they keep me inorder!  I did not dare to show my face at a window, for fearof catching a stray ball or being forced to enter the NationalGuard; [for] they would have it I was a man full-grown, French,and every way fit to fight.  And my mamma was as bad as anyof them; she that told me I was a coward last time if I stayed inthe house a quarter of an hour!  But I drew, examined thepistols, of which I found lots with caps, powder, and ball, whilesometimes murderous intentions of killing a dozen insurgents anddying violently overpowered by numbers. . . . .’  Wemay drop this sentence here: under the conduct of its boyishwriter, it was to reach no legitimate end.

Four days of such a discipline had cured the family of Paris;the same year Fleeming was to write, in answer apparently to aquestion of Frank Scott’s, ‘I could find no nationalgame in France but revolutions’; and the witticism wasjustified in their experience.  On the first possible day,they applied for passports, and were advised to take the road toGeneva.  It appears it was scarce safe to leave Paris forEngland.  Charles Reade, with keen dramatic gusto, had justsmuggled himself out of that city in the bottom of a cab. English gold had been found on the insurgents, the name ofEngland was in evil odour; and it was thus—for strategicreasons, so to speak—that Fleeming found himself on the wayto that Italy where he was to complete his education, and forwhich he cherished to the end a special kindness.

It was in Genoa they settled; partly for the sake of thecaptain, who might there find naval comrades; partly because ofthe Ruffinis, who had been friends of Mrs. Jenkin in their timeof exile and were now considerable men at home; partly, in fine,with hopes that Fleeming might attend the University; inpreparation for which he was put at once to school.  It wasthe year of Novara; Mazzini was in Rome; the dry bones of Italywere moving; and for people of alert and liberal sympathies thetime was inspiriting.  What with exiles turned Ministers ofState, universities thrown open to Protestants, Fleeming himselfthe first Protestant student in Genoa, and thus, as his motherwrites, ‘a living instance of the progress of liberalideas’—it was little wonder if the enthusiastic youngwoman and the clever boy were heart and soul upon the side ofItaly.  It should not be forgotten that they were both ontheir first visit to that country; the mother still child enough‘to be delighted when she saw real monks’; and bothmother and son thrilling with the first sight of snowy Alps, theblue Mediterranean, and the crowded port and the palaces ofGenoa.  Nor was their zeal without knowledge.  Ruffini,deputy for Genoa and soon to be head of the University, was attheir side; and by means of him the family appear to have hadaccess to much Italian society.  To the end, Fleemingprofessed his admiration of the Piedmontese and his unalterableconfidence in the future of Italy under their conduct; for VictorEmanuel, Cavour, the first La Marmora and Garibaldi, he hadvarying degrees of sympathy and praise: perhaps highest for theKing, whose good sense and temper filled him withrespect—perhaps least for Garibaldi, whom he loved but yetmistrusted.

But this is to look forward: these were the days not of VictorEmanuel but of Charles Albert; and it was on Charles Albert thatmother and son had now fixed their eyes as on the sword-bearer ofItaly.  On Fleeming’s sixteenth birthday, they were,the mother writes, ‘in great anxiety for news from thearmy.  You can have no idea what it is to live in a countrywhere such a struggle is going on.  The interest is one thatabsorbs all others.  We eat, drink, and sleep to the noiseof drums and musketry.  You would enjoy and almost admireFleeming’s enthusiasm and earnestness—and, courage, Imay say—for we are among the small minority of English whoside with the Italians.  The other day, at dinner at theConsul’s, boy as he is, and in spite of my admonitions,Fleeming defended the Italian cause, and so well that he“tripped up the heels of his adversary” simply frombeing well-informed on the subject and honest.  He is astrue as steel, and for no one will he bend right or left. . . ..  Do not fancy him a Bobadil,’ she adds, ‘he isonly a very true, candid boy.  I am so glad he remains inall respects but information a great child.’

If this letter is correctly dated, the cause was already lostand the King had already abdicated when these lines werewritten.  No sooner did the news reach Genoa, than therebegan ‘tumultuous movements’; and the Jenkins’received hints it would be wise to leave the city.  But theyhad friends and interests; even the captain had English officersto keep him company, for Lord Hardwicke’s ship, theVengeance, lay in port; and supposing the danger to bereal, I cannot but suspect the whole family of a divided purpose,prudence being possibly weaker than curiosity.  Stay, atleast, they did, and thus rounded their experience of therevolutionary year.  On Sunday, April 1, Fleeming and thecaptain went for a ramble beyond the walls, leaving Aunt Anna andMrs. Jenkin to walk on the bastions with some friends.  Onthe way back, this party turned aside to rest in the Church ofthe Madonna delle Grazie.  ‘We had remarked,’writes Mrs. Jenkin, ‘the entire absence of sentinels on theramparts, and how the cannons were left in solitary state; and Ihad just remarked “How quiet everything is!” whensuddenly we heard the drums begin to beat and distantshouts.  Accustomed as we areto revolutions, wenever thought of being frightened.’  For all that,they resumed their return home.  On the way they saw menrunning and vociferating, but nothing to indicate a generaldisturbance, until, near the Duke’s palace, they came uponand passed a shouting mob dragging along with it threecannon.  It had scarcely passed before they heard ‘arushing sound’; one of the gentlemen thrust back the partyof ladies under a shed, and the mob passed again.  Afine-looking young man was in their hands; and Mrs. Jenkin sawhim with his mouth open as if he sought to speak, saw him tossedfrom one to another like a ball, and then saw him no more. ‘He was dead a few instants after, but the crowd hid thatterror from us.  My knees shook under me and my sight leftme.’  With this street tragedy, the curtain rose upontheir second revolution.

The attack on Spirito Santo, and the capitulation anddeparture of the troops speedily followed.  Genoa was in thehands of the Republicans, and now came a time when the Englishresidents were in a position to pay some return for hospitalityreceived.  Nor were they backward.  Our Consul (thesame who had the benefit of correction from Fleeming) carried theIntendente on board the Vengeance, escorting him throughthe streets, getting along with him on board a shore boat, andwhen the insurgents levelled their muskets, standing up andnaming himself, ‘Console Inglese.’  Afriend of the Jenkins’, Captain Glynne, had a more painful,if a less dramatic part.  One Colonel Nosozzo had beenkilled (I read) while trying to prevent his own artillery fromfiring on the mob; but in that hell’s cauldron of adistracted city, there were no distinctions made, and theColonel’s widow was hunted for her life.  In her griefand peril, the Glynnes received and hid her; Captain Glynnesought and found her husband’s body among the slain, savedit for two days, brought the widow a lock of the dead man’shair; but at last, the mob still strictly searching, seems tohave abandoned the body, and conveyed his guest on board theVengeance.  The Jenkins also had their refugees, thefamily of an employéthreatened by a decree. ‘You should have seen me making a Union Jack to nail overour door,’ writes Mrs. Jenkin.  ‘I never workedso fast in my life.  Monday and Tuesday,’ shecontinues, ‘were tolerably quiet, our hearts beating fastin the hope of La Marmora’s approach, the streetsbarricaded, and none but foreigners and women allowed to leavethe city.’  On Wednesday, La Marmora came indeed, butin the ugly form of a bombardment; and that evening the Jenkinssat without lights about their drawing-room window,‘watching the huge red flashes of the cannon’ fromthe Brigato and La Specula forts, and hearkening, not withoutsome awful pleasure, to the thunder of the cannonade.

Lord Hardwicke intervened between the rebels and La Marmora;and there followed a troubled armistice, filled with the voice ofpanic.  Now the Vengeancewas known to be cleared foraction; now it was rumoured that the galley slaves were to be letloose upon the town, and now that the troops would enter it bystorm.  Crowds, trusting in the Union Jack over theJenkins’ door, came to beg them to receive their linen andother valuables; nor could their instances be refused; and in themidst of all this bustle and alarm, piles of goods must beexamined and long inventories made.  At last the captaindecided things had gone too far.  He himself apparentlyremained to watch over the linen; but at five o’clock onthe Sunday morning, Aunt Anna, Fleeming, and his mother wererowed in a pour of rain on board an English merchantman, tosuffer ‘nine mortal hours of agonisingsuspense.’  With the end of that time, peace wasrestored.  On Tuesday morning officers with white flagsappeared on the bastions; then, regiment by regiment, the troopsmarched in, two hundred men sleeping on the ground floor of theJenkins’ house, thirty thousand in all entering the city,but without disturbance, old La Marmora being a commander of aRoman sternness.

With the return of quiet, and the reopening of theuniversities, we behold a new character, Signor Flaminio: theprofessors, it appears, made no attempt upon the Jenkin; and thusreadily italianised the Fleeming.  He came well recommended;for their friend Ruffini was then, or soon after, raised to bethe head of the University; and the professors were very kind andattentive, possibly to Ruffini’sprotégé, perhaps also to the firstProtestant student.  It was no joke for Signor Flaminio atfirst; certificates had to be got from Paris and from RectorWilliams; the classics must be furbished up at home that he mightfollow Latin lectures; examinations bristled in the path, theentrance examination with Latin and English essay, and oraltrials (much softened for the foreigner) in Horace, Tacitus, andCicero, and the first University examination only three monthslater, in Italian eloquence, no less, and other widersubjects.  On one point the first Protestant student wasmoved to thank his stars: that there was no Greek required forthe degree.  Little did he think, as he set down hisgratitude, how much, in later life and among cribs anddictionaries, he was to lament this circumstance; nor how much ofthat later life he was to spend acquiring, with infinite toil, ashadow of what he might then have got with ease and fully. But if his Genoese education was in this particular imperfect, hewas fortunate in the branches that more immediately touched onhis career.  The physical laboratory was the best mounted inItaly.  Bancalari, the professor of natural philosophy, wasfamous in his day; by what seems even an odd coincidence, he wentdeeply into electromagnetism; and it was principally in thatsubject that Signor Flaminio, questioned in Latin and answeringin Italian, passed his Master of Arts degree with first-classhonours.  That he had secured the notice of his teachers,one circumstance sufficiently proves.  A philosophicalsociety was started under the presidency of Mamiani, ‘oneof the examiners and one of the leaders of the Moderateparty’; and out of five promising students brought forwardby the professors to attend the sittings and present essays,Signor Flaminio was one.  I cannot find that he ever read anessay; and indeed I think his hands were otherwise toofull.  He found his fellow-students ‘not such a badset of chaps,’ and preferred the Piedmontese before theGenoese; but I suspect he mixed not very freely witheither.  Not only were his days filled with university work,but his spare hours were fully dedicated to the arts under theeye of a beloved task-mistress.  He worked hard and well inthe art school, where he obtained a silver medal ‘for acouple of legs the size of life drawn from one of Raphael’scartoons.’  His holidays were spent in sketching; hisevenings, when they were free, at the theatre.  Here at theopera he discovered besides a taste for a new art, the art ofmusic; and it was, he wrote, ‘as if he had found out aheaven on earth.’  ‘I am so anxious thatwhatever he professes to know, he should really perfectlypossess,’ his mother wrote, ‘that I spare nopains’; neither to him nor to myself, she might haveadded.  And so when he begged to be allowed to learn thepiano, she started him with characteristic barbarity on thescales; and heard in consequence ‘heart-rendinggroans’ and saw ‘anguished claspings of hands’as he lost his way among their arid intricacies.

In this picture of the lad at the piano, there is something,for the period, girlish.  He was indeed his mother’sboy; and it was fortunate his mother was not altogetherfeminine.  She gave her son a womanly delicacy in morals, toa man’s taste—to his own taste in laterlife—too finely spun, and perhaps more elegant thanhealthful.  She encouraged him besides in drawing-roominterests.  But in other points her influence wasmanlike.  Filled with the spirit of thoroughness, she taughthim to make of the least of these accomplishments a virile task;and the teaching lasted him through life.  Immersed as shewas in the day’s movements and buzzed about by leadingLiberals, she handed on to him her creed in politics: an enduringkindness for Italy, and a loyalty, like that of many cleverwomen, to the Liberal party with but small regard to men ormeasures.  This attitude of mind used often to disappoint mein a man so fond of logic; but I see now how it was learned fromthe bright eyes of his mother and to the sound of the cannonadesof 1848.  To some of her defects, besides, she made himheir.  Kind as was the bond that united her to her son, kindand even pretty, she was scarce a woman to adorn a home; lovingas she did to shine; careless as she was of domestic, studious ofpublic graces.  She probably rejoiced to see the boy grow upin somewhat of the image of herself, generous, excessive,enthusiastic, external; catching at ideas, brandishing them whencaught; fiery for the right, but always fiery; ready at fifteento correct a consul, ready at fifty to explain to any artist hisown art.

The defects and advantages of such a training were obvious inFleeming throughout life.  His thoroughness was not that ofthe patient scholar, but of an untrained woman with fits ofpassionate study; he had learned too much from dogma, givenindeed by cherished lips; and precocious as he was in the use ofthe tools of the mind, he was truly backward in knowledge of lifeand of himself.  Such as it was at least, his home andschool training was now complete; and you are to conceive the ladas being formed in a household of meagre revenue, among foreignsurroundings, and under the influence of an imperiousdrawing-room queen; from whom he learned a great refinement ofmorals, a strong sense of duty, much forwardness of bearing, allmanner of studious and artistic interests, and many ready-madeopinions which he embraced with a son’s and adisciple’s loyalty.

CHAPTER III.  1851–1858.

Return to England—Fleeming atFairbairn’s—Experience in a Strike—Dr. Bell andGreek Architecture—The Gaskells—Fleeming atGreenwich—The Austins—Fleeming and theAustins—His Engagement—Fleeming and Sir W.Thomson.

In 1851, the year of AuntAnna’s death, the family left Genoa and came to Manchester,where Fleeming was entered in Fairbairn’s works as anapprentice.  From the palaces and Alps, the Mole, the blueMediterranean, the humming lanes and the bright theatres ofGenoa, he fell—and he was sharply conscious of thefall—to the dim skies and the foul ways ofManchester.  England he found on his return ‘a horridplace,’ and there is no doubt the family found it a dearone.  The story of the Jenkin finances is not easy tofollow.  The family, I am told, did not practice frugality,only lamented that it should be needful; and Mrs. Jenkin, who wasalways complaining of ‘those dreadful bills,’ was‘always a good deal dressed.’  But at this timeof the return to England, things must have gone further.  Aholiday tour of a fortnight, Fleeming feared would be beyond whathe could afford, and he only projected it ‘to have a castlein the air.’  And there were actual pinches. Fresh from a warmer sun, he was obliged to go without agreatcoat, and learned on railway journeys to supply the place ofone with wrappings of old newspaper.

From half-past eight till six, he must ‘file and chipvigorously in a moleskin suit and infernally dirty.’ The work was not new to him, for he had already passed some timein a Genoese shop; and to Fleeming no work was withoutinterest.  Whatever a man can do or know, he longed to knowand do also.  ‘I never learned anything,’ hewrote, ‘not even standing on my head, but I found a use forit.’  In the spare hours of his first telegraphvoyage, to give an instance of his greed of knowledge, he meant‘to learn the whole art of navigation, every rope in theship and how to handle her on any occasion’; and once whenhe was shown a young lady’s holiday collection of seaweeds,he must cry out, ‘It showed me my eyes had beenidle.’  Nor was his the case of the mere literarysmatterer, content if he but learn the names of things.  Inhim, to do and to do well, was even a dearer ambition than toknow.  Anything done well, any craft, despatch, or finish,delighted and inspired him.  I remember him with a twopennyJapanese box of three drawers, so exactly fitted that, when onewas driven home, the others started from their places; the wholespirit of Japan, he told me, was pictured in that box; that plainpiece of carpentry was as much inspired by the spirit ofperfection as the happiest drawing or the finest bronze; and hewho could not enjoy it in the one was not fully able to enjoy itin the others.  Thus, too, he found in Leonardo’sengineering and anatomical drawings a perpetual feast; and of theformer he spoke even with emotion.  Nothing indeed annoyedFleeming more than the attempt to separate the fine arts from thearts of handicraft; any definition or theory that failed to bringthese two together, according to him, had missed the point; andthe essence of the pleasure received lay in seeing things welldone.  Other qualities must be added; he was the last todeny that; but this, of perfect craft, was at the bottom ofall.  And on the other hand, a nail ill-driven, a jointill-fitted, a tracing clumsily done, anything to which a man hadset his hand and not set it aptly, moved him to shame andanger.  With such a character, he would feel but littledrudgery at Fairbairn’s.  There would be somethingdaily to be done, slovenliness to be avoided, and a higher markof skill to be attained; he would chip and file, as he hadpracticed scales, impatient of his own imperfection, but resoluteto learn.

And there was another spring of delight.  For he was nowmoving daily among those strange creations of man’s brain,to some so abhorrent, to him of an interest so inexhaustible: inwhich iron, water, and fire are made to serve as slaves, now witha tread more powerful than an elephant’s, and now with atouch more precise and dainty than a pianist’s.  Thetaste for machinery was one that I could never share with him,and he had a certain bitter pity for my weakness.  Once whenI had proved, for the hundredth time, the depth of this defect,he looked at me askance.  ‘And the best of thejoke,’ said he, ‘is that he thinks himself quite apoet.’  For to him the struggle of the engineeragainst brute forces and with inert allies, was noblypoetic.  Habit never dulled in him the sense of thegreatness of the aims and obstacles of his profession. Habit only sharpened his inventor’s gusto in contrivance,in triumphant artifice, in the Odyssean subtleties, by whichwires are taught to speak, and iron hands to weave, and theslender ship to brave and to outstrip the tempest.  To theignorant the great results alone are admirable; to the knowing,and to Fleeming in particular, rather the infinite device andsleight of hand that made them possible.

A notion was current at the time that, in such a shop asFairbairn’s, a pupil would never be popular unless he drankwith the workmen and imitated them in speech and manner. Fleeming, who would do none of these things, they accepted as afriend and companion; and this was the subject of remark inManchester, where some memory of it lingers till to-day.  Hethought it one of the advantages of his profession to be broughtinto a close relation with the working classes; and for theskilled artisan he had a great esteem, liking his company, hisvirtues, and his taste in some of the arts.  But he knew theclasses too well to regard them, like a platform speaker, in alump.  He drew, on the other hand, broad distinctions; andit was his profound sense of the difference between one workingman and another that led him to devote so much time, in laterdays, to the furtherance of technical education.  In 1852 hehad occasion to see both men and masters at their worst, in theexcitement of a strike; and very foolishly (after their custom)both would seem to have behaved.  Beginning with a fair showof justice on either side, the masters stultified their cause byobstinate impolicy, and the men disgraced their order by acts ofoutrage.  ‘On Wednesday last,’ writes Fleeming,‘about three thousand banded round Fairbairn’s doorat 6 o’clock: men, women, and children, factory boys andgirls, the lowest of the low in a very low place.  Orderscame that no one was to leave the works; but the men inside(Knobsticks, as they are called) were precious hungry and thoughtthey would venture.  Two of my companions and myself wentout with the very first, and had the full benefit of everypossible groan and bad language.’  But the policecleared a lane through the crowd, the pupils were suffered toescape unhurt, and only the Knobsticks followed home and kickedwith clogs; so that Fleeming enjoyed, as we may say, for nothing,that fine thrill of expectant valour with which he had salliedforth into the mob.  ‘I never before felt myself sodecidedly somebody, instead of nobody,’ he wrote.

Outside as inside the works, he was ‘pretty merry andwell to do,’ zealous in study, welcome to many friends,unwearied in loving-kindness to his mother.  For some timehe spent three nights a week with Dr. Bell, ‘working awayat certain geometrical methods of getting the Greek architecturalproportions’: a business after Fleeming’s heart, forhe was never so pleased as when he could marry his two devotions,art and science.  This was besides, in all likelihood, thebeginning of that love and intimate appreciation of things Greek,from the least to the greatest, from the Agamemnon(perhaps his favourite tragedy) down to the details of Greciantailoring, which he used to express in his familiar phrase:‘The Greeks were the boys.’  Dr. Bell—theson of George Joseph, the nephew of Sir Charles, and though hemade less use of it than some, a sharer in the distinguishedtalents of his race—had hit upon the singular fact thatcertain geometrical intersections gave the proportions of theDoric order.  Fleeming, under Dr. Bell’s direction,applied the same method to the other orders, and again found theproportions accurately given.  Numbers of diagrams wereprepared; but the discovery was never given to the world, perhapsbecause of the dissensions that arose between the authors. For Dr. Bell believed that ‘these intersections were insome way connected with, or symbolical of, the antagonisticforces at work’; but his pupil and helper, withcharacteristic trenchancy, brushed aside this mysticism, andinterpreted the discovery as ‘a geometrical method ofdividing the spaces or (as might be said) of setting out thework, purely empirical and in no way connected with any laws ofeither force or beauty.’  ‘Many a hard andpleasant fight we had over it,’ wrote Jenkin, in lateryears; ‘and impertinent as it may seem, the pupil is stillunconvinced by the arguments of the master.’  I do notknow about the antagonistic forces in the Doric order; inFleeming they were plain enough; and the Bobadil of these affairswith Dr. Bell was still, like the corrector of Italian consuls,‘a great child in everything but information.’ At the house of Colonel Cleather, he might be seen with a familyof children; and with these, there was no word of the Greekorders; with these Fleeming was only an uproarious boy and anentertaining draughtsman; so that his coming was the signal forthe young people to troop into the playroom, where sometimes theroof rang with romping, and sometimes they gathered quietly abouthim as he amused them with his pencil.

In another Manchester family, whose name will be familiar tomy readers—that of the Gaskells, Fleeming was a frequentvisitor.  To Mrs. Gaskell, he would often bring his newideas, a process that many of his later friends will understandand, in their own cases, remember.  With the girls, he had‘constant fierce wrangles,’ forcing them to reasonout their thoughts and to explain their prepossessions; and Ihear from Miss Gaskell that they used to wonder how he couldthrow all the ardour of his character into the smallest matters,and to admire his unselfish devotion to his parents.  Of oneof these wrangles, I have found a record most characteristic ofthe man.  Fleeming had been laying down his doctrine thatthe end justifies the means, and that it is quite right ‘toboast of your six men-servants to a burglar or to steal a knifeto prevent a murder’; and the Miss Gaskells, with girlishloyalty to what is current, had rejected the heresy withindignation.  From such passages-at-arms, many retiremortified and ruffled; but Fleeming had no sooner left the housethan he fell into delighted admiration of the spirit of hisadversaries.  From that it was but a step to ask himself‘what truth was sticking in their heads’; for eventhe falsest form of words (in Fleeming’s life-long opinion)reposed upon some truth, just as he could ‘not even allowthat people admire ugly things, they admire what is pretty in theugly thing.’  And before he sat down to write hisletter, he thought he had hit upon the explanation. ‘I fancy the true idea,’ he wrote, ‘is that youmust never do yourself or anyone else a moral injury—makeany man a thief or a liar—for any end’; quite adifferent thing, as he would have loved to point out, from neverstealing or lying.  But this perfervid disputant was notalways out of key with his audience.  One whom he met in thesame house announced that she would never again be happy. ‘What does that signify?’ cried Fleeming. ‘We are not here to be happy, but to be good.’ And the words (as his hearer writes to me) became to her a sortof motto during life.

From Fairbairn’s and Manchester, Fleeming passed to arailway survey in Switzerland, and thence again to Mr.Penn’s at Greenwich, where he was engaged asdraughtsman.  There in 1856, we find him in ‘aterribly busy state, finishing up engines for innumerablegun-boats and steam frigates for the ensuingcampaign.’  From half-past eight in the morning tillnine or ten at night, he worked in a crowded office amonguncongenial comrades, ‘saluted by chaff, generally lowpersonal and not witty,’ pelted with oranges and apples,regaled with dirty stories, and seeking to suit himself with hissurroundings or (as he writes it) trying to be as little likehimself as possible.  His lodgings were hard by,‘across a dirty green and through some half-built streetsof two-storied houses’; he had Carlyle and the poets,engineering and mathematics, to study by himself in such sparetime as remained to him; and there were several ladies, young andnot so young, with whom he liked to correspond.  But not allof these could compensate for the absence of that mother, who hadmade herself so large a figure in his life, for sorrysurroundings, unsuitable society, and work that leaned to themechanical.  ‘Sunday,’ says he, ‘Igenerally visit some friends in town and seem to swim in clearerwater, but the dirty green seems all the dirtier when I getback.  Luckily I am fond of my profession, or I could notstand this life.’  It is a question in my mind, if hecould have long continued to stand it without loss. ‘We are not here to be happy, but to be good,’ quoththe young philosopher; but no man had a keener appetite forhappiness than Fleeming Jenkin.  There is a time of lifebesides when apart from circumstances, few men are agreeable totheir neighbours and still fewer to themselves; and it was atthis stage that Fleeming had arrived, later than common and evenworse provided.  The letter from which I have quoted is thelast of his correspondence with Frank Scott, and his lastconfidential letter to one of his own sex.  ‘If youconsider it rightly,’ he wrote long after, ‘you willfind the want of correspondence no such strange want inmen’s friendships.  There is, believe me, somethingnoble in the metal which does not rust though not burnished bydaily use.’  It is well said; but the last letter toFrank Scott is scarcely of a noble metal.  It is plain thewriter has outgrown his old self, yet not made acquaintance withthe new.  This letter from a busy youth of three and twenty,breathes of seventeen: the sickening alternations of conceit andshame, the expense of hope in vacuo, the lack of friends,the longing after love; the whole world of egoism under whichyouth stands groaning, a voluntary Atlas.

With Fleeming this disease was never seemingly severe. The very day before this (to me) distasteful letter, he hadwritten to Miss Bell of Manchester in a sweeter strain; I do notquote the one, I quote the other; fair things are the best. ‘I keep my own little lodgings,’ he writes,‘but come up every night to see mamma’ (who was thenon a visit to London) ‘if not kept too late at the works;and have singing lessons once more, and sing “Donnel’amore è scaltro pargoletto”; and thinkand talk about you; and listen to mamma’s projectsdeStowting.  Everything turns to gold at her touch,she’s a fairy and no mistake.  We go on talking till Ihave a picture in my head, and can hardly believe at the end thatthe original is Stowting.  Even you don’t know halfhow good mamma is; in other things too, which I must notmention.  She teaches me how it is not necessary to be veryrich to do much good.  I begin to understand that mammawould find useful occupation and create beauty at the bottom of avolcano.  She has little weaknesses, but is a realgenerous-hearted woman, which I suppose is the finest thing inthe world.’  Though neither mother nor son could becalled beautiful, they make a pretty picture; the ugly, generous,ardent woman weaving rainbow illusions; the ugly, clear-sighted,loving son sitting at her side in one of his rare hours ofpleasure, half-beguiled, half-amused, wholly admiring, as helistens.  But as he goes home, and the fancy pictures fade,and Stowting is once more burthened with debt, and the noisycompanions and the long hours of drudgery once more approach, nowonder if the dirty green seems all the dirtier or if Atlas mustresume his load.

But in healthy natures, this time of moral teething passesquickly of itself, and is easily alleviated by fresh interests;and already, in the letter to Frank Scott, there are two words ofhope: his friends in London, his love for his profession. The last might have saved him; for he was ere long to pass into anew sphere, where all his faculties were to be tried andexercised, and his life to be filled with interest andeffort.  But it was not left to engineering: another andmore influential aim was to be set before him.  He must, inany case, have fallen in love; in any case, his love would haveruled his life; and the question of choice was, for thedescendant of two such families, a thing of paramountimportance.  Innocent of the world, fiery, generous, devotedas he was, the son of the wild Jacksons and the facile Jenkinsmight have been led far astray.  By one of thosepartialities that fill men at once with gratitude and wonder, hischoosing was directed well.  Or are we to say that by aman’s choice in marriage, as by a crucial merit, hedeserves his fortune?  One thing at least reason maydiscern: that a man but partly chooses, he also partly forms, hishelp-mate; and he must in part deserve her, or the treasure isbut won for a moment to be lost.  Fleeming chanced if youwill (and indeed all these opportunities are as ‘random asblind man’s buff’) upon a wife who was worthy of him;but he had the wit to know it, the courage to wait and labour forhis prize, and the tenderness and chivalry that are required tokeep such prizes precious.  Upon this point he has himselfwritten well, as usual with fervent optimism, but as usual (inhis own phrase) with a truth sticking in his head.

‘Love,’ he wrote, ‘is not an intuition ofthe person most suitable to us, most required by us; of theperson with whom life flowers and bears fruit.  If this wereso, the chances of our meeting that person would be small indeed;our intuition would often fail; the blindness of love would thenbe fatal as it is proverbial.  No, love works differently,and in its blindness lies its strength.  Man and woman, eachstrongly desires to be loved, each opens to the other that heartof ideal aspirations which they have often hid till then; each,thus knowing the ideal of the other, tries to fulfil that ideal,each partially succeeds.  The greater the love, the greaterthe success; the nobler the idea of each, the more durable, themore beautiful the effect.  Meanwhile the blindness of eachto the other’s defects enables the transformation toproceed [unobserved,] so that when the veil is withdrawn (if itever is, and this I do not know) neither knows that any changehas occurred in the person whom they loved.  Do not fear,therefore.  I do not tell you that your friend will notchange, but as I am sure that her choice cannot be that of a manwith a base ideal, so I am sure the change will be a safe and agood one.  Do not fear that anything you love will vanish,he must love it too.’

Among other introductions in London, Fleeming had presented aletter from Mrs. Gaskell to the Alfred Austins.  This was afamily certain to interest a thoughtful young man.  Alfred,the youngest and least known of the Austins, had been a beautifulgolden-haired child, petted and kept out of the way of both sportand study by a partial mother.  Bred an attorney, he had(like both his brothers) changed his way of life, and was calledto the bar when past thirty.  A Commission of Enquiry intothe state of the poor in Dorsetshire gave him an opportunity ofproving his true talents; and he was appointed a Poor LawInspector, first at Worcester, next at Manchester, where he hadto deal with the potato famine and the Irish immigration of the‘forties, and finally in London, where he againdistinguished himself during an epidemic of cholera.  He wasthen advanced to the Permanent Secretaryship of HerMajesty’s Office of Works and Public Buildings; a positionwhich he filled with perfect competence, but with an extreme ofmodesty; and on his retirement, in 1868, he was made a Companionof the Bath.  While apprentice to a Norwich attorney, AlfredAustin was a frequent visitor in the house of Mr. Barron, arallying place in those days of intellectual society. Edward Barron, the son of a rich saddler or leather merchant inthe Borough, was a man typical of the time.  When he was achild, he had once been patted on the head in his father’sshop by no less a man than Samuel Johnson, as the Doctor wentround the Borough canvassing for Mr. Thrale; and the child wastrue to this early consecration.  ‘A life of letteredease spent in provincial retirement,’ it is thus that thebiographer of that remarkable man, William Taylor, announces hissubject; and the phrase is equally descriptive of the life ofEdward Barron.  The pair were close friends, ‘W. T.and a pipe render everything agreeable,’ writes Barron inhis diary in 1828; and in 1833, after Barron had moved to Londonand Taylor had tasted the first public failure of his powers, thelatter wrote: ‘To my ever dearest Mr. Barron say, if youplease, that I miss him more than I regret him—that Iacquiesce in his retirement from Norwich, because I could illbrook his observation of my increasing debility ofmind.’  This chosen companion of William Taylor musthimself have been no ordinary man; and he was the friend besidesof Borrow, whom I find him helping in his Latin.  But he hadno desire for popular distinction, lived privately, married adaughter of Dr. Enfield of Enfield’s Speaker, anddevoted his time to the education of his family, in a deliberateand scholarly fashion, and with certain traits of stoicism, thatwould surprise a modern.  From these children we must singleout his youngest daughter, Eliza, who learned under his care tobe a sound Latin, an elegant Grecian, and to suppress emotionwithout outward sign after the manner of the Godwin school. This was the more notable, as the girl really derived from theEnfields; whose high-flown romantic temper, I wish I could findspace to illustrate.  She was but seven years old, whenAlfred Austin remarked and fell in love with her; and the unionthus early prepared was singularly full.  Where the husbandand wife differed, and they did so on momentous subjects, theydiffered with perfect temper and content; and in the conduct oflife, and in depth and durability of love, they were atone.  Each full of high spirits, each practised something ofthe same repression: no sharp word was uttered in theirhouse.  The same point of honour ruled them, a guest wassacred and stood within the pale from criticism.  It was ahouse, besides, of unusual intellectual tension.  Mrs.Austin remembered, in the early days of the marriage, the threebrothers, John, Charles, and Alfred, marching to and fro, eachwith his hands behind his back, and ‘reasoning high’till morning; and how, like Dr. Johnson, they would cheer theirspeculations with as many as fifteen cups of tea.  Andthough, before the date of Fleeming’s visit, the brotherswere separated, Charles long ago retired from the world atBrandeston, and John already near his end in the ‘ramblingold house’ at Weybridge, Alfred Austin and his wife werestill a centre of much intellectual society, and still, as indeedthey remained until the last, youthfully alert in mind. There was but one child of the marriage, Anne, and she washerself something new for the eyes of the young visitor; broughtup, as she had been, like her mother before her, to the standardof a man’s acquirements.  Only one art had she beendenied, she must not learn the violin—the thought was toomonstrous even for the Austins; and indeed it would seem as ifthat tide of reform which we may date from the days of MaryWollstonecraft had in some degree even receded; for though MissAustin was suffered to learn Greek, the accomplishment was keptsecret like a piece of guilt.  But whether this stealth wascaused by a backward movement in public thought since the time ofEdward Barron, or by the change from enlightened Norwich tobarbarian London, I have no means of judging.

When Fleeming presented his letter, he fell in love at firstsight with Mrs. Austin and the life, and atmosphere of thehouse.  There was in the society of the Austins, outward,stoical conformers to the world, something gravely suggestive ofessential eccentricity, something unpretentiously breathing ofintellectual effort, that could not fail to hit the fancy of thishot-brained boy.  The unbroken enamel of courtesy, theself-restraint, the dignified kindness of these married folk, hadbesides a particular attraction for their visitor.  He couldnot but compare what he saw, with what he knew of his mother andhimself.  Whatever virtues Fleeming possessed, he couldnever count on being civil; whatever brave, true-heartedqualities he was able to admire in Mrs. Jenkin, mildness ofdemeanour was not one of them.  And here he found per sonswho were the equals of his mother and himself in intellect andwidth of interest, and the equals of his father in mild urbanityof disposition.  Show Fleeming an active virtue, and healways loved it.  He went away from that house struckthrough with admiration, and vowing to himself that his ownmarried life should be upon that pattern, his wife (whoever shemight be) like Eliza Barron, himself such another husband asAlfred Austin.  What is more strange, he not only broughtaway, but left behind him, golden opinions.  He must havebeen—he was, I am told—a trying lad; but there shoneout of him such a light of innocent candour, enthusiasm,intelligence, and appreciation, that to persons already some wayforward in years, and thus able to enjoy indulgently theperennial comedy of youth, the sight of him was delightful. By a pleasant coincidence, there was one person in the house whomhe did not appreciate and who did not appreciate him: AnneAustin, his future wife.  His boyish vanity ruffled her; hisappearance, never impressive, was then, by reason of obtrusiveboyishness, still less so; she found occasion to put him in thewrong by correcting a false quantity; and when Mr. Austin, afterdoing his visitor the almost unheard-of honour of accompanyinghim to the door, announced ‘That was what young men werelike in my time’—she could only reply, looking on herhandsome father, ‘I thought they had been betterlooking.’

This first visit to the Austins took place in 1855; and itseems it was some time before Fleeming began to know his mind;and yet longer ere he ventured to show it.  The correctedquantity, to those who knew him well, will seem to have playedits part; he was the man always to reflect over a correction andto admire the castigator.  And fall in love he did; nothurriedly but step by step, not blindly but with criticaldiscrimination; not in the fashion of Romeo, but before he wasdone, with all Romeo’s ardour and more than Romeo’sfaith.  The high favour to which he presently rose in theesteem of Alfred Austin and his wife, might well give himambitious notions; but the poverty of the present and theobscurity of the future were there to give him pause; and whenhis aspirations began to settle round Miss Austin, he tasted,perhaps for the only time in his life, the pangs ofdiffidence.  There was indeed opening before him a wide doorof hope.  He had changed into the service of Messrs. Liddell& Gordon; these gentlemen had begun to dabble in the newfield of marine telegraphy; and Fleeming was already face to facewith his life’s work.  That impotent sense of his ownvalue, as of a ship aground, which makes one of the agonies ofyouth, began to fall from him.  New problems which he wasendowed to solve, vistas of new enquiry which he was fitted toexplore, opened before him continually.  His gifts had foundtheir avenue and goal.  And with this pleasure of effectiveexercise, there must have sprung up at once the hope of what iscalled by the world success.  But from these low beginnings,it was a far look upward to Miss Austin: the favour of the lovedone seems always more than problematical to any lover; theconsent of parents must be always more than doubtful to a youngman with a small salary and no capital except capacity andhope.  But Fleeming was not the lad to lose any good thingfor the lack of trial; and at length, in the autumn of 1857, thisboyish-sized, boyish-mannered, and superlatively ill-dressedyoung engineer, entered the house of the Austins, with suchsinkings as we may fancy, and asked leave to pay his addresses tothe daughter.  Mrs. Austin already loved him like a son, shewas but too glad to give him her consent; Mr. Austin reserved theright to inquire into his character; from neither was there aword about his prospects, by neither was his incomementioned.  ‘Are these people,’ he wrote, struckwith wonder at this dignified disinterestedness, ‘are thesepeople the same as other people?’  It was not till hewas armed with this permission, that Miss Austin even suspectedthe nature of his hopes: so strong, in this unmannerly boy, wasthe principle of true courtesy; so powerful, in this impetuousnature, the springs of self-repression.  And yet a boy hewas; a boy in heart and mind; and it was with a boy’schivalry and frankness that he won his wife.  His conductwas a model of honour, hardly of tact; to conceal love from theloved one, to court her parents, to be silent and discreet tillthese are won, and then without preparation to approach thelady—these are not arts that I would recommend forimitation.  They lead to final refusal.  Nothing savedFleeming from that fate, but one circumstance that cannot becounted upon—the hearty favour of the mother, and one giftthat is inimitable and that never failed him throughout life, thegift of a nature essentially noble and outspoken.  A happyand high-minded anger flashed through his despair: it won for himhis wife.

Nearly two years passed before it was possible to marry: twoyears of activity, now in London; now at Birkenhead, fitting outships, inventing new machinery for new purposes, and dipping intoelectrical experiment; now in the Elbaon his firsttelegraph cruise between Sardinia and Algiers: a busy anddelightful period of bounding ardour, incessant toil, growinghope and fresh interests, with behind and through all, the imageof his beloved.  A few extracts from his correspondence withhis betrothed will give the note of these truly joyousyears.  ‘My profession gives me all the excitement andinterest I ever hope for, but the sorry jade is obviously jealousof you.’—‘“Poor Fleeming,” in spiteof wet, cold and wind, clambering over moist, tarry slips,wandering among pools of slush in waste places inhabited bywandering locomotives, grows visibly stronger, has dismissed hisoffice cough and cured his toothache.’—‘Thewhole of the paying out and lifting machinery must be designedand ordered in two or three days, and I am half crazy withwork.  I like it though: it’s like a good ball, theexcitement carries you through.’—‘I was runningto and from the ships and warehouse through fierce gusts of rainand wind till near eleven, and you cannot think what a pleasureit was to be blown about and think of you in your prettydress.’—‘I am at the works till ten andsometimes till eleven.  But I have a nice office to sit in,with a fire to myself, and bright brass scientific instrumentsall round me, and books to read, and experiments to make, andenjoy myself amazingly.  I find the study of electricity soentertaining that I am apt to neglect my other work.’ And for a last taste, ‘Yesterday I had some charmingelectrical experiments.  What shall I compare themto—a new song? a Greek play?’

It was at this time besides that he made the acquaintance ofProfessor, now Sir William, Thomson.  To describe the partplayed by these two in each other’s lives would lie out ofmy way.  They worked together on the Committee on ElectricalStandards; they served together at the laying down or the repairof many deep-sea cables; and Sir William was regarded byFleeming, not only with the ‘worship’ (the word ishis own) due to great scientific gifts, but with an ardour ofpersonal friendship not frequently excelled.  To theirassociation, Fleeming brought the valuable element of a practicalunderstanding; but he never thought or spoke of himself where SirWilliam was in question; and I recall quite in his last days, asingular instance of this modest loyalty to one whom he admiredand loved.  He drew up a paper, in a quite personalinterest, of his own services; yet even here he must step out ofhis way, he must add, where it had no claim to be added, hisopinion that, in their joint work, the contributions of SirWilliam had been always greatly the most valuable.  Again, Ishall not readily forget with what emotion he once told me anincident of their associated travels.  On one of themountain ledges of Madeira, Fleeming’s pony bolted betweenSir William. and the precipice above; by strange good fortune andthanks to the steadiness of Sir William’s horse, no harmwas done; but for the moment, Fleeming saw his friend hurled intothe sea, and almost by his own act: it was a memory that hauntedhim.

CHAPTER IV.  1859–1868.

Fleeming’s Marriage—His MarriedLife—Professional Difficulties—Life atClaygate—Illness of Mrs. F. Jenkin; and ofFleeming—Appointment to the Chair at Edinburgh.

On Saturday, Feb. 26, 1859,profiting by a holiday of four days, Fleeming was married to MissAustin at Northiam: a place connected not only with his ownfamily but with that of his bride as well.  By Tuesdaymorning, he was at work again, fitting out cableships atBirkenhead.  Of the walk from his lodgings to the works, Ifind a graphic sketch in one of his letters: ‘Out over therailway bridge, along a wide road raised to the level of a groundfloor above the land, which, not being built upon, harbourspuddles, ponds, pigs, and Irish hovels;—so to the dockwarehouses, four huge piles of building with no windows,surrounded by a wall about twelve feet high—in through thelarge gates, round which hang twenty or thirty rusty Irish,playing pitch and toss and waiting for employment;—on alongthe railway, which came in at the same gates and which branchesdown between each vast block—past a pilot-engine buttingrefractory trucks into their places—on to the last block,[and] down the branch, sniffing the guano-scented air anddetecting the old bones.  The hartshorn flavour of the guanobecomes very strong, as I near the docks where, across theElba’sdecks, a huge vessel is discharging her cargoof the brown dust, and where huge vessels have been dischargingthat same cargo for the last five months.’  This wasthe walk he took his young wife on the morrow of hisreturn.  She had been used to the society of lawyers andcivil servants, moving in that circle which seems to itself thepivot of the nation and is in truth only a clique like another;and Fleeming was to her the nameless assistant of a nameless firmof engineers, doing his inglorious business, as she now saw forherself, among unsavoury surroundings.  But when their walkbrought them within view of the river, she beheld a sight to herof the most novel beauty: four great, sea-going ships dressed outwith flags.  ‘How lovely!’ she cried. ‘What is it for?’—‘For you,’ saidFleeming.  Her surprise was only equalled by herpleasure.  But perhaps, for what we may call private fame,there is no life like that of the engineer; who is a great man inout-of-the-way places, by the dockside or on the desert island orin populous ships, and remains quite unheard of in the coteriesof London.  And Fleeming had already made his mark among thefew who had an opportunity of knowing him.

His marriage was the one decisive incident of his career; fromthat moment until the day of his death, he had one thought towhich all the rest were tributary, the thought of his wife. No one could know him even slightly, and not remark the absorbinggreatness of that sentiment; nor can any picture of the man bedrawn that does not in proportion dwell upon it.  This is adelicate task; but if we are to leave behind us (as we wish) somepresentment of the friend we have lost, it is a task that must beundertaken.

For all his play of mind and fancy, for all hisindulgence—and, as time went on, he grewindulgent—Fleeming had views of duty that were evenstern.  He was too shrewd a student of his fellow-men toremain long content with rigid formulæ of conduct. Iron-bound, impersonal ethics, the procrustean bed of rules, hesoon saw at their true value as the deification ofaverages.  ‘As to Miss (I declare I forget her name)being bad,’ I find him writing, ‘people only meanthat she has broken the Decalogue—which is not at all thesame thing.  People who have kept in the high-road of Lifereally have less opportunity for taking a comprehensive view ofit than those who have leaped over the hedges and strayed up thehills; not but what the hedges are very necessary, and our straytravellers often have a weary time of it.  So, you may say,have those in the dusty roads.’  Yet he was himself avery stern respecter of the hedgerows; sought safety and founddignity in the obvious path of conduct; and would palter with nosimple and recognised duty of his epoch.  Of marriage inparticular, of the bond so formed, of the obligations incurred,of the debt men owe to their children, he conceived in a trulyantique spirit: not to blame others, but to constrainhimself.  It was not to blame, I repeat, that he held theseviews; for others, he could make a large allowance; and yet hetacitly expected of his friends and his wife a high standard ofbehaviour.  Nor was it always easy to wear the armour ofthat ideal.

Acting upon these beliefs; conceiving that he had indeed‘given himself’ (in the full meaning of these words)for better, for worse; painfully alive to his defects of temperand deficiency in charm; resolute to make up for these; thinkinglast of himself: Fleeming was in some ways the very man to havemade a noble, uphill fight of an unfortunate marriage.  Inother ways, it is true he was one of the most unfit for such atrial.  And it was his beautiful destiny to remain to thelast hour the same absolute and romantic lover, who had shown tohis new bride the flag-draped vessels in the Mersey.  Nofate is altogether easy; but trials are our touchstone, trialsovercome our reward; and it was given to Fleeming toconquer.  It was given to him to live for another, not as atask, but till the end as an enchanting pleasure. ‘People may write novels,’ he wrote in 1869,‘and other people may write poems, but not a man or womanamong them can write to say how happy a man may be, who isdesperately in love with his wife after ten years ofmarriage.’  And again in 1885, after more thantwenty-six years of marriage, and within but five weeks of hisdeath: ‘Your first letter from Bournemouth,’ hewrote, ‘gives me heavenly pleasure—for which I thankHeaven and you too—who are my heaven on earth.’ The mind hesitates whether to say that such a man has been moregood or more fortunate.

Any woman (it is the defect of her sex) comes sooner to thestable mind of maturity than any man; and Jenkin was to the endof a most deliberate growth.  In the next chapter, when Icome to deal with his telegraphic voyages and give some taste ofhis correspondence, the reader will still find him at twenty-fivean arrant school-boy.  His wife besides was more thoroughlyeducated than he.  In many ways she was able to teach him,and he proud to be taught; in many ways she outshone him, and hedelighted to be outshone.  All these superiorities, andothers that, after the manner of lovers, he no doubt forged forhimself, added as time went on to the humility of his originallove.  Only once, in all I know of his career, did he show atouch of smallness.  He could not learn to sing correctly;his wife told him so and desisted from her lessons; and themortification was so sharply felt that for years he could not beinduced to go to a concert, instanced himself as a typical manwithout an ear, and never sang again.  I tell it; for thefact that this stood singular in his behaviour, and really amazedall who knew him, is the happiest way I can imagine to commendthe tenor of his simplicity; and because it illustrates hisfeeling for his wife.  Others were always welcome to laughat him; if it amused them, or if it amused him, he would proceedundisturbed with his occupation, his vanity invulnerable. With his wife it was different: his wife had laughed at hissinging; and for twenty years the fibre ached.  Nothing,again, was more notable than the formal chivalry of thisunmannered man to the person on earth with whom he was the mostfamiliar.  He was conscious of his own innate and oftenrasping vivacity and roughness and he was never forgetful of hisfirst visit to the Austins and the vow he had registered on hisreturn.  There was thus an artificial element in hispunctilio that at times might almost raise a smile.  But itstood on noble grounds; for this was how he sought to shelterfrom his own petulance the woman who was to him the symbol of thehousehold and to the end the beloved of his youth.

I wish in this chapter to chronicle small beer; taking a hastyglance at some ten years of married life and of professionalstruggle; and reserving till the next all the more interestingmatter of his cruises.  Of his achievements and their worth,it is not for me to speak: his friend and partner, Sir WilliamThomson, has contributed a note on the subject, which will befound in the Appendix, and to which I must refer thereader.  He is to conceive in the meanwhile for himselfFleeming’s manifold engagements: his service on theCommittee on Electrical Standards, his lectures on electricity atChatham, his chair at the London University, his partnership withSir William Thomson and Mr. Varley in many ingenious patents, hisgrowing credit with engineers and men of science; and he is tobear in mind that of all this activity and acquist of reputation,the immediate profit was scanty.  Soon after his marriage,Fleeming had left the service of Messrs. Liddell & Gordon,and entered into a general engineering partnership with Mr.Forde, a gentleman in a good way of business.  It was afortunate partnership in this, that the parties retained theirmutual respect unlessened and separated with regret; butmen’s affairs, like men, have their times of sickness, andby one of these unaccountable variations, for hard upon ten yearsthe business was disappointing and the profits meagre. ‘Inditing drafts of German railways which will never getmade’: it is thus I find Fleeming, not without a touch ofbitterness, describe his occupation.  Even the patents hungfire at first.  There was no salary to rely on; childrenwere coming and growing up; the prospect was often anxious. In the days of his courtship, Fleeming had written to Miss Austina dissuasive picture of the trials of poverty, assuring her thesewere no figments but truly bitter to support; he told her this,he wrote, beforehand, so that when the pinch came and shesuffered, she should not be disappointed in herself nor temptedto doubt her own magnanimity: a letter of admirable wisdom andsolicitude.  But now that the trouble came, he bore it verylightly.  It was his principle, as he once prettilyexpressed it, ‘to enjoy each day’s happiness, as itarises, like birds or children.’  His optimism, ifdriven out at the door, would come in again by the window; if itfound nothing but blackness in the present, would hit upon someground of consolation in the future or the past.  And hiscourage and energy were indefatigable.  In the year 1863,soon after the birth of their first son, they moved into acottage at Claygate near Esher; and about this time, undermanifold troubles both of money and health, I find him writingfrom abroad: ‘The country will give us, please God, healthand strength.  I will love and cherish you more than ever,you shall go where you wish, you shall receive whom youwish—and as for money you shall have that too.  Icannot be mistaken.  I have now measured myself with manymen.  I do not feel weak, I do not feel that I shallfail.  In many things I have succeeded, and I will inthis.  And meanwhile the time of waiting, which, pleaseHeaven, shall not be long, shall also not be so bitter. Well, well, I promise much, and do not know at this moment howyou and the dear child are.  If he is but better, courage,my girl, for I see light.’

This cottage at Claygate stood just without the village, wellsurrounded with trees and commanding a pleasant view.  Apiece of the garden was turfed over to form a croquet green, andFleeming became (I need scarce say) a very ardent player. He grew ardent, too, in gardening.  This he took up at firstto please his wife, having no natural inclination; but he had nosooner set his hand to it, than, like everything else he touched,it became with him a passion.  He budded roses, he pottedcuttings in the coach-house; if there came a change of weather atnight, he would rise out of bed to protect his favourites; whenhe was thrown with a dull companion, it was enough for him todiscover in the man a fellow gardener; on his travels, he wouldgo out of his way to visit nurseries and gather hints; and to theend of his life, after other occupations prevented him puttinghis own hand to the spade, he drew up a yearly programme for hisgardener, in which all details were regulated.  He had begunby this time to write.  His paper on Darwin, which had themerit of convincing on one point the philosopher himself, hadindeed been written before this in London lodgings; but his penwas not idle at Claygate; and it was here he wrote (among otherthings) that review of ‘Fecundity, Fertility,Sterility, and Allied Topics,’ which Dr.Matthews Duncan prefixed by way of introduction to the secondedition of the work.  The mere act of writing seems to cheerthe vanity of the most incompetent; but a correction accepted byDarwin, and a whole review borrowed and reprinted by MatthewsDuncan are compliments of a rare strain, and to a man stillunsuccessful must have been precious indeed.  There was yeta third of the same kind in store for him; and when Munro himselfowned that he had found instruction in the paper on Lucretius, wemay say that Fleeming had been crowned in the capitol ofreviewing.

Croquet, charades, Christmas magic lanterns for the villagechildren, an amateur concert or a review article in the evening;plenty of hard work by day; regular visits to meetings of theBritish Association, from one of which I find himcharacteristically writing: ‘I cannot say that I have hadany amusement yet, but I am enjoying the dulness and dry bustleof the whole thing’; occasional visits abroad on business,when he would find the time to glean (as I have said) gardeninghints for himself, and old folk-songs or new fashions of dressfor his wife; and the continual study and care of his children:these were the chief elements of his life.  Nor were friendswanting.  Captain and Mrs. Jenkin, Mr. and Mrs. Austin,Clerk Maxwell, Miss Bell of Manchester, and others came to themon visits.  Mr. Hertslet of the Foreign Office, his wife andhis daughter, were neighbours and proved kind friends; in 1867the Howitts came to Claygate and sought the society of ‘thetwo bright, clever young people’; [113] and in a house close by, Mr. FrederickRicketts came to live with his family.  Mr. Ricketts was avalued friend during his short life; and when he was lost withevery circumstance of heroism in the La Plata, Fleemingmourned him sincerely.

I think I shall give the best idea of Fleeming in this time ofhis early married life, by a few sustained extracts from hisletters to his wife, while she was absent on a visit in 1864.

‘Nov.11.—Sunday was too wet towalk to Isleworth, for which I was sorry, so I staid and went toChurch and thought of you at Ardwick all through theCommandments, and heard Dr. — expound in a remarkable way aprophecy of St. Paul’s about Roman Catholics, whichmutatis mutandiswould do very well for Protestants insome parts.  Then I made a little nursery of Borecole andEnfield market cabbage, grubbing in wet earth with leggings andgray coat on.  Then I tidied up the coach-house to my ownand Christine’s admiration.  Then encouraged bybouts-rimésI wrote you a copy of verses; high timeI think; I shall just save my tenth year of knowing my lady-lovewithout inditing poetry or rhymes to her.

‘Then I rummaged over the box with my father’sletters and found interesting notes from myself.  One Ishould say my first letter, which little Austin I should saywould rejoice to see and shall see—with a drawing of acottage and a spirited “cob.”  What was more tothe purpose, I found with it a paste-cutter which Mary beggedhumbly for Christine and I generously gave this morning.

‘Then I read some of Congreve.  There are admirablescenes in the manner of Sheridan; all wit and no character, orrather one character in a great variety of situations andscenes.  I could show you some scenes, but others are toocoarse even for my stomach hardened by a course of Frenchnovels.

‘All things look so happy for the rain.

‘Nov.16.—Verbenas looking well. . . . I ambut a poor creature without you; I have naturally no spirit orfun or enterprise in me.  Only a kind of mechanical capacityfor ascertaining whether two really is half four, etc.; but whenyou are near me I can fancy that I too shine, and vainly supposeit to be my proper light; whereas by my extreme darkness when youare not by, it clearly can only be by a reflected brilliance thatI seem aught but dull.  Then for the moral part of me: if itwere not for you and little Odden, I should feel by no means surethat I had any affection power in me. . . . Even the muscular mesuffers a sad deterioration in your absence.  I don’tget up when I ought to, I have snoozed in my chair after dinner;I do not go in at the garden with my wonted vigour, and feel tentimes as tired as usual with a walk in your absence; so you see,when you are not by, I am a person without ability, affections orvigour, but droop dull, selfish, and spiritless; can you wonderthat I love you?

‘Nov.17.—. . . I am very glad we marriedyoung.  I would not have missed these five years, no, notfor any hopes; they are my own.

‘Nov.30.—I got through my Chatham lecturevery fairly though almost all my apparatus went astray.  Idined at the mess, and got home to Isleworth the same evening;your father very kindly sitting up for me.

‘Dec.1.—Back at dear Claygate.  Manycuttings flourish, especially those which do honour to yourhand.  Your Californian annuals are up and about. Badger is fat, the grass green. . . .

‘Dec.3.—Odden will not talk of you, whileyou are away, having inherited, as I suspect, his father’sway of declining to consider a subject which is painful, as yourabsence is. . . . I certainly should like to learn Greek and Ithink it would be a capital pastime for the long winter evenings.. . . How things are misrated!  I declare croquet is a nobleoccupation compared to the pursuits of business men.  As forso-called idleness—that is, one form of it—I vow itis the noblest aim of man.  When idle, one can love, one canbe good, feel kindly to all, devote oneself to others, bethankful for existence, educate one’s mind, one’sheart, one’s body.  When busy, as I am busy now orhave been busy to-day, one feels just as you sometimes felt whenyou were too busy, owing to want of servants.

‘Dec.5.—On Sunday I was at Isleworth,chiefly engaged in playing with Odden.  We had the mostenchanting walk together through the brickfields.  It wasvery muddy, and, as he remarked, not fit for Nanna, but fit forus men.  The dreary waste of bared earth, thatchedsheds and standing water, was a paradise to him; and when wewalked up planks to deserted mixing and crushing mills, andactually saw where the clay was stirred with long iron prongs,and chalk or lime ground with “a tind of a mill,” hisexpression of contentment and triumphant heroism knew no limit toits beauty.  Of course on returning I found Mrs. Austinlooking out at the door in an anxious manner, and thinking we hadbeen out quite long enough. . . . I am reading Don Quixotechiefly and am his fervent admirer, but I am so sorry he did notplace his affections on a Dulcinea of somewhat worthierstamp.  In fact I think there must be a mistake aboutit.  Don Quixote might and would serve his lady in mostpreposterous fashion, but I am sure he would have chosen a ladyof merit.  He imagined her to be such no doubt, and drew acharming picture of her occupations by the banks of the river;but in his other imaginations, there was some kind of peg onwhich to hang the false costumes he created; windmills are big,and wave their arms like giants; sheep in the distance aresomewhat like an army; a little boat on the river-side must lookmuch the same whether enchanted or belonging to millers; butexcept that Dulcinea is a woman, she bears no resemblance at allto the damsel of his imagination.’

At the time of these letters, the oldest son only was born tothem.  In September of the next year, with the birth of thesecond, Charles Frewen, there befell Fleeming a terrible alarmand what proved to be a lifelong misfortune.  Mrs. Jenkinwas taken suddenly and alarmingly ill; Fleeming ran a matter oftwo miles to fetch the doctor, and, drenched with sweat as hewas, returned with him at once in an open gig.  On theirarrival at the house, Mrs. Jenkin half unconsciously took andkept hold of her husband’s hand.  By thedoctor’s orders, windows and doors were set open to createa thorough draught, and the patient was on no account to bedisturbed.  Thus, then, did Fleeming pass the whole of thatnight, crouching on the floor in the draught, and not daring tomove lest he should wake the sleeper.  He had never beenstrong; energy had stood him instead of vigour; and the result ofthat night’s exposure was flying rheumatism varied bysettled sciatica.  Sometimes it quite disabled him,sometimes it was less acute; but he was rarely free from it untilhis death.  I knew him for many years; for more than ten wewere closely intimate; I have lived with him for weeks; andduring all this time, he only once referred to his infirmity andthen perforce as an excuse for some trouble he put me to, and soslightly worded that I paid no heed.  This is a good measureof his courage under sufferings of which none but the untriedwill think lightly.  And I think it worth noting how thisoptimist was acquainted with pain.  It will seem strangeonly to the superficial.  The disease of pessimism springsnever from real troubles, which it braces men to bear, which itdelights men to bear well.  Nor does it readily spring atall, in minds that have conceived of life as a field of orderedduties, not as a chase in which to hunt for gratifications. ‘We are not here to be happy, but to be good’; I wishhe had mended the phrase: ‘We are not here to be happy, butto try to be good,’ comes nearer the modesty oftruth.  With such old-fashioned morality, it is possible toget through life, and see the worst of it, and feel some of theworst of it, and still acquiesce piously and even gladly inman’s fate.  Feel some of the worst of it, I say; forsome of the rest of the worst is, by this simple faith,excluded.

It was in the year 1868, that the clouds finally rose. The business in partnership with Mr. Forde began suddenly to paywell; about the same time the patents showed themselves avaluable property; and but a little after, Fleeming was appointedto the new chair of engineering in the University ofEdinburgh.  Thus, almost at once, pecuniary embarrassmentspassed for ever out of his life.  Here is his own epilogueto the time at Claygate, and his anticipations of the future inEdinburgh.

‘ . . . . The dear old house at Claygate isnot let and the pretty garden a mass of weeds.  I feelrather as if we had behaved unkindly to them.  We were veryhappy there, but now that it is over I am conscious of the weightof anxiety as to money which I bore all the time.  With youin the garden, with Austin in the coach-house, with pretty songsin the little, low white room, with the moonlight in the dearroom up-stairs, ah, it was perfect; but the long walk, wondering,pondering, fearing, scheming, and the dusty jolting railway, andthe horrid fusty office with its endless disappointments, theyare well gone.  It is well enough to fight and scheme andbustle about in the eager crowd here [in London] for a while nowand then, but not for a lifetime.  What I have now is justperfect.  Study for winter, action for summer, lovelycountry for recreation, a pleasant town for talk . . .’

CHAPTER V.—NOTES OF TELEGRAPH VOYAGES, 1858 TO1873.

But it is now time to see Jenkin athis life’s work.  I have before me certain imperfectseries of letters written, as he says, ‘at hazard, for onedoes not know at the time what is important and what isnot’: the earlier addressed to Miss Austin, after thebetrothal; the later to Mrs. Jenkin the young wife.  Ishould premise that I have allowed myself certain editorialfreedoms, leaving out and splicing together much as he himselfdid with the Bona cable: thus edited the letters speak forthemselves, and will fail to interest none who love adventure oractivity.  Addressed as they were to her whom he called his‘dear engineering pupil,’ they give a picture of hiswork so clear that a child may understand, and so attractive thatI am half afraid their publication may prove harmful, and stillfurther crowd the ranks of a profession alreadyovercrowded.  But their most engaging quality is the pictureof the writer; with his indomitable self-confidence and courage,his readiness in every pinch of circumstance or change of plan,and his ever fresh enjoyment of the whole web of humanexperience, nature, adventure, science, toil and rest, societyand solitude.  It should be borne in mind that the writer ofthese buoyant pages was, even while he wrote, harassed byresponsibility, stinted in sleep and often struggling with theprostration of sea-sickness.  To this last enemy, which henever overcame, I have omitted, in my search after condensation,a good many references; if they were all left, such was theman’s temper, they would not represent one hundredth partof what he suffered, for he was never given to complaint. But indeed he had met this ugly trifle, as he met every thwartcircumstance of life, with a certain pleasure of pugnacity; andsuffered it not to check him, whether in the exercise of hisprofession or the pursuit of amusement.

I.

‘Birkenhead: April 18,1858.

‘Well, you should know, Mr. — having a contract tolay down a submarine telegraph from Sardinia to Africa failedthree times in the attempt.  The distance from land to landis about 140 miles.  On the first occasion, after proceedingsome 70 miles, he had to cut the cable—the cause I forget;he tried again, same result; then picked up about 20 miles of thelost cable, spliced on a new piece, and very nearly got acrossthat time, but ran short of cable, and when but a few miles offGalita in very deep water, had to telegraph to London for morecable to be manufactured and sent out whilst he tried to stick tothe end: for five days, I think, he lay there sending andreceiving messages, but heavy weather coming on the cable partedand Mr. — went home in despair—at least I shouldthink so.

‘He then applied to those eminent engineers, R. S.Newall & Co., who made and laid down a cable for him lastautumn—Fleeming Jenkin (at the time in considerable mentalagitation) having the honour of fitting out the Elbaforthat purpose.’  [On this occasion, the Elbahasno cable to lay; but] ‘is going out in the beginning of Mayto endeavour to fish up the cables Mr. — lost.  Thereare two ends at or near the shore: the third will probably not befound within 20 miles from land.  One of these ends will bepassed over a very big pulley or sheave at the bows, passed sixtimes round a big barrel or drum; which will be turned round by asteam engine on deck, and thus wind up the cable, while theElbaslowly steams ahead.  The cable is not woundround and round the drum as your silk is wound on its reel, buton the contrary never goes round more than six times, going offat one side as it comes on at the other, and going down into thehold of the Elbato be coiled along in a big coil orskein.

‘I went down to Gateshead to discuss with Mr. Newall theform which this tolerably simple idea should take, and have beenbusy since I came here drawing, ordering, and putting up themachinery—uninterfered with, thank goodness, by anyone.  I own I like responsibility; it flatters one and then,your father might say, I have more to gain than to lose. Moreover I do like this bloodless, painless combat with wood andiron, forcing the stubborn rascals to do my will, licking theclumsy cubs into an active shape, seeing the child ofto-day’s thought working to-morrow in full vigour at hisappointed task.

‘May 12.

‘By dint of bribing, bullying, cajoling, and going dayby day to see the state of things ordered, all my work is verynearly ready now; but those who have neglected these precautionsare of course disappointed.  Five hundred fathoms of chain[were] ordered by—some three weeks since, to be ready bythe 10th without fail; he sends for it to-day—150 fathomsall they can let us have by the 15th—and how the rest is tobe got, who knows?  He ordered a boat a month since andyesterday we could see nothing of her but the keel and about twoplanks.  I could multiply instances without end.  Atfirst one goes nearly mad with vexation at these things; but onefinds so soon that they are the rule, that then it becomesnecessary to feign a rage one does not feel.  I look upon itas the natural order of things, that if I order a thing, it willnot be done—if by accident it gets done, it will certainlybe done wrong: the only remedy being to watch the performance atevery stage.

‘To-day was a grand field-day.  I had steam up andtried the engine against pressure or resistance.  One partof the machinery is driven by a belt or strap of leather.  Ialways had my doubts this might slip; and so it did,wildly.  I had made provision for doubling it, putting ontwo belts instead of one.  No use—off they went,slipping round and off the pulleys instead of driving themachinery.  Tighten them—no use.  More strengththere—down with the lever—smash something, tear thebelts, but get them tight—now then, stand clear, on withthe steam;—and the belts slip away as if nothing heldthem.  Men begin to look queer; the circle of quidnuncs makesage remarks.  Once more—no use.  I begin to knowI ought to feel sheepish and beat, but somehow I feel cockyinstead.  I laugh and say, “Well, I am bound to breaksomething down”—and suddenly see.  “Oho,there’s the place; get weight on there, and the beltwon’t slip.”  With much labour, on go the beltsagain.  “Now then, a spar thro’ there and sixmen’s weight on; mind you’re not carriedaway.”—“Ay, ay, sir.”  But evidentlyno one believes in the plan.  “Hurrah, round shegoes—stick to your spar.  All right, shut offsteam.”  And the difficulty is vanquished.

‘This or such as this (not always quite so bad) occurshour after hour, while five hundred tons of coal are rattlingdown into the holds and bunkers, riveters are making theirinfernal row all round, and riggers bend the sails and fit therigging:—a sort of Pandemonium, it appeared to young Mrs.Newall, who was here on Monday and half-choked with guano; but itsuits the likes o’ me.

‘S. S. Elba, RiverMersey: May 17.

‘We are delayed in the river by some of the ship’spapers not being ready.  Such a scene at the dockgates.  Not a sailor will join till the last moment; andthen, just as the ship forges ahead through the narrow pass, bedsand baggage fly on board, the men half tipsy clutch at therigging, the captain swears, the women scream and sob, the crowdcheer and laugh, while one or two pretty little girls stand stilland cry outright, regardless of all eyes.

‘These two days of comparative peace have quite set meon my legs again.  I was getting worn and weary with anxietyand work.  As usual I have been delighted with myshipwrights.  I gave them some beer on Saturday, making ashort oration.  To-day when they went ashore and I came onboard, they gave three cheers, whether for me or the ship Ihardly know, but I had just bid them good-bye, and the ship wasout of hail; but I was startled and hardly liked to claim thecompliment by acknowledging it.

‘S. S. Elba: May25.

‘My first intentions of a long journal have been fairlyfrustrated by sea-sickness.  On Tuesday last about noon westarted from the Mersey in very dirty weather, and were hardlyout of the river when we met a gale from the south-west and aheavy sea, both right in our teeth; and the poor Elbahada sad shaking.  Had I not been very sea-sick, the sightwould have been exciting enough, as I sat wrapped in my oilskinson the bridge; [but] in spite of all my efforts to talk, to eat,and to grin, I soon collapsed into imbecility; and I was heartilythankful towards evening to find myself in bed.

‘Next morning, I fancied it grew quieter and, as Ilistened, heard, “Let go the anchor,” whereon Iconcluded we had run into Holyhead Harbour, as was indeed thecase.  All that day we lay in Holyhead, but I could neitherread nor write nor draw.  The captain of another steamerwhich had put in came on board, and we all went for a walk on thehill; and in the evening there was an exchange of presents. We gave some tobacco I think, and received a cat, two pounds offresh butter, a Cumberland ham, Westward Ho! andThackeray’s English Humourists.  I wasastonished at receiving two such fair books from the captain of alittle coasting screw.  Our captain said he [the captain ofthe screw] had plenty of money, five or six hundred a year atleast.—“What in the world makes him go rolling aboutin such a craft, then?”—“Why, I fancyhe’s reckless; he’s desperate in love with that girlI mentioned, and she won’t look at him.”  Ourhonest, fat, old captain says this very grimly in his thick,broad voice.

‘My head won’t stand much writing yet, so I willrun up and take a look at the blue night sky off the coast ofPortugal.

‘May 26.

‘A nice lad of some two and twenty, A— by name,goes out in a nondescript capacity as part purser, part telegraphclerk, part generally useful person.  A— was a greatcomfort during the miseries [of the gale]; for when with a deadhead wind and a heavy sea, plates, books, papers, stomachs werebeing rolled about in sad confusion, we generally managed to lieon our backs, and grin, and try discordant staves of theFlowers of the Forestand the Low-backed Car. We could sing and laugh, when we could do nothing else; thoughA— was ready to swear after each fit was past, that thatwas the first time he had felt anything, and at this moment woulddeclare in broad Scotch that he’d never been sick at all,qualifying the oath with “except for a minute now andthen.”  He brought a cornet-à-piston topractice on, having had three weeks’ instructions on thatmelodious instrument; and if you could hear the horrid soundsthat come! especially at heavy rolls.  When I hint he is notimproving, there comes a confession: “I don’t feelquite right yet, you see!”  But he blows awaymanfully, and in self-defence I try to roar the tune louder.

‘11:30 p.m.

‘Long past Cape St. Vincent now.  We went withinabout 400 yards of the cliffs and light-house in a calmmoonlight, with porpoises springing from the sea, the mencrooning long ballads as they lay idle on the forecastle and thesails flapping uncertain on the yards.  As we passed, therecame a sudden breeze from land, hot and heavy scented; and now asI write its warm rich flavour contrasts strongly with the saltair we have been breathing.

‘I paced the deck with H—, the second mate, and inthe quiet night drew a confession that he was engaged to bemarried, and gave him a world of good advice.  He is a verynice, active, little fellow, with a broad Scotch tongue and“dirty, little rascal” appearance.  He had a saddisappointment at starting.  Having been second mate on thelast voyage, when the first mate was discharged, he took chargeof the Elbaall the time she was in port, and of courselooked forward to being chief mate this trip.  Liddellpromised him the post.  He had not authority to do this; andwhen Newall heard of it, he appointed another man.  Fancypoor H— having told all the men and most of all, hissweetheart.  But more remains behind; for when it came tosigning articles, it turned out that O—, the new firstmate, had not a certificate which allowed him to have a secondmate.  Then came rather an affecting scene.  ForH— proposed to sign as chief (he having the necessaryhigher certificate) but to act as second for the lowerwages.  At first O— would not give in, but offered togo as second.  But our brave little H— said, no:“The owners wished Mr. O— to be chief mate, and chiefmate he should be.”  So he carried the day, signed aschief and acts as second.  Shakespeare and Byron are hisfavourite books.  I walked into Byron a little, but can wellunderstand his stirring up a rough, young sailor’sromance.  I lent him Westward Hofrom the cabin; butto my astonishment he did not care much for it; he said it smeltof the shilling railway library; perhaps I had praised it toohighly.  Scott is his standard for novels.  I am veryhappy to find good taste by no means confined to gentlemen,H— having no pretensions to that title.  He is a manafter my own heart.

‘Then I came down to the cabin and heard youngA—’s schemes for the future.  His highestpicture is a commission in the Prince of Vizianagram’sirregular horse.  His eldest brother is tutor to hisHighness’s children, and grand vizier, and magistrate, andon his Highness’s household staff, and seems to be one ofthose Scotch adventurers one meets with and hears of in queerberths—raising cavalry, building palaces, and using somepetty Eastern king’s long purse with their long Scotchheads.

‘Off Bona; June 4.

‘I read your letter carefully, leaning back in a Malteseboat to present the smallest surface of my body to a grillingsun, and sailing from the Elbato Cape Hamrah about threemiles distant.  How we fried and sighed!  At last, wereached land under Fort Genova, and I was carried ashorepick-a-back, and plucked the first flower I saw for Annie. It was a strange scene, far more novel than I had imagined: thehigh, steep banks covered with rich, spicy vegetation of which Ihardly knew one plant.  The dwarf palm with fan-like leaves,growing about two feet high, formed the staple of theverdure.  As we brushed through them, the gummy leaves of acistus stuck to the clothes; and with its small white flower andyellow heart, stood for our English dog-rose.  In place ofheather, we had myrtle and lentisque with leaves somewhatsimilar.  That large bulb with long flat leaves?  Donot touch it if your hands are cut; the Arabs use it as blistersfor their horses.  Is that the same sort?  No, takethat one up; it is the bulb of a dwarf palm, each layer of theonion peels off, brown and netted, like the outside of acocoa-nut.  It is a clever plant that; from the leaves weget a vegetable horsehair;—and eat the bottom of the centrespike.  All the leaves you pull have the same aromaticscent.  But here a little patch of cleared ground shows oldfriends, who seem to cling by abused civilisation:—fine,hardy thistles, one of them bright yellow, though;—honest,Scotch-looking, large daisies or gowans;—potatoes here andthere, looking but sickly; and dark sturdy fig-trees looking cooland at their ease in the burning sun.

‘Here we are at Fort Genova, crowning the little point,a small old building, due to my old Genoese acquaintance whofought and traded bravely once upon a time.  A broken cannonof theirs forms the threshold; and through a dark, low arch, weenter upon broad terraces sloping to the centre, from which rainwater may collect and run into that well.  Large-breechedFrench troopers lounge about and are most civil; and the wholeparty sit down to breakfast in a little white-washed room, fromthe door of which the long, mountain coastline and the sparklingsea show of an impossible blue through the openings of awhite-washed rampart.  I try a sea-egg, one of those pricklyfellows—sea-urchins, they are called sometimes; the shellis of a lovely purple, and when opened, there are rays of yellowadhering to the inside; these I eat, but they are very fishy.

‘We are silent and shy of one another, and soon go outto watch while turbaned, blue-breeched, barelegged Arabs digholes for the land telegraph posts on the following principle:one man takes a pick and bangs lazily at the hard earth; when alittle is loosened, his mate with a small spade lifts it on oneside; and da capo.  They have regular features andlook quite in place among the palms.  Our English workmenscrew the earthenware insulators on the posts, strain the wire,and order Arabs about by the generic term of Johnny.  I findW— has nothing for me to do; and that in fact no one hasanything to do.  Some instruments for testing have stuck atLyons, some at Cagliari; and nothing can be done—or at anyrate, is done.  I wander about, thinking of you and staringat big, green grasshoppers—locusts, some people callthem—and smelling the rich brushwood.  There wasnothing for a pencil to sketch, and I soon got tired of thiswork, though I have paid willingly much money for far lessstrange and lovely sights.

‘Off Cape Spartivento: June8.

‘At two this morning, we left Cagliari; at five castanchor here.  I got up and began preparing for the finaltrial; and shortly afterwards everyone else of note on board wentashore to make experiments on the state of the cable, leaving mewith the prospect of beginning to lift at 12 o’clock. I was not ready by that time; but the experiments were notconcluded and moreover the cable was found to be imbedded somefour or five feet in sand, so that the boat could not bring offthe end.  At three, Messrs. Liddell, &c., came on boardin good spirits, having found two wires good or in such a stateas permitted messages to be transmitted freely.  The boatnow went to grapple for the cable some way from shore while theElbatowed a small lateen craft which was to take back theconsul to Cagliari some distance on its way.  On our returnwe found the boat had been unsuccessful; she was allowed to dropastern, while we grappled for the cable in the Elba[without more success].  The coast is a low mountain rangecovered with brushwood or heather—pools of water and asandy beach at their feet.  I have not yet been ashore, myhands having been very full all day.

‘June 9.

‘Grappling for the cable outside the bank had been votedtoo uncertain; [and the day was spent in] efforts to pull thecable off through the sand which has accumulated over it. By getting the cable tight on to the boat, and letting the swellpitch her about till it got slack, and then tightening again withblocks and pulleys, we managed to get out from the beach towardsthe ship at the rate of about twenty yards an hour.  Whenthey had got about 100 yards from shore, we ran round in theElbato try and help them, letting go the anchor in theshallowest possible water, this was about sunset.  Suddenlysomeone calls out he sees the cable at the bottom: there it wassure enough, apparently wriggling about as the wavesrippled.  Great excitement; still greater when we find ourown anchor is foul of it and has been the means of bringing it tolight.  We let go a grapnel, get the cable clear of theanchor on to the grapnel—the captain in an agony lest weshould drift ashore meanwhile—hand the grappling line intothe big boat, steam out far enough, and anchor again.  Alittle more work and one end of the cable is up over the bowsround my drum.  I go to my engine and we start haulingin.  All goes pretty well, but it is quite dark.  Lampsare got at last, and men arranged.  We go on for a quarterof a mile or so from shore and then stop at about half-past ninewith orders to be up at three.  Grand work at last!  Anumber of the Saturday Reviewhere; it reads so hot andfeverish, so tomblike and unhealthy, in the midst of dearNature’s hills and sea, with good wholesome work todo.  Pray that all go well to-morrow.

‘June 10.

‘Thank heaven for a most fortunate day.  At threeo’clock this morning in a damp, chill mist all hands wereroused to work.  With a small delay, for one or twoimprovements I had seen to be necessary last night, the enginestarted and since that time I do not think there has been half anhour’s stoppage.  A rope to splice, a block to change,a wheel to oil, an old rusted anchor to disengage from the cablewhich brought it up, these have been our only obstructions. Sixty, seventy, eighty, a hundred, a hundred and twentyrevolutions at last, my little engine tears away.  The evenblack rope comes straight out of the blue heaving water: passesslowly round an open-hearted, good-tempered looking pulley, fivefeet diameter; aft past a vicious nipper, to bring all up shouldanything go wrong; through a gentle guide; on to a huge bluffdrum, who wraps him round his body and says “Come youmust,” as plain as drum can speak: the chattering pauls say“I’ve got him, I’ve got him, he can’t getback:” whilst black cable, much slacker and easier in mindand body, is taken by a slim V-pulley and passed down into thehuge hold, where half a dozen men put him comfortably to bedafter his exertion in rising from his long bath.  In goodsooth, it is one of the strangest sights I know to see that blackfellow rising up so steadily in the midst of the blue sea. We are more than half way to the place where we expect the fault;and already the one wire, supposed previously to be quite badnear the African coast, can be spoken through.  I am veryglad I am here, for my machines are my own children and I look ontheir little failings with a parent’s eye and lead theminto the path of duty with gentleness and firmness.  I amnaturally in good spirits, but keep very quiet, for misfortunesmay arise at any instant; moreover to-morrow my paying-outapparatus will be wanted should all go well, and that will beanother nervous operation.  Fifteen miles are safely in; butno one knows better than I do that nothing is done till all isdone.

‘June 11.

‘9 a.m.—We have reachedthe splice supposed to be faulty, and no fault has beenfound.  The two men learned in electricity, L— andW—, squabble where the fault is.

‘Evening.—A weary day in a hot broilingsun; no air.  After the experiments, L— said the faultmight be ten miles ahead: by that time, we should be according toa chart in about a thousand fathoms of water—rather morethan a mile.  It was most difficult to decide whether to goon or not.  I made preparations for a heavy pull, set smallthings to rights and went to sleep.  About four in theafternoon, Mr. Liddell decided to proceed, and we are now (atseven) grinding it in at the rate of a mile and three-quartersper hour, which appears a grand speed to us.  If thepaying-out only works well!  I have just thought of a greatimprovement in it; I can’t apply it this time,however.—The sea is of an oily calm, and a perfect fleet ofbrigs and ships surrounds us, their sails hardly filling in thelazy breeze.  The sun sets behind the dim coast of the IsolaSan Pietro, the coast of Sardinia high and rugged becomes softerand softer in the distance, while to the westward still theisolated rock of Toro springs from the horizon.—It wouldamuse you to see how cool (in head) and jolly everybody is. A testy word now and then shows the wires are strained a little,but everyone laughs and makes his little jokes as if it were allin fun: yet we are all as much in earnest as the most earnest ofthe earnest bastard German school or demonstrative ofFrenchmen.  I enjoy it very much.

‘June 12.

‘5.30 a.m.—Out of sightof land: about thirty nautical miles in the hold; the wind risinga little; experiments being made for a fault, while the engineslowly revolves to keep us hanging at the same spot: depthsupposed about a mile.  The machinery has behavedadmirably.  Oh! that the paying-out were over!  The newmachinery there is but rough, meant for an experiment in shallowwater, and here we are in a mile of water.

‘6.30.—I have made my calculations and find thenew paying-out gear cannot possibly answer at this depth, someportion would give way.  Luckily, I have brought the oldthings with me and am getting them rigged up as fast as maybe.  Bad news from the cable.  Number four has given insome portion of the last ten miles: the fault in number three isstill at the bottom of the sea: number two is now the only goodwire and the hold is getting in such a mess, through keeping badbits out and cutting for splicing and testing, that there will begreat risk in paying out.  The cable is somewhat strained inits ascent from one mile below us; what it will be when we get totwo miles is a problem we may have to determine.

‘9 p.m.—A mostprovoking unsatisfactory day.  We have done nothing. The wind and sea have both risen.  Too little notice hasbeen given to the telegraphists who accompany this expedition;they had to leave all their instruments at Lyons in order toarrive at Bona in time; our tests are therefore of the roughest,and no one really knows where the faults are.  Mr. L—in the morning lost much time; then he told us, after we had beeninactive for about eight hours, that the fault in number threewas within six miles; and at six o’clock in the evening,when all was ready for a start to pick up these six miles, hecomes and says there must be a fault about thirty miles fromBona!  By this time it was too late to begin paying outto-day, and we must lie here moored in a thousand fathoms tilllight to-morrow morning.  The ship pitches a good deal, butthe wind is going down.

‘June 13, Sunday.

‘The wind has not gone down, however.  It now (at10.30) blows a pretty stiff gale, the sea has also risen; and theElba’sbows rise and fall about 9 feet.  Wemake twelve pitches to the minute, and the poor cable must feelvery sea-sick by this time.  We are quite unable to doanything, and continue riding at anchor in one thousand fathoms,the engines going constantly so as to keep the ship’s bowsup to the cable, which by this means hangs nearly vertical andsustains no strain but that caused by its own weight and thepitching of the vessel.  We were all up at four, but theweather entirely forbade work for to-day, so some went to bed andmost lay down, making up our leeway as we nautically term ourloss of sleep.  I must say Liddell is a fine fellow andkeeps his patience and temper wonderfully; and yet how he doesfret and fume about trifles at home!  This wind has blownnow for 36 hours, and yet we have telegrams from Bona to say thesea there is as calm as a mirror.  It makes one laugh toremember one is still tied to the shore.  Click, click,click, the pecker is at work: I wonder what Herr P— says toHerr L—,—tests, tests, tests, nothing more. This will be a very anxious day.

‘June 14.

‘Another day of fatal inaction.

‘June 15.

‘9.30.—The wind has gone down a deal; but even nowthere are doubts whether we shall start to-day.  When shallI get back to you?

‘9 p.m.—Four miles fromland.  Our run has been successful and eventless.  Nowthe work is nearly over I feel a little out of spirits—why,I should be puzzled to say—mere wantonness, or reactionperhaps after suspense.

‘June 16.

‘Up this morning at three, coupled my self-acting gearto the brake and had the satisfaction of seeing it pay out thelast four miles in very good style.  With one or two littleimprovements, I hope to make it a capital thing.  The endhas just gone ashore in two boats, three out of four wiresgood.  Thus ends our first expedition.  By some oddchance a Timesof June the 7th has found its way on boardthrough the agency of a wretched old peasant who watches the endof the line here.  A long account of breakages in theAtlantic trial trip.  To-night we grapple for the heavycable, eight tons to the mile.  I long to have a tug at him;he may puzzle me, and though misfortunes or rather difficultiesare a bore at the time, life when working with cables is tamewithout them.

‘2 p.m.—Hurrah, he ishooked, the big fellow, almost at the first cast.  He hangsunder our bows looking so huge and imposing that I could find itin my heart to be afraid of him.

‘June 17.

‘We went to a little bay called Chia, where afresh-water stream falls into the sea, and took in water. This is rather a long operation, so I went a walk up the valleywith Mr. Liddell.  The coast here consists of rockymountains 800 to 1,000 feet high covered with shrubs of abrilliant green.  On landing our first amusement waswatching the hundreds of large fish who lazily swam in shoalsabout the river; the big canes on the further side holdnumberless tortoises, we are told, but see none, for just nowthey prefer taking a siesta.  A little further on, and whatis this with large pink flowers in such abundance?—theoleander in full flower.  At first I fear to pluck them,thinking they must be cultivated and valuable; but soon the banksshow a long line of thick tall shrubs, one mass of glorious pinkand green.  Set these in a little valley, framed bymountains whose rocks gleam out blue and purple colours such aspre-Raphaelites only dare attempt, shining out hard andweird-like amongst the clumps of castor-oil plants, cistus, arborvitæ and many other evergreens, whose names, alas! I knownot; the cistus is brown now, the rest all deep or brilliantgreen.  Large herds of cattle browse on the baked deposit atthe foot of these large crags.  One or two half-savageherdsmen in sheepskin kilts, &c., ask for cigars; partridgeswhirr up on either side of us; pigeons coo and nightingales singamongst the blooming oleander.  We get six sheep and manyfowls, too, from the priest of the small village; and then runback to Spartivento and make preparations for the morning.

‘June 18.

‘The big cable is stubborn and will not behave like hissmaller brother.  The gear employed to take him off the drumis not strong enough; he gets slack on the drum and plays themischief.  Luckily for my own conscience, the gear I hadwanted was negatived by Mr. Newall.  Mr. Liddell does notexactly blame me, but he says we might have had a silver pulleycheaper than the cost of this delay.  He has telegraphed formore men to Cagliari, to try to pull the cable off the drum intothe hold, by hand.  I look as comfortable as I can, but feelas if people were blaming me.  I am trying my best to getsomething rigged which may help us; I wanted a little difficulty,and feel much better.—The short length we have picked upwas covered at places with beautiful sprays of coral, twisted andtwined with shells of those small, fairy animals we saw in theaquarium at home; poor little things, they died at once, withtheir little bells and delicate bright tints.

‘12 o’clock.—Hurrah, victory! for thepresent anyhow.  Whilst in our first dejection, I thought Isaw a place where a flat roller would remedy the wholemisfortune; but a flat roller at Cape Spartivento, hard, easilyunshipped, running freely!  There was a grooved pulley usedfor the paying-out machinery with a spindle wheel, which mightsuit me.  I filled him up with tarry spunyarn, nailed sheetcopper round him, bent some parts in the fire; and we arepaying-in without more trouble now.  You would think someone would praise me; no, no more praise than blame before;perhaps now they think better of me, though.

‘10 p.m.—We have goneon very comfortably for nearly six miles.  An hour and ahalf was spent washing down; for along with many coloured polypi,from corals, shells and insects, the big cable brings up much mudand rust, and makes a fishy smell by no means pleasant: thebottom seems to teem with life.—But now we are startled bya most unpleasant, grinding noise; which appeared at first tocome from the large low pulley, but when the engines stopped, thenoise continued; and we now imagine it is something slipping downthe cable, and the pulley but acts as sounding-board to the bigfiddle.  Whether it is only an anchor or one of the twoother cables, we know not.  We hope it is not the cable justlaid down.

‘June 19.

‘10 a.m.—All our alarmgroundless, it would appear: the odd noise ceased after a time,and there was no mark sufficiently strong on the large cable towarrant the suspicion that we had cut another line through. I stopped up on the look-out till three in the morning, whichmade 23 hours between sleep and sleep.  One goes dozingabout, though, most of the day, for it is only when somethinggoes wrong that one has to look alive.  Hour after hour, Istand on the forecastle-head, picking off little specimens ofpolypi and coral, or lie on the saloon deck reading back numbersof the Times—till something hitches, and then all ishurly-burly once more.  There are awnings all along theship, and a most ancient, fish-like smell beneath.

‘1 o’clock.—Suddenly a great strainin only 95 fathoms of water—belts surging and generaldismay; grapnels being thrown out in the hope of finding whatholds the cable.—Should it prove the young cable!  Weare apparently crossing its path—not the working one, butthe lost child; Mr. Liddell wouldstart the big one firstthough it was laid first: he wanted to see the job done, andmeant to leave us to the small one unaided by his presence.

‘3.30.—Grapnel caught something, lost it again; itleft its marks on the prongs.  Started lifting gear again;and after hauling in some 50 fathoms—grunt, grunt,grunt—we hear the other cable slipping down our big one,playing the selfsame tune we heard last night—louder,however.

‘10 p.m.—The pull onthe deck engines became harder and harder.  I got steam upin a boiler on deck, and another little engine starts hauling atthe grapnel.  I wonder if there ever was such a scene ofconfusion: Mr. Liddell and W— and the captain all givingorders contradictory, &c., on the forecastle; D—, theforeman of our men, the mates, &c., following the example ofour superiors; the ship’s engine and boilers below, a50-horse engine on deck, a boiler 14 feet long on deck beside it,a little steam winch tearing round; a dozen Italians (20 havecome to relieve our hands, the men we telegraphed for toCagliari) hauling at the rope; wiremen, sailors, in the crevicesleft by ropes and machinery; everything that could swearswearing—I found myself swearing like a trooper atlast.  We got the unknown difficulty within ten fathoms ofthe surface; but then the forecastle got frightened that, if itwas the small cable which we had got hold of, we should certainlybreak it by continuing the tremendous and increasingstrain.  So at last Mr. Liddell decided to stop; cut the bigcable, buoying its end; go back to our pleasant watering-place atChia, take more water and start lifting the small cable. The end of the large one has even now regained its sandy bed; andthree buoys—one to grapnel foul of the supposed smallcable, two to the big cable—are dipping about on thesurface.  One more—a flag-buoy—will soon follow,and then straight for shore.

‘June 20.

‘It is an ill-wind, &c.  I have an unexpectedopportunity of forwarding this engineering letter; for the craftwhich brought out our Italian sailors must return to Cagliarito-night, as the little cable will take us nearly to Galita, andthe Italian skipper could hardly find his way from thence. To-day—Sunday—not much rest.  Mr. Liddell is atSpartivento telegraphing.  We are at Chia, and shall shortlygo to help our boat’s crew in getting the small cable onboard.  We dropped them some time since in order that theymight dig it out of the sand as far as possible.

‘June 21.

‘Yesterday—Sunday as it was—all hands werekept at work all day, coaling, watering, and making a futileattempt to pull the cable from the shore on board through thesand.  This attempt was rather silly after the experience wehad gained at Cape Spartivento.  This morning we grappled,hooked the cable at once, and have made an excellent start. Though I have called this the small cable, it is much larger thanthe Bona one.—Here comes a break down and a bad one.

‘June 22.

‘We got over it, however; but it is a warning to me thatmy future difficulties will arise from parts wearing out. Yesterday the cable was often a lovely sight, coming out of thewater one large incrustation of delicate, net-like corals andlong, white curling shells.  No portion of the dirty blackwires was visible; instead we had a garland of soft pink withlittle scarlet sprays and white enamel intermixed.  All wasfragile, however, and could hardly be secured in safety; andinexorable iron crushed the tender leaves to atoms.—Thismorning at the end of my watch, about 4 o’clock, we came tothe buoys, proving our anticipations right concerning thecrossing of the cables.  I went to bed for four hours, andon getting up, found a sad mess.  A tangle of the six-wirecable hung to the grapnel which had been left buoyed, and thesmall cable had parted and is lost for the present.  Ourhauling of the other day must have done the mischief.

‘June 23.

‘We contrived to get the two ends of the large cable andto pick the short end up.  The long end, leading us seaward,was next put round the drum and a mile of it picked up; but then,fearing another tangle, the end was cut and buoyed, and wereturned to grapple for the three-wire cable.  All this isvery tiresome for me.  The buoying and dredging are managedentirely by W—, who has had much experience in this sort ofthing; so I have not enough to do and get very homesick.  Atnoon the wind freshened and the sea rose so high that we had torun for land and are once more this evening anchored at Chia.

‘June 24.

‘The whole day spent in dredging without success. This operation consists in allowing the ship to drift slowlyacross the line where you expect the cable to be, while at theend of a long rope, fast either to the bow or stern, a grapneldrags along the ground.  This grapnel is a small anchor,made like four pot-hooks tied back to back.  When the ropegets taut, the ship is stopped and the grapnel hauled up to thesurface in the hopes of finding the cable on its prongs.—Iam much discontented with myself for idly lounging about andreading Westward Ho! for the second time, instead oftaking to electricity or picking up nautical information.  Iam uncommonly idle.  The sea is not quite so rough, but theweather is squally and the rain comes in frequent gusts.

‘June 25.

‘To-day about 1 o’clock we hooked the three-wirecable, buoyed the long sea end, and picked up the short [orshore] end.  Now it is dark and we must wait for morningbefore lifting the buoy we lowered to-day and proceedingseawards.—The depth of water here is about 600 feet, theheight of a respectable English hill; our fishing line was abouta quarter of a mile long.  It blows pretty fresh, and thereis a great deal of sea.

‘26th.

‘This morning it came on to blow so heavily that it wasimpossible to take up our buoy.  The Elbarecommencedrolling in true Baltic style and towards noon we ran forland.

‘27th, Sunday.

‘This morning was a beautiful calm.  We reached thebuoys at about 4.30 and commenced picking up at 6.30. Shortly a new cause of anxiety arose.  Kinks came up ingreat quantities, about thirty in the hour.  To have a trueconception of a kink, you must see one: it is a loop drawn tight,all the wires get twisted and the gutta-percha inside pushedout.  These much diminish the value of the cable, as theymust all be cut out, the gutta-percha made good, and the cablespliced.  They arise from the cable having been badly laiddown so that it forms folds and tails at the bottom of thesea.  These kinks have another disadvantage: they weaken thecable very much.—At about six o’clock [p.m.] we had some twelve miles lifted, whenI went to the bows; the kinks were exceedingly tight and weregiving way in a most alarming manner.  I got a cage riggedup to prevent the end (if it broke) from hurting anyone, and satdown on the bowsprit, thinking I should describe kinks toAnnie:—suddenly I saw a great many coils and kinksaltogether at the surface.  I jumped to the gutta-perchapipe, by blowing through which the signal is given to stop theengine.  I blow, but the engine does not stop;again—no answer: the coils and kinks jam in the bows and Irush aft shouting stop.  Too late: the cable had parted andmust lie in peace at the bottom.  Someone had pulled thegutta-percha tube across a bare part of the steam pipe and meltedit.  It had been used hundreds of times in the last few daysand gave no symptoms of failing.  I believe the cable musthave gone at any rate; however, since it went in my watch andsince I might have secured the tubing more strongly, I feelrather sad. . . .

‘June 28.

‘Since I could not go to Annie I took down Shakespeare,and by the time I had finished Antony and Cleopatra, readthe second half of Troilusand got some way inCoriolanus, I felt it was childish to regret the accidenthad happened in my watch, and moreover I felt myself not much toblame in the tubing matter—it had been torn down, it hadnot fallen down; so I went to bed, and slept without fretting,and woke this morning in the same good mood—for which thankyou and our friend Shakespeare.  I am happy to say Mr.Liddell said the loss of the cable did not much matter; thoughthis would have been no consolation had I felt myself toblame.—This morning we have grappled for and found anotherlength of small cable which Mr. — dropped in 100 fathoms ofwater.  If this also gets full of kinks, we shall probablyhave to cut it after 10 miles or so, or more probably still itwill part of its own free will or weight.

‘10 p.m.—This secondlength of three-wire cable soon got into the same condition asits fellow—i.e. came up twenty kinks an hour—andafter seven miles were in, parted on the pulley over the bows atone of the said kinks; during my watch again, but this time noearthly power could have saved it.  I had taken all mannerof precautions to prevent the end doing any damage when the smashcame, for come I knew it must.  We now return to thesix-wire cable.  As I sat watching the cable to-night, largephosphorescent globes kept rolling from it and fading in theblack water.

‘29th.

‘To-day we returned to the buoy we had left at the endof the six-wire cable, and after much trouble from a series oftangles, got a fair start at noon.  You will easily believea tangle of iron rope inch and a half diameter is not easy tounravel, especially with a ton or so hanging to the ends. It is now eight o’clock and we have about six and a halfmiles safe: it becomes very exciting, however, for the kinks arecoming fast and furious.

‘July 2.

‘Twenty-eight miles safe in the hold.  The ship isnow so deep, that the men are to be turned out of their aft hold,and the remainder coiled there; so the good Elba’snose need not burrow too far into the waves.  There can onlybe about 10 or 12 miles more, but these weigh 80 or 100 tons.

‘July 5.

‘Our first mate was much hurt in securing a buoy on theevening of the 2nd.  As interpreter [with the Italians] I amuseful in all these cases; but for no fortune would I be a doctorto witness these scenes continually.  Pain is a terriblething.—Our work is done: the whole of the six-wire cablehas been recovered; only a small part of the three-wire, but thatwire was bad and, owing to its twisted state, the valuesmall.  We may therefore be said to have been verysuccessful.’

II.

I have given this cruise nearly in full.  From the notes,unhappily imperfect, of two others, I will take only specimens;for in all there are features of similarity and it is possible tohave too much even of submarine telegraphy and the romance ofengineering.  And first from the cruise of 1859 in the GreekIslands and to Alexandria, take a few traits, incidents andpictures.

‘May 10, 1859.

‘We had a fair wind and we did very well, seeing alittle bit of Cerig or Cythera, and lots of turtle-doveswandering about over the sea and perching, tired and timid, inthe rigging of our little craft.  Then Falconera, Antimilo,and Milo, topped with huge white clouds, barren, deserted, risingbold and mysterious from the blue, chafing sea;—Argentiera,Siphano, Scapho, Paros, Antiparos, and late at night Syraitself.  Adam Bedein one hand, a sketch-book in theother, lying on rugs under an awning, I enjoyed a very pleasantday.

‘May 14.

‘Syra is semi-eastern.  The pavement, hugeshapeless blocks sloping to a central gutter; from this baretwo-storied houses, sometimes plaster many coloured, sometimesrough-hewn marble, rise, dirty and ill-finished to straight,plain, flat roofs; shops guiltless of windows, with signs inGreek letters; dogs, Greeks in blue, baggy, Zouave breeches and afez, a few narghilehs and a sprinkling of the ordinarycontinental shopboys.—In the evening I tried one more walkin Syra with A—, but in vain endeavoured to amuse myself orto spend money; the first effort resulting in singingDoodahto a passing Greek or two, the second in spending,no, in making A— spend, threepence on coffee for three.

‘May 16.

‘On coming on deck, I found we were at anchor in Caneabay, and saw one of the most lovely sights man couldwitness.  Far on either hand stretch bold mountain capes,Spada and Maleka, tender in colour, bold in outline; rich sunnylevels lie beneath them, framed by the azure sea.  Right infront, a dark brown fortress girdles white mosques andminarets.  Rich and green, our mountain capes here join toform a setting for the town, in whose dark walls—stilldarker—open a dozen high-arched caves in which the hugeVenetian galleys used to lie in wait.  High above all,higher and higher yet, up into the firmament, range after rangeof blue and snow-capped mountains.  I was bewildered andamazed, having heard nothing of this great beauty.  The townwhen entered is quite eastern.  The streets are formed ofopen stalls under the first story, in which squat tailors, cooks,sherbet vendors and the like, busy at their work or smokingnarghilehs.  Cloths stretched from house to house keep outthe sun.  Mules rattle through the crowd; curs yelp betweenyour legs; negroes are as hideous and bright clothed as usual;grave Turks with long chibouques continue to march solemnlywithout breaking them; a little Arab in one dirty rag pokes funat two splendid little Turks with brilliant fezzes; wirymountaineers in dirty, full, white kilts, shouldering long gunsand one hand on their pistols, stalk untamed past a dozen Turkishsoldiers, who look sheepish and brutal in worn cloth jacket andcotton trousers.  A headless, wingless lion of St. Markstill stands upon a gate, and has left the mark of his strongclutch.  Of ancient times when Crete was Crete, not a traceremains; save perhaps in the full, well-cut nostril and firmtread of that mountaineer, and I suspect that even his sires wereAlbanians, mere outer barbarians.

‘May 17.

I spent the day at the little station where the cable waslanded, which has apparently been first a Venetian monastery andthen a Turkish mosque.  At any rate the big dome is verycool, and the little ones hold [our electric] batteriescapitally.  A handsome young Bashibazouk guards it, and astill handsomer mountaineer is the servant; so I draw them andthe monastery and the hill, till I’m black in the face withheat and come on board to hear the Canea cable is still bad.

‘May 23.

‘We arrived in the morning at the east end of Candia,and had a glorious scramble over the mountains which seem builtof adamant.  Time has worn away the softer portions of therock, only leaving sharp jagged edges of steel.  Sea eaglessoaring above our heads; old tanks, ruins, and desolation at ourfeet.  The ancient Arsinoe stood here; a few blocks ofmarble with the cross attest the presence of Venetian Christians;but now—the desolation of desolations.  Mr. Liddelland I separated from the rest, and when we had found a sure bayfor the cable, had a tremendous lively scramble back to theboat.  These are the bits of our life which I enjoy, whichhave some poetry, some grandeur in them.

‘May 29 (?).

‘Yesterday we ran round to the new harbour [ofAlexandria], landed the shore end of the cable close toCleopatra’s bath, and made a very satisfactory start aboutone in the afternoon.  We had scarcely gone 200 yards when Inoticed that the cable ceased to run out, and I wondered why theship had stopped.  People ran aft to tell me not to put sucha strain on the cable; I answered indignantly that there was nostrain; and suddenly it broke on every one in the ship at oncethat we were aground.  Here was a nice mess.  A violentscirocco blew from the land; making one’s skin feel as ifit belonged to some one else and didn’t fit, making thehorizon dim and yellow with fine sand, oppressing every sense andraising the thermometer 20 degrees in an hour, but making calmwater round us which enabled the ship to lie for the time insafety.  The wind might change at any moment, since thescirocco was only accidental; and at the first wave from seawardbump would go the poor ship, and there would [might] be an end ofour voyage.  The captain, without waiting to sound, began tomake an effort to put the ship over what was supposed to be asandbank; but by the time soundings were made, this was found tobe impossible, and he had only been jamming the poor Elbafaster on a rock.  Now every effort was made to get herastern, an anchor taken out, a rope brought to a winch I had forthe cable, and the engines backed; but all in vain.  A smallTurkish Government steamer, which is to be our consort, came toour assistance, but of course very slowly, and much time wasoccupied before we could get a hawser to her.  I could do nogood after having made a chart of the soundings round the ship,and went at last on to the bridge to sketch the scene.  Butat that moment the strain from the winch and a jerk from theTurkish steamer got off the boat, after we had been some hoursaground.  The carpenter reported that she had made only twoinches of water in one compartment; the cable was still uninjuredastern, and our spirits rose; when, will you believe it? aftergoing a short distance astern, the pilot ran us once more fastaground on what seemed to me nearly the same spot.  The verysame scene was gone through as on the first occasion, and darkcame on whilst the wind shifted, and we were still aground. Dinner was served up, but poor Mr. Liddell could eat very little;and bump, bump, grind, grind, went the ship fifteen or sixteentimes as we sat at dinner.  The slight sea, however, didenable us to bump off.  This morning we appear not to havesuffered in any way; but a sea is rolling in, which a few hoursago would have settled the poor old Elba.

‘June —.

‘The Alexandria cable has again failed; after paying outtwo-thirds of the distance successfully, an unlucky touch in deepwater snapped the line.  Luckily the accident occurred inMr. Liddell’s watch.  Though personally it may notreally concern me, the accident weighs like a personalmisfortune.  Still I am glad I was present: a failure isprobably more instructive than a success; and this experience mayenable us to avoid misfortune in still greater undertakings.

‘June —.

‘We left Syra the morning after our arrival on Saturdaythe 4th.  This we did (first) because we were in a hurry todo something and (second) because, coming from Alexandria, we hadfour days’ quarantine to perform.  We were allmustered along the side while the doctor counted us; the letterswere popped into a little tin box and taken away to be smoked;the guardians put on board to see that we held no communicationwith the shore—without them we should still have had fourmore days’ quarantine; and with twelve Greek sailorsbesides, we started merrily enough picking up the Canea cable. .. . To our utter dismay, the yarn covering began to come up quitedecayed, and the cable, which when laid should have borne half aton, was now in danger of snapping with a tenth part of thatstrain.  We went as slow as possible in fear of a break atevery instant.  My watch was from eight to twelve in themorning, and during that time we had barely secured three milesof cable.  Once it broke inside the ship, but I seized holdof it in time—the weight being hardly anything—andthe line for the nonce was saved.  Regular nooses were thenplanted inboard with men to draw them taut, should the cablebreak inboard.  A—, who should have relieved me, wasunwell, so I had to continue my look-out; and about oneo’clock the line again parted, but was again caught in thelast noose, with about four inches to spare.  Five minutesafterwards it again parted and was yet once more caught. Mr. Liddell (whom I had called) could stand this no longer; so webuoyed the line and ran into a bay in Siphano, waiting for calmweather, though I was by no means of opinion that the slight seaand wind had been the cause of our failures.—All next day(Monday) we lay off Siphano, amusing ourselves on shore withfowling pieces and navy revolvers.  I need not say we killednothing; and luckily we did not wound any of ourselves.  Aguardiano accompanied us, his functions being limited topreventing actual contact with the natives, for they might comeas near and talk as much as they pleased.  These isles ofGreece are sad, interesting places.  They are not reallybarren all over, but they are quite destitute of verdure; andtufts of thyme, wild mastic or mint, though they sound well, arenot nearly so pretty as grass.  Many little churches,glittering white, dot the islands; most of them, I believe,abandoned during the whole year with the exception of one daysacred to their patron saint.  The villages are mean, butthe inhabitants do not look wretched and the men are goodsailors.  There is something in this Greek race yet; theywill become a powerful Levantine nation in the course oftime.—What a lovely moonlight evening that was! the barrenisland cutting the clear sky with fantastic outline, marblecliffs on either hand fairly gleaming over the calm sea. Next day, the wind still continuing, I proposed a boatingexcursion and decoyed A—, L—, and S— intoaccompanying me.  We took the little gig, and sailed awaymerrily enough round a point to a beautiful white bay, flankedwith two glistening little churches, fronted by beautiful distantislands; when suddenly, to my horror, I discovered theElbasteaming full speed out from the island.  Ofcourse we steered after her; but the wind that instant ceased,and we were left in a dead calm.  There was nothing for itbut to unship the mast, get out the oars and pull.  The shipwas nearly certain to stop at the buoy; and I wanted to learn howto take an oar, so here was a chance with a vengeance! L— steered, and we three pulled—a broiling pull itwas about half way across to Palikandro—still we did comein, pulling an uncommon good stroke, and I had learned to hang onmy oar.  L— had pressed me to let him take my place;but though I was very tired at the end of the first quarter of anhour, and then every successive half hour, I would not givein.  I nearly paid dear for my obstinacy, however; for inthe evening I had alternate fits of shivering andburning.’

III.

The next extracts, and I am sorry to say the last, are fromFleeming’s letters of 1860, when he was back at Bona andSpartivento and for the first time at the head of anexpedition.  Unhappily these letters are not only the last,but the series is quite imperfect; and this is the more to belamented as he had now begun to use a pen more skilfully, and inthe following notes there is at times a touch of real distinctionin the manner.

‘Cagliari: October 5,1860.

‘All Tuesday I spent examining what was on board theElba, and trying to start the repairs of the Spartiventoland line, which has been entirely neglected, and no wonder, forno one has been paid for three months, no, not even the poorguards who have to keep themselves, their horses and theirfamilies, on their pay.  Wednesday morning, I started forSpartivento and got there in time to try a good manyexperiments.  Spartivento looks more wild and savage thanever, but is not without a strange deadly beauty: the hillscovered with bushes of a metallic green with coppery patches ofsoil in between; the valleys filled with dry salt mud and alittle stagnant water; where that very morning the deer haddrunk, where herons, curlews, and other fowl abound, and where,alas! malaria is breeding with this rain. (No fear for those whodo not sleep on shore.)  A little iron hut had been placedthere since 1858; but the windows had been carried off, the doorbroken down, the roof pierced all over.  In it, we sat tomake experiments; and how it recalled Birkenhead!  There wasThomson, there was my testing board, the strings of gutta-percha;Harry P— even, battering with the batteries; but where wasmy darling Annie?  Whilst I sat feet in sand, with Harryalone inside the hut—mats, coats, and wood to darken thewindow—the others visited the murderous old friar, who isof the order of Scaloppi, and for whom I brought a letter fromhis superior, ordering him to pay us attention; but he was awayfrom home, gone to Cagliari in a boat with the produce of thefarm belonging to his convent.  Then they visited the towerof Chia, but could not get in because the door is thirty feet offthe ground; so they came back and pitched a magnificent tentwhich I brought from the Bahianaa long time ago—andwhere they will live (if I mistake not) in preference to thefriar’s, or the owl- and bat-haunted tower.  MM.T— and S— will be left there: T—, anintelligent, hard-working Frenchman, with whom I am well pleased;he can speak English and Italian well, and has been two years atGenoa.  S— is a French German with a face like anancient Gaul, who has been sergeant-major in the French line andwho is, I see, a great, big, muscularfainéant.  We left the tent pitched and somestores in charge of a guide, and ran back to Cagliari.

‘Certainly, being at the head of things is pleasanterthan being subordinate.  We all agree very well; and I havemade the testing office into a kind of private room where I cancome and write to you undisturbed, surrounded by my dear, brightbrass things which all of them remind me of our nights atBirkenhead.  Then I can work here, too, and try lots ofexperiments; you know how I like that! and now and then Iread—Shakespeare principally.  Thank you so much formaking me bring him: I think I must get a pocket edition ofHamlet and Henry the Fifth, so as never to be without them.

‘Cagliari: October 7.

‘[The town was full?] . . . of red-shirted EnglishGaribaldini.  A very fine looking set of fellows they are,too: the officers rather raffish, but with medals Crimean andIndian; the men a very sturdy set, with many lads of good birth Ishould say.  They still wait their consort the Emperor andwill, I fear, be too late to do anything.  I meant to havecalled on them, but they are all gone into barracks some way fromthe town, and I have been much too busy to go far.

‘The view from the ramparts was very strange andbeautiful.  Cagliari rises on a very steep rock, at themouth of a wide plain circled by large hills and three-quartersfilled with lagoons; it looks, therefore, like an old islandcitadel.  Large heaps of salt mark the border between thesea and the lagoons; thousands of flamingoes whiten the centre ofthe huge shallow marsh; hawks hover and scream among the treesunder the high mouldering battlements.—A little lower down,the band played.  Men and ladies bowed and pranced, thecostumes posed, church bells tinkled, processions processed, thesun set behind thick clouds capping the hills; I pondered on youand enjoyed it all.

‘Decidedly I prefer being master to being man: boats atall hours, stewards flying for marmalade, captain enquiring whenship is to sail, clerks to copy my writing, the boat to steerwhen we go out—I have run her nose on several times;decidedly, I begin to feel quite a little king.  Confoundthe cable, though!  I shall never be able to repair it.

‘Bona: October 14.

‘We left Cagliari at 4.30 on the 9th and soon got toSpartivento.  I repeated some of my experiments, but foundThomson, who was to have been my grand stand-by, would not workon that day in the wretched little hut.  Even if the windowsand door had been put in, the wind which was very high made thelamp flicker about and blew it out; so I sent on board and gotold sails, and fairly wrapped the hut up in them; and then wewere as snug as could be, and I left the hut in gloriouscondition with a nice little stove in it.  The tent whichshould have been forthcoming from the curé’s for theguards, had gone to Cagliari; but I found another, [a] green,Turkish tent, in the Elbaand soon had him up.  Thesquare tent left on the last occasion was standing all right andtight in spite of wind and rain.  We landed provisions, twobeds, plates, knives, forks, candles, cooking utensils, and wereready for a start at 6 p.m.; but thewind meanwhile had come on to blow at such a rate that I thoughtbetter of it, and we stopped.  T— and S— sleptashore, however, to see how they liked it, at least they tried tosleep, for S— the ancient sergeant-major had a toothache,and T— thought the tent was coming down every minute. Next morning they could only complain of sand and a leakycoffee-pot, so I leave them with a good conscience.  Thelittle encampment looked quite picturesque: the green round tent,the square white tent and the hut all wrapped up in sails, on asand hill, looking on the sea and masking those confoundedmarshes at the back.  One would have thought theCagliaritans were in a conspiracy to frighten the two poorfellows, who (I believe) will be safe enough if they do not gointo the marshes after nightfall.  S— brought a littledog to amuse them, such a jolly, ugly little cur without a tail,but full of fun; he will be better than quinine.

‘The wind drove a barque, which had anchored near us forshelter, out to sea.  We started, however, at 2 p.m., and had a quick passage but a veryrough one, getting to Bona by daylight [on the 11th].  Sucha place as this is for getting anything done!  The healthboat went away from us at 7.30 with W— on board; and weheard nothing of them till 9.30, when W— came back with twofat Frenchmen who are to look on on the part of theGovernment.  They are exactly alike: only one has four bandsand the other three round his cap, and so I know them.  ThenI sent a boat round to Fort Gênois [Fort Genova of 1858],where the cable is landed, with all sorts of things anddirections, whilst I went ashore to see about coals and a room atthe fort.  We hunted people in the little square in theirshops and offices, but only found them in cafés.  Oneamiable gentleman wasn’t up at 9.30, was out at 10, and assoon as he came back the servant said he would go to bed and notget up till 3: he came, however, to find us at a café, andsaid that, on the contrary, two days in the week he did not doso!  Then my two fat friends must have their breakfast aftertheir “something” at a café; and all the shopsshut from 10 to 2; and the post does not open till 12; and therewas a road to Fort Gênois, only a bridge had been carriedaway, &c.  At last I got off, and we rowed round to FortGênois, where my men had put up a capital gipsy tent withsails, and there was my big board and Thomson’s number 5 ingreat glory.  I soon came to the conclusion there was abreak.  Two of my faithful Cagliaritans slept all night inthe little tent, to guard it and my precious instruments; and thesea, which was rather rough, silenced my Frenchmen.

‘Next day I went on with my experiments, whilst a boatgrappled for the cable a little way from shore and buoyed itwhere the Elbacould get hold.  I brought all back tothe Elba, tried my machinery and was all ready for a startnext morning.  But the wretched coal had not come yet;Government permission from Algiers to be got; lighters, men,baskets, and I know not what forms to be got or gotthrough—and everybody asleep!  Coals or no coals, Iwas determined to start next morning; and start we did at four inthe morning, picked up the buoy with our deck engine, popped thecable across a boat, tested the wires to make sure the fault wasnot behind us, and started picking up at 11. Everything workedadmirably, and about 2 p.m., in camethe fault.  There is no doubt the cable was broken by coralfishers; twice they have had it up to their own knowledge.

‘Many men have been ashore to-day and have come backtipsy, and the whole ship is in a state of quarrel from top tobottom, and they will gossip just within my hearing.  And wehave had, moreover, three French gentlemen and a French lady todinner, and I had to act host and try to manage the mixtures totheir taste.  The good-natured little Frenchwoman was mostamusing; when I asked her if she would have some appletart—“Mon Dieu,” with heroicresignation, “je veux bien”; or a littleplombodding—“Mais ce que vous voudrez,Monsieur!”

‘S. S. Elba, somewhere not far from Bona: Oct.19.

‘Yesterday [after three previous days of uselessgrappling] was destined to be very eventful.  We begandredging at daybreak and hooked at once every time in rocks; butby capital luck, just as we were deciding it was no use tocontinue in that place, we hooked the cable: up it came, wastested, and lo! another complete break, a quarter of a mileoff.  I was amazed at my own tranquillity under thesedisappointments, but I was not really half so fussy as aboutgetting a cab.  Well, there was nothing for it but grapplingagain, and, as you may imagine, we were getting about six milesfrom shore.  But the water did not deepen rapidly; we seemedto be on the crest of a kind of submarine mountain inprolongation of Cape de Gonde, and pretty havoc we must have madewith the crags.  What rocks we did hook!  No sooner wasthe grapnel down than the ship was anchored; and then came such abusiness: ship’s engines going, deck engine thundering,belt slipping, fear of breaking ropes: actually breakinggrapnels.  It was always an hour or more before we could getthe grapnel down again.  At last we had to give up theplace, though we knew we were close to the cable, and go furtherto sea in much deeper water; to my great fear, as I knew thecable was much eaten away and would stand but littlestrain.  Well, we hooked the cable first dredge this time,and pulled it slowly and gently to the top, with muchtrepidation.  Was it the cable? was there any weight on? itwas evidently too small.  Imagine my dismay when the cabledid come up, but hanging loosely, thus

instead of taut, thus

showing certain signs of a break close by.  For a momentI felt provoked, as I thought, “Here we are in deep water,and the cable will not stand lifting!”  I tested atonce, and by the very first wire found it had broken towardsshore and was good towards sea.  This was of course verypleasant; but from that time to this, though the wires test verywell, not a signal has come from Spartivento.  I got thecable into a boat, and a gutta-percha line from the ship to theboat, and we signalled away at a great rate—but no signs oflife.  The tests, however, make me pretty sure one wire atleast is good; so I determined to lay down cable from where wewere to the shore, and go to Spartivento to see what had happenedthere.  I fear my men are ill.  The night was lovely,perfectly calm; so we lay close to the boat and signals werecontinually sent, but with no result.  This morning I laidthe cable down to Fort Gênois in style; and now we arepicking up odds and ends of cable between the different breaks,and getting our buoys on board, &c.  To-morrow I expectto leave for Spartivento.’

IV.

And now I am quite at an end of journal keeping; diaries anddiary letters being things of youth which Fleeming had at lengthoutgrown.  But one or two more fragments from hiscorrespondence may be taken, and first this brief sketch of thelaying of the Norderney cable; mainly interesting as showingunder what defects of strength and in what extremities of pain,this cheerful man must at times continue to go about hiswork.

‘I slept on board 29th September having arrangedeverything to start by daybreak from where we lay in the roads:but at daybreak a heavy mist hung over us so that nothing of landor water could be seen.  At midday it lifted suddenly andaway we went with perfect weather, but could not find the buoysForde left, that evening.  I saw the captain was not strongin navigation, and took matters next day much more into my ownhands and before nine o’clock found the buoys; (the weatherhad been so fine we had anchored in the open sea nearTexel).  It took us till the evening to reach the buoys, getthe cable on board, test the first half, speak to Lowestoft, makethe splice, and start.  H— had not finished his workat Norderney, so I was alone on board for Reuter.  Moreoverthe buoys to guide us in our course were not placed, and thecaptain had very vague ideas about keeping his course; so I hadto do a good deal, and only lay down as I was for two hours inthe night.  I managed to run the course perfectly. Everything went well, and we found Norderney just where we wantedit next afternoon, and if the shore end had been laid, could havefinished there and then, October 1st.  But when we got toNorderney, we found the Carolinewith shore end lyingapparently aground, and could not understand her signals; so wehad to anchor suddenly and I went off in a small boat with thecaptain to the Caroline.  It was cold by this time,and my arm was rather stiff and I was tired; I hauled myself upon board the Carolineby a rope and found H— and twomen on board.  All the rest were trying to get the shore endon shore, but had failed and apparently had stuck on shore, andthe waves were getting up.  We had anchored in the rightplace and next morning we hoped the shore end would be laid, sowe had only to go back.  It was of course still colder andquite night.  I went to bed and hoped to sleep, but, alas,the rheumatism got into the joints and caused me terrible pain sothat I could not sleep.  I bore it as long as I could inorder to disturb no one, for all were tired; but at last I couldbear it no longer and managed to wake the steward and got amustard poultice which took the pain from the shoulder; but thenthe elbow got very bad, and I had to call the second steward andget a second poultice, and then it was daylight, and I felt veryill and feverish.  The sea was now rather rough—toorough rather for small boats, but luckily a sort of thing calleda scoot came out, and we got on board her with some trouble, andgot on shore after a good tossing about which made us allsea-sick.  The cable sent from the Carolinewas just60 yards too short and did not reach the shore, so although theCarolinedid make the splice late that night, we couldneither test nor speak.  Reuter was at Norderney, and I hadto do the best I could, which was not much, and went to bedearly; I thought I should never sleep again, but in sheerdesperation got up in the middle of the night and gulped a lot ofraw whiskey and slept at last.  But not long.  A Mr.F— washed my face and hands and dressed me: and we hauledthe cable out of the sea, and got it joined to the telegraphstation, and on October 3rd telegraphed to Lowestoft first andthen to London.  Miss Clara Volkman, a niece of Mr.Reuter’s, sent the first message to Mrs. Reuter, who waswaiting (Varley used Miss Clara’s hand as a kind of key),and I sent one of the first messages to Odden.  I thought amessage addressed to him would not frighten you, and that hewould enjoy a message through Papa’s cable.  I hope hedid.  They were all very merry, but I had been so lowered bypain that I could not enjoy myself in spite of thesuccess.’

V.

Of the 1869 cruise in the Great Eastern, I give what Iam able; only sorry it is no more, for the sake of the shipitself, already almost a legend even to the generation that sawit launched.

‘June17, 1869.—Here are the names of ourstaff in whom I expect you to be interested, as future GreatEasternstories may be full of them: Theophilus Smith, a manof Latimer Clark’s; Leslie C. Hill, my prizeman atUniversity College; Lord Sackville Cecil; King, one of theThomsonian Kings; Laws, goes for Willoughby Smith, who will alsobe on board; Varley, Clark, and Sir James Anderson make up thesum of all you know anything of.  A Captain Halpin commandsthe big ship.  There are four smaller vessels.  TheWm. Cory, which laid the Norderney cable, has already goneto St. Pierre to lay the shore ends.  The HawkandChilternhave gone to Brest to lay shore ends.  TheHawkand Scanderiago with us across the Atlanticand we shall at St. Pierre be transhipped into one or theother.

‘June18.  Somewhere inLondon.—The shore end is laid, as you may have seen,and we are all under pressing orders to march, so we start fromLondon to-night at 5.10.

‘June20.  Off Ushant.—I amgetting quite fond of the big ship.  Yesterday morning inthe quiet sunlight, she turned so slowly and lazily in the greatharbour at Portland, and bye and bye slipped out past the longpier with so little stir, that I could hardly believe we werereally off.  No men drunk, no women crying, no singing orswearing, no confusion or bustle on deck—nobody apparentlyaware that they had anything to do.  The look of the thingwas that the ship had been spoken to civilly and had kindlyundertaken to do everything that was necessary without anyfurther interference.  I have a nice cabin with plenty ofroom for my legs in my berth and have slept two nights like atop.  Then we have the ladies’ cabin set apart as anengineer’s office, and I think this decidedly the nicestplace in the ship: 35 ft. × 20 ft. broad—four tables,three great mirrors, plenty of air and no heat from the funnelswhich spoil the great dining-room.  I saw a whole library ofbooks on the walls when here last, and this made me less anxiousto provide light literature; but alas, to-day I find that theyare every one bibles or prayer-books.  Now one cannot readmany hundred bibles. . . . As for the motion of the ship it isnot very much, but ‘twill suffice.  Thomson shookhands and wished me well.  I dolike Thomson. . . .Tell Austin that the Great Easternhas six masts and fourfunnels.  When I get back I will make a little model of herfor all the chicks and pay out cotton reels. . . . Here we are at4.20 at Brest.  We leave probably to-morrow morning.

‘July12.  Great Eastern.—Hereas I write we run our last course for the buoy at the St. Pierreshore end.  It blows and lightens, and our good ship rolls,and buoys are hard to find; but we must soon now finish our work,and then this letter will start for home. . . . Yesterday we weremournfully groping our way through the wet grey fog, not at allsure where we were, with one consort lost and the other faintlyanswering the roar of our great whistle through the mist. As to the ship which was to meet us, and pioneer us up the deepchannel, we did not know if we should come within twenty miles ofher; when suddenly up went the fog, out came the sun, and there,straight ahead, was the Wm. Cory, our pioneer, and alittle dancing boat, the Gulnare, sending signals ofwelcome with many-coloured flags.  Since then we have beensteaming in a grand procession; but now at 2 a.m. the fog has fallen, and the greatroaring whistle calls up the distant answering notes all aroundus.  Shall we, or shall we not find the buoy?

‘July13.—All yesterday we lay in the dampdripping fog, with whistles all round and guns firing so that wemight not bump up against one another.  This little delayhas let us get our reports into tolerable order.  We are nowat 7 o’clock getting the cable end again, with the maincable buoy close to us.’

A telegram of July20: ‘I have received your fourwelcome letters.  The Americans are charmingpeople.’

VI.

And here to make an end are a few random bits about the cruiseto Pernambuco:—

‘Plymouth, June21, 1873.—I havebeen down to the sea-shore and smelt the salt sea and like it;and I have seen the Hooperpointing her great bowsea-ward, while light smoke rises from her funnels telling thatthe fires are being lighted; and sorry as I am to be without you,something inside me answers to the call to be off and doing.

‘Lalla Rookh.  Plymouth, June22.—We have been a little cruise in the yacht over to theEddystone lighthouse, and my sea-legs seem very well on. Strange how alike all these starts are—first on shore,steaming hot days with a smell of bone-dust and tar and saltwater; then the little puffing, panting steam-launch that bustlesout across a port with green woody sides, little yachts slidingabout, men-of-war training-ships, and then a great big black hulkof a thing with a mass of smaller vessels sticking to it likeparasites; and that is one’s home being coaled.  Thencomes the Champagne lunch where everyone says all that is politeto everyone else, and then the uncertainty when to start. So far as we know now, we are to start to-morrow morningat daybreak; letters that come later are to be sent to Pernambucoby first mail. . . . My father has sent me the heartiest sort ofJack Tar’s cheer.

‘S. S. Hooper.  Off Funchal,June29.—Here we are off Madeira at seveno’clock in the morning.  Thomson has been soundingwith his special toy ever since half-past three (1087 fathoms ofwater).  I have been watching the day break, and long jaggedislands start into being out of the dull night.  We arestill some miles from land; but the sea is calmer than Loch Eiloften was, and the big Hooperrests very contentedly aftera pleasant voyage and favourable breezes.  I have not beenable to do any real work except the testing [of the cable], forthough not sea-sick, I get a little giddy when I try to think onboard. . . . The ducks have just had their daily souse and arequacking and gabbling in a mighty way outside the door of thecaptain’s deck cabin where I write.  The cocks arecrowing, and new-laid eggs are said to be found in thecoops.  Four mild oxen have been untethered and allowed towalk along the broad iron decks—a whole drove of sheep seemquite content while licking big lumps of bay salt.  Twoexceedingly impertinent goats lead the cook a perfect life ofmisery.  They steal round the galley and willnibblethe carrots or turnips if his back is turned for one minute; andthen he throws something at them and misses them; and theyscuttle off laughing impudently, and flick one ear at him from asafe distance.  This is the most impudent gesture I eversaw.  Winking is nothing to it.  The ear normally hangsdown behind; the goat turns sideways to her enemy—by alittle knowing cock of the head flicks one ear over one eye, andsquints from behind it for half a minute—tosses her headback, skips a pace or two further off, and repeats themanœuvre.  The cook is very fat and cannot run afterthat goat much.

‘Pernambuco, Aug.1.—We landed hereyesterday, all well and cable sound, after a good passage. . . .I am on familiar terms with cocoa-nuts, mangoes, and bread-fruittrees, but I think I like the negresses best of anything I haveseen.  In turbans and loose sea-green robes, with beautifulblack-brown complexions and a stately carriage, they really are asatisfaction to my eye.  The weather has been windy andrainy; the Hooperhas to lie about a mile from the town,in an open roadstead, with the whole swell of the Atlanticdriving straight on shore.  The little steam launch givesall who go in her a good ducking, as she bobs about on the bigrollers; and my old gymnastic practice stands me in good stead onboarding and leaving her.  We clamber down a rope ladderhanging from the high stern, and then taking a rope in one hand,swing into the launch at the moment when she can contrive tosteam up under us—bobbing about like an apple thrown into atub all the while.  The President of the province and hissuite tried to come off to a State luncheon on board on Sunday;but the launch being rather heavily laden, behaved worse thanusual, and some green seas stove in the President’s hat andmade him wetter than he had probably ever been in his life; soafter one or two rollers, he turned back; and indeed he was wiseto do so, for I don’t see how he could have got on board. .. . Being fully convinced that the world will not continue to goround unless I pay it personal attention, I must run away to mywork.’

CHAPTER VI.—1869–1885.

Edinburgh—Colleagues—FarragoVitæ—I. The Family Circle—Fleeming and hisSons—Highland Life—The Cruise of the SteamLaunch—Summer in Styria—Rustic Manners—II. TheDrama—Private Theatricals—III. SanitaryAssociations—The Phonograph—IV. Fleeming’sAcquaintance with a Student—His late Maturity ofMind—Religion and Morality—His Love ofHeroism—Taste in Literature—V. His Talk—Hislate Popularity—Letter from M. Trélat.

The remaining external incidents ofFleeming’s life, pleasures, honours, fresh interests, newfriends, are not such as will bear to be told at any length or inthe temporal order.  And it is now time to lay narration by,and to look at the man he was and the life he lived, morelargely.

Edinburgh, which was thenceforth to be his home, is ametropolitan small town; where college professors and the lawyersof the Parliament House give the tone, and persons of leisure,attracted by educational advantages, make up much of the bulk ofsociety.  Not, therefore, an unlettered place, yet notpedantic, Edinburgh will compare favourably with much largercities.  A hard and disputatious element has been commentedon by strangers: it would not touch Fleeming, who was himselfregarded, even in this metropolis of disputation, as a thornytable-mate.  To golf unhappily he did not take, and golf isa cardinal virtue in the city of the winds.  Nor did hebecome an archer of the Queen’s Body-Guard, which is theChiltern Hundreds of the distasted golfer.  He did not evenfrequent the Evening Club, where his colleague Tait (in my day)was so punctual and so genial.  So that in some ways hestood outside of the lighter and kindlier life of his newhome.  I should not like to say that he was generallypopular; but there as elsewhere, those who knew him well enoughto love him, loved him well.  And he, upon his side, liked aplace where a dinner party was not of necessity unintellectual,and where men stood up to him in argument.

The presence of his old classmate, Tait, was one of his earlyattractions to the chair; and now that Fleeming is gone again,Tait still remains, ruling and really teaching his greatclasses.  Sir Robert Christison was an old friend of hismother’s; Sir Alexander Grant, Kelland, and Sellar, werenew acquaintances and highly valued; and these too, all but thelast, have been taken from their friends and labours.  Deathhas been busy in the Senatus.  I will speak elsewhere ofFleeming’s demeanour to his students; and it will be enoughto add here that his relations with his colleagues in generalwere pleasant to himself.

Edinburgh, then, with its society, its university work, itsdelightful scenery, and its skating in the winter, wasthenceforth his base of operations.  But he shot meanwhileerratic in many directions: twice to America, as we have seen, ontelegraph voyages; continually to London on business; often toParis; year after year to the Highlands to shoot, to fish, tolearn reels and Gaelic, to make the acquaintance and fall in lovewith the character of Highlanders; and once to Styria, to huntchamois and dance with peasant maidens.  All the while, hewas pursuing the course of his electrical studies, making freshinventions, taking up the phonograph, filled with theories ofgraphic representation; reading, writing, publishing, foundingsanitary associations, interested in technical education,investigating the laws of metre, drawing, acting, directingprivate theatricals, going a long way to see an actor—along way to see a picture; in the very bubble of the tideway ofcontemporary interests.  And all the while he was busiedabout his father and mother, his wife, and in particular hissons; anxiously watching, anxiously guiding these, and plungingwith his whole fund of youthfulness into their sports andinterests.  And all the while he was himselfmaturing—not in character or body, for these remainedyoung—but in the stocked mind, in the tolerant knowledge oflife and man, in pious acceptance of the universe.  Here isa farrago for a chapter: here is a world of interests andactivities, human, artistic, social, scientific, at each of whichhe sprang with impetuous pleasure, on each of which he squanderedenergy, the arrow drawn to the head, the whole intensity of hisspirit bent, for the moment, on the momentary purpose.  Itwas this that lent such unusual interest to his society, so thatno friend of his can forget that figure of Fleeming comingcharged with some new discovery: it is this that makes hischaracter so difficult to represent.  Our fathers, upon somedifficult theme, would invoke the Muse; I can but appeal to theimagination of the reader.  When I dwell upon some onething, he must bear in mind it was only one of a score; that theunweariable brain was teeming at the very time with otherthoughts; that the good heart had left no kind dutyforgotten.

I.

In Edinburgh, for a considerable time, Fleeming’sfamily, to three generations, was united: Mr. and Mrs. Austin atHailes, Captain and Mrs. Jenkin in the suburb of Merchiston,Fleeming himself in the city.  It is not every family thatcould risk with safety such close interdomestic dealings; but inthis also Fleeming was particularly favoured.  Even the twoextremes, Mr. Austin and the Captain, drew together.  It ispleasant to find that each of the old gentlemen set a high valueon the good looks of the other, doubtless also on his own; and afine picture they made as they walked the green terrace atHailes, conversing by the hour.  What they talked of isstill a mystery to those who knew them; but Mr. Austin alwaysdeclared that on these occasions he learned much.  To bothof these families of elders, due service was paid of attention;to both, Fleeming’s easy circumstances had brought joy; andthe eyes of all were on the grandchildren.  InFleeming’s scheme of duties, those of the family stoodfirst; a man was first of all a child, nor did he cease to be so,but only took on added obligations, when he became in turn afather.  The care of his parents was always a first thoughtwith him, and their gratification his delight.  And the careof his sons, as it was always a grave subject of study with him,and an affair never neglected, so it brought him a thousandsatisfactions.  ‘Hard work they are,’ as he oncewrote, ‘but what fit work!’  And again:‘O, it’s a cold house where a dog is the onlyrepresentative of a child!’  Not that dogs weredespised; we shall drop across the name of Jack, the harum-scarumIrish terrier ere we have done; his own dog Plato went up withhim daily to his lectures, and still (like other friends) feelsthe loss and looks visibly for the reappearance of his master;and Martin, the cat, Fleeming has himself immortalised, to thedelight of Mr. Swinburne, in the columns of theSpectator.  Indeed there was nothing in which mentake interest, in which he took not some; and yet always most inthe strong human bonds, ancient as the race and woven of delightsand duties.

He was even an anxious father; perhaps that is the part whereoptimism is hardest tested.  He was eager for his sons;eager for their health, whether of mind or body; eager for theireducation; in that, I should have thought, too eager.  Buthe kept a pleasant face upon all things, believed in play, lovedit himself, shared boyishly in theirs, and knew how to put a faceof entertainment upon business and a spirit of education intoentertainment.  If he was to test the progress of the threeboys, this advertisement would appear in their little manuscriptpaper:—‘Notice: The Professor of Engineering in theUniversity of Edinburgh intends at the close of the scholasticyear to hold examinations in the following subjects: (1) For boys in the fourth class of the Academy—Geometry andAlgebra; (2)  For boys at Mr. Henderson’sschool—Dictation and Recitation; (3)  For boys taughtexclusively by their mothers—Arithmetic andReading.’  Prizes were given; but what prize would beso conciliatory as this boyish little joke?  It may readthin here; it would smack racily in the playroom.  Wheneverhis sons ‘started a new fad’ (as one of them writesto me) they ‘had only to tell him about it, and he was atonce interested and keen to help.’  He woulddiscourage them in nothing unless it was hopelessly too hard forthem; only, if there was any principle of science involved, theymust understand the principle; and whatever was attempted, thatwas to be done thoroughly.  If it was but play, if it wasbut a puppetshow they were to build, he set them the example ofbeing no sluggard in play.  When Frewen, the second son,embarked on the ambitious design to make an engine for a toysteamboat, Fleeming made him begin with a properdrawing—doubtless to the disgust of the young engineer; butonce that foundation laid, helped in the work with unflagginggusto, ‘tinkering away,’ for hours, and assisted atthe final trial ‘in the big bath’ with no lessexcitement than the boy.  ‘He would take any amount oftrouble to help us,’ writes my correspondent. ‘We never felt an affair was complete till we had calledhim to see, and he would come at any time, in the middle of anywork.’  There was indeed one recognised playhour,immediately after the despatch of the day’s letters; andthe boys were to be seen waiting on the stairs until the mailshould be ready and the fun could begin.  But at no othertime did this busy man suffer his work to interfere with thatfirst duty to his children; and there is a pleasant tale of theinventive Master Frewen, engaged at the time upon a toy crane,bringing to the study where his father sat at work a half-woundreel that formed some part of his design, and observing,‘Papa, you might finiss windin’ this for me; I am sovery busy to-day.’

I put together here a few brief extracts from Fleeming’sletters, none very important in itself, but all together buildingup a pleasant picture of the father with his sons.

‘Jan.15th, 1875.—Frewencontemplates suspending soap bubbles by silk threads forexperimental purposes.  I don’t think he will managethat.  Bernard’ [the youngest] ‘volunteered toblow the bubbles with enthusiasm.’

‘Jan.17th.—I am learning a greatdeal of electrostatics in consequence of the perpetualcross-examination to which I am subjected.  I long for youon many grounds, but one is that I may not be obliged to delivera running lecture on abstract points of science, subject tocross-examination by two acute students.  Bernie does notcross-examine much; but if anyone gets discomfited, he laughs asort of little silver-whistle giggle, which is trying to theunhappy blunderer.’

‘May9th.—Frewen is deep inparachutes.  I beg him not to drop from the top landing inone of his own making.’

‘June6th, 1876.—Frewen’scrank axle is a failure just at present—but he bearsup.’

‘June14th.—The boys enjoy theirriding.  It gets them whole funds of adventures.  Oneof their caps falling off is matter for delightful reminiscences;and when a horse breaks his step, the occurrence becomes a rear,a shy, or a plunge as they talk it over.  Austin, with quietconfidence, speaks of the greater pleasure in riding a spiritedhorse, even if he does give a little trouble.  It is thestolid brute that he dislikes.  (N.B. You can still see sixinches between him and the saddle when his pony trots.)  Ilisten and sympathise and throw out no hint that theirachievements are not really great.’

‘June18th.—Bernard is muchimpressed by the fact that I can be useful to Frewen about thesteamboat’ [which the latter irrepressible inventor wasmaking].  ‘He says quite with awe, “He would nothave got on nearly so well if you had not helpedhim.”’

‘June27th.—I do not see what Icould do without Austin.  He talks so pleasantly and is sotruly good all through.’

‘June27th.—My chief difficulty withAustin is to get him measured for a pair of trousers. Hitherto I have failed, but I keep a stout heart and mean tosucceed.  Frewen the observer, in describing the paces oftwo horses, says, “Polly takes twenty-seven steps to getround the school.  I couldn’t count Sophy, but shetakes more than a hundred.”’

‘Feb.18th, 1877.—We all feel verylonely without you.  Frewen had to come up and sit in myroom for company last night and I actually kissed him, a thingthat has not occurred for years.  Jack, poor fellow, bearsit as well as he can, and has taken the opportunity of having afester on his foot, so he is lame and has it bathed, and thisoccupies his thoughts a good deal.’

‘Feb.19th.—As to Mill, Austin hasnot got the list yet.  I think it will prejudice him verymuch against Mill—but that is not my affair. Education of that kind! . . . I would as soon cram my boys withfood and boast of the pounds they had eaten, as cram them withliterature.’

But if Fleeming was an anxious father, he did not suffer hisanxiety to prevent the boys from any manly or even dangerouspursuit.  Whatever it might occur to them to try, he wouldcarefully show them how to do it, explain the risks, and theneither share the danger himself or, if that were not possible,stand aside and wait the event with that unhappy courage of thelooker-on.  He was a good swimmer, and taught them toswim.  He thoroughly loved all manly exercises; and duringtheir holidays, and principally in the Highlands, helped andencouraged them to excel in as many as possible: to shoot, tofish, to walk, to pull an oar, to hand, reef and steer, and torun a steam launch.  In all of these, and in all parts ofHighland life, he shared delightedly.  He was well on toforty when he took once more to shooting, he was forty-three whenhe killed his first salmon, but no boy could have moresingle-mindedly rejoiced in these pursuits.  His growinglove for the Highland character, perhaps also a sense of thedifficulty of the task, led him to take up at forty-one the studyof Gaelic; in which he made some shadow of progress, but notmuch: the fastnesses of that elusive speech retaining to the lasttheir independence.  At the house of his friend Mrs.Blackburn, who plays the part of a Highland lady as to the mannerborn, he learned the delightful custom of kitchen dances, whichbecame the rule at his own house and brought him into yet nearercontact with his neighbours.  And thus at forty-two, hebegan to learn the reel; a study, to which he brought his usualsmiling earnestness; and the steps, diagrammatically representedby his own hand, are before me as I write.

It was in 1879 that a new feature was added to the Highlandlife: a steam launch, called the Purgle, the Styriancorruption of Walpurga, after a friend to be hereaftermentioned.  ‘The steam launch goes,’ Fleemingwrote.  ‘I wish you had been present to describe twoscenes of which she has been the occasion already: one duringwhich the population of Ullapool, to a baby, was harnessed to herhurrahing—and the other in which the same population satwith its legs over a little pier, watching Frewen and Berniegetting up steam for the first time.’  ThePurglewas got with educational intent; and it served itspurpose so well, and the boys knew their business so practically,that when the summer was at an end, Fleeming, Mrs. Jenkin, Frewenthe engineer, Bernard the stoker, and Kenneth Robertson aHighland seaman, set forth in her to make the passagesouth.  The first morning they got from Loch Broom intoGruinard bay, where they lunched upon an island; but the windblowing up in the afternoon, with sheets of rain, it was foundimpossible to beat to sea; and very much in the situation ofcastaways upon an unknown coast, the party landed at the mouth ofGruinard river.  A shooting lodge was spied among the trees;there Fleeming went; and though the master, Mr. Murray, was fromhome, though the two Jenkin boys were of course as black ascolliers, and all the castaways so wetted through that, as theystood in the passage, pools formed about their feet and ranbefore them into the house, yet Mrs. Murray kindly entertainedthem for the night.  On the morrow, however, visitors wereto arrive; there would be no room and, in so out-of-the-way aspot, most probably no food for the crew of the Purgle;and on the morrow about noon, with the bay white with spindriftand the wind so strong that one could scarcely stand against it,they got up steam and skulked under the land as far as SandaBay.  Here they crept into a seaside cave, and cooked somefood; but the weather now freshening to a gale, it was plain theymust moor the launch where she was, and find their way overlandto some place of shelter.  Even to get their baggage from onboard was no light business; for the dingy was blown so far toleeward every trip, that they must carry her back by hand alongthe beach.  But this once managed, and a cart procured inthe neighbourhood, they were able to spend the night in apot-house on Ault Bea.  Next day, the sea wasunapproachable; but the next they had a pleasant passage toPoolewe, hugging the cliffs, the falling swell bursting close bythem in the gullies, and the black scarts that sat like ornamentson the top of every stack and pinnacle, looking down into thePurgleas she passed.  The climate of Scotland hadnot done with them yet: for three days they lay storm-stayed inPoolewe, and when they put to sea on the morning of the fourth,the sailors prayed them for God’s sake not to attempt thepassage.  Their setting out was indeed merely tentative; butpresently they had gone too far to return, and found themselvescommitted to double Rhu Reay with a foul wind and a crosssea.  From half-past eleven in the morning until half-pastfive at night, they were in immediate and unceasing danger. Upon the least mishap, the Purglemust either have beenswamped by the seas or bulged upon the cliffs of that rudeheadland.  Fleeming and Robertson took turns baling andsteering; Mrs. Jenkin, so violent was the commotion of the boat,held on with both hands; Frewen, by Robertson’s direction,ran the engine, slacking and pressing her to meet the seas; andBernard, only twelve years old, deadly sea-sick, and continuallythrown against the boiler, so that he was found next day to becovered with burns, yet kept an even fire.  It was a verythankful party that sat down that evening to meat in the Hotel atGairloch.  And perhaps, although the thing was new in thefamily, no one was much surprised when Fleeming said grace overthat meal.  Thenceforward he continued to observe the form,so that there was kept alive in his house a grateful memory ofperil and deliverance.  But there was nothing of the muff inFleeming; he thought it a good thing to escape death, but abecoming and a healthful thing to run the risk of it; and what israrer, that which he thought for himself, he thought for hisfamily also.  In spite of the terrors of Rhu Reay, thecruise was persevered in and brought to an end under happierconditions.

One year, instead of the Highlands, Alt Aussee, in theSteiermark, was chosen for the holidays; and the place, thepeople, and the life delighted Fleeming.  He worked hard atGerman, which he had much forgotten since he was a boy; and whatis highly characteristic, equally hard at the patois, in which helearned to excel.  He won a prize at a Schützen-fest;and though he hunted chamois without much success, brought downmore interesting game in the shape of the Styrian peasants, andin particular of his gillie, Joseph.  This Joseph was muchof a character; and his appreciations of Fleeming have a finenote of their own.  The bringing up of the boys he deignedto approve of: ‘fast so gut wie ein bauer,’was his trenchant criticism.  The attention and courtlyrespect with which Fleeming surrounded his wife, was something ofa puzzle to the philosophic gillie; he announced in the villagethat Mrs. Jenkin—die silberne Frau, as the folk hadprettily named her from some silver ornaments—was a‘geborene Gräfin’ who had married beneathher; and when Fleeming explained what he called the Englishtheory (though indeed it was quite his own) of married relations,Joseph, admiring but unconvinced, avowed it was ‘garschön.’  Joseph’s cousin, WalpurgaMoser, to an orchestra of clarionet and zither, taught the familythe country dances, the Steierisch and the Ländler, andgained their hearts during the lessons.  Her sister Loys,too, who was up at the Alp with the cattle, came down to churchon Sundays, made acquaintance with the Jenkins, and must havethem up to see the sunrise from her house upon the Loser, wherethey had supper and all slept in the loft among the hay. The Mosers were not lost sight of; Walpurga still correspondswith Mrs. Jenkin, and it was a late pleasure of Fleeming’sto choose and despatch a wedding present for his little mountainfriend.  This visit was brought to an end by a ball in thebig inn parlour; the refreshments chosen, the list of guestsdrawn up, by Joseph; the best music of the place in attendance;and hosts and guests in their best clothes.  The ball wasopened by Mrs. Jenkin dancing Steierisch with a lordly Bauer, ingray and silver and with a plumed hat; and Fleeming followed withWalpurga Moser.

There ran a principle through all these holidaypleasures.  In Styria as in the Highlands, the same coursewas followed: Fleeming threw himself as fully as he could intothe life and occupations of the native people, studyingeverywhere their dances and their language, and conforming,always with pleasure, to their rustic etiquette.  Just asthe ball at Alt Aussee was designed for the taste of Joseph, theparting feast at Attadale was ordered in every particular to thetaste of Murdoch the Keeper.  Fleeming was not one of thecommon, so-called gentlemen, who take the tricks of their owncoterie to be eternal principles of taste.  He was aware, onthe other hand, that rustic people dwelling in their own places,follow ancient rules with fastidious precision, and are easilyshocked and embarrassed by what (if they used the word) theywould have to call the vulgarity of visitors from town.  Andhe, who was so cavalier with men of his own class, was sedulousto shield the more tender feelings of the peasant; he, who couldbe so trying in a drawing-room, was even punctilious in thecottage.  It was in all respects a happy virtue.  Itrenewed his life, during these holidays, in allparticulars.  It often entertained him with the discovery ofstrange survivals; as when, by the orders of Murdoch, Mrs. Jenkinmust publicly taste of every dish before it was set before herguests.  And thus to throw himself into a fresh life and anew school of manners was a grateful exercise of Fleeming’smimetic instinct; and to the pleasures of the open air, ofhardships supported, of dexterities improved and displayed, andof plain and elegant society, added a spice of drama.

II.

Fleeming was all his life a lover of the play and all thatbelonged to it.  Dramatic literature he knew fully.  Hewas one of the not very numerous people who can read a play: aknack, the fruit of much knowledge and some imagination,comparable to that of reading score.  Few men betterunderstood the artificial principles on which a play is good orbad; few more unaffectedly enjoyed a piece of any merit ofconstruction.  His own play was conceived with a doubledesign; for he had long been filled with his theory of the truestory of Griselda; used to gird at Father Chaucer for hismisconception; and was, perhaps first of all, moved by the desireto do justice to the Marquis of Saluces, and perhaps only in thesecond place, by the wish to treat a story (as he phrased it)like a sum in arithmetic.  I do not think he quitesucceeded; but I must own myself no fit judge.  Fleeming andI were teacher and taught as to the principles, disputatiousrivals in the practice, of dramatic writing.

Acting had always, ever since Rachel and the Marseillaise, aparticular power on him.  ‘If I do not cry at theplay,’ he used to say, ‘I want to have my moneyback.’  Even from a poor play with poor actors, hecould draw pleasure.  ‘Giacometti’sElisabetta,’ I find him writing, ‘fetched thehouse vastly.  Poor Queen Elizabeth!  And yet it was alittle good.’  And again, after a night of Salvini:‘I do not suppose any one with feelings could sit outOthello, if Iago and Desdemona were acted.’ Salvini was, in his view, the greatest actor he had seen. We were all indeed moved and bettered by the visit of thatwonderful man.—‘I declare I feel as if I couldpray!’ cried one of us, on the return fromHamlet.—‘That is prayer,’ saidFleeming.  W. B. Hole and I, in a fine enthusiasm ofgratitude, determined to draw up an address to Salvini, did so,and carried it to Fleeming; and I shall never forget with whatcoldness he heard and deleted the eloquence of our draft, norwith what spirit (our vanities once properly mortified) he threwhimself into the business of collecting signatures.  It washis part, on the ground of his Italian, to see and arrange withthe actor; it was mine to write in the Academya notice ofthe first performance of Macbeth.  Fleeming openedthe paper, read so far, and flung it on the floor. ‘No,’ he cried, ‘that won’t do.  Youwere thinking of yourself, not of Salvini!’  Thecriticism was shrewd as usual, but it was unfair throughignorance; it was not of myself that I was thinking, but of thedifficulties of my trade which I had not well mastered. Another unalloyed dramatic pleasure which Fleeming and I sharedthe year of the Paris Exposition, was the Marquis deVillemer, that blameless play, performed by Madeleine Brohan,Delaunay, Worms, and Broisat—an actress, in such parts atleast, to whom I have never seen full justice rendered.  Hehad his fill of weeping on that occasion; and when the piece wasat an end, in front of a café, in the mild, midnight air,we had our fill of talk about the art of acting.

But what gave the stage so strong a hold on Fleeming was aninheritance from Norwich, from Edward Barron, and from Enfield ofthe Speaker.  The theatre was one of EdwardBarron’s elegant hobbies; he read plays, as becameEnfield’s son-in-law, with a good discretion; he wroteplays for his family, in which Eliza Barron used to shine in thechief parts; and later in life, after the Norwich home was brokenup, his little granddaughter would sit behind him in a greatarmchair, and be introduced, with his stately elocution, to theworld of dramatic literature.  From this, in a direct line,we can deduce the charades at Claygate; and after money came, inthe Edinburgh days, that private theatre which took up so much ofFleeming’s energy and thought.  The company—Mr.and Mrs. R. O. Carter of Colwall, W. B. Hole, Captain CharlesDouglas, Mr. Kunz, Mr. Burnett, Professor Lewis Campbell, Mr.Charles Baxter, and many more—made a charming society forthemselves and gave pleasure to their audience.  Mr. Carterin Sir Toby Belch it would be hard to beat.  Mr. Hole inbroad farce, or as the herald in the Trachiniæ,showed true stage talent.  As for Mrs. Jenkin, it was forher the rest of us existed and were forgiven; her powers were anendless spring of pride and pleasure to her husband; he spenthours hearing and schooling her in private; and when it came tothe performance, though there was perhaps no one in the audiencemore critical, none was more moved than Fleeming.  The restof us did not aspire so high.  There were always fiveperformances and weeks of busy rehearsal; and whether we came tosit and stifle as the prompter, to be the dumb (or rather theinarticulate) recipients of Carter’s dog whip in theTaming of the Shrew, or having earned our spurs, to loseone more illusion in a leading part, we were always sure at leastof a long and an exciting holiday in mirthful company.

In this laborious annual diversion, Fleeming’s part waslarge.  I never thought him an actor, but he was somethingof a mimic, which stood him in stead.  Thus he had seen Gotin Poirier; and his own Poirier, when he came to play it,breathed meritoriously of the model.  The last part I sawhim play was Triplet, and at first I thought it promisedwell.  But alas! the boys went for a holiday, missed atrain, and were not heard of at home till late at night. Poor Fleeming, the man who never hesitated to give his sons achisel or a gun, or to send them abroad in a canoe or on a horse,toiled all day at his rehearsal, growing hourly paler, Tripletgrowing hourly less meritorious.  And though the return ofthe children, none the worse for their little adventure, broughtthe colour back into his face, it could not restore him to hispart.  I remember finding him seated on the stairs in somerare moment of quiet during the subsequent performances. ‘Hullo, Jenkin,’ said I, ‘you look down in themouth.’—‘My dear boy,’ said he,‘haven’t you heard me?  I have not one decentintonation from beginning to end.’

But indeed he never supposed himself an actor; took a part,when he took any, merely for convenience, as one takes a hand atwhist; and found his true service and pleasure in the morecongenial business of the manager.  Augier, Racine,Shakespeare, Aristophanes in Hookham Frere’s translation,Sophocles and Æschylus in Lewis Campbell’s, such weresome of the authors whom he introduced to his public.  Inputting these upon the stage, he found a thousand exercises forhis ingenuity and taste, a thousand problems arising which hedelighted to study, a thousand opportunities to make theseinfinitesimal improvements which are so much in art and for theartist.  Our first Greek play had been costumed by theprofessional costumer, with unforgetable results of comicalityand indecorum: the second, the Trachiniæ, ofSophocles, he took in hand himself, and a delightful task he madeof it.  His study was then in antiquarian books, where hefound confusion, and on statues and bas-reliefs, where he at lastfound clearness; after an hour or so at the British Museum, hewas able to master ‘the chitôn, sleeves andall’; and before the time was ripe, he had a theory ofGreek tailoring at his fingers’ ends, and had all thecostumes made under his eye as a Greek tailor would have madethem.  ‘The Greeks made the best plays and the beststatues, and were the best architects: of course, they were thebest tailors, too,’ said he; and was never weary, when hecould find a tolerant listener, of dwelling on the simplicity,the economy, the elegance both of means and effect, which madetheir system so delightful.

But there is another side to the stage-manager’semployment.  The discipline of acting is detestable; thefailures and triumphs of that business appeal too directly to thevanity; and even in the course of a careful amateur performancesuch as ours, much of the smaller side of man will bedisplayed.  Fleeming, among conflicting vanities andlevities, played his part to my admiration.  He had his ownview; he might be wrong; but the performances (he would remindus) were after all his, and he must decide.  He was, in thisas in all other things, an iron taskmaster, sparing not himselfnor others.  If you were going to do it at all, he would seethat it was done as well as you were able.  I have known himto keep two culprits (and one of these his wife) repeating thesame action and the same two or three words for a whole wearyafternoon.  And yet he gained and retained warm feelingsfrom far the most of those who fell under his domination, andparticularly (it is pleasant to remember) from the girls. After the slipshod training and the incomplete accomplishments ofa girls’ school, there was something at first annoying, atlast exciting and bracing, in this high standard ofaccomplishment and perseverance.

III.

It did not matter why he entered upon any study or employment,whether for amusement like the Greek tailoring or the Highlandreels, whether from a desire to serve the public as with hissanitary work, or in the view of benefiting poorer men as withhis labours for technical education, he ‘pitched intoit’ (as he would have said himself) with the same headlongzest.  I give in the Appendix a letter from ColonelFergusson, which tells fully the nature of the sanitary work andof Fleeming’s part and success in it.  It will beenough to say here that it was a scheme of protection against theblundering of builders and the dishonesty of plumbers. Started with an eye rather to the houses of the rich, Fleeminghoped his Sanitary Associations would soon extend their sphere ofusefulness and improve the dwellings of the poor.  In thishope he was disappointed; but in all other ways the schemeexceedingly prospered, associations sprang up and continue tospring up in many quarters, and wherever tried they have beenfound of use.

Here, then, was a serious employment; it has proved highlyuseful to mankind; and it was begun besides, in a mood ofbitterness, under the shock of what Fleeming would so sensitivelyfeel—the death of a whole family of children.  Yet itwas gone upon like a holiday jaunt.  I read in ColonelFergusson’s letter that his schoolmates bantered him whenhe began to broach his scheme; so did I at first, and he took thebanter as he always did with enjoyment, until he suddenly posedme with the question: ‘And now do you see any other jokesto make?  Well, then,’ said he, ‘that’sall right.  I wanted you to have your fun out first; now wecan be serious.’  And then with a glowing heat ofpleasure, he laid his plans before me, revelling in the details,revelling in hope.  It was as he wrote about the joy ofelectrical experiment.  ‘What shall I compare themto?  A new song?—a Greek play?’  Delightattended the exercise of all his powers; delight painted thefuture.  Of these ideal visions, some (as I have said)failed of their fruition.  And the illusion wascharacteristic.  Fleeming believed we had only to make avirtue cheap and easy, and then all would practise it; that foran end unquestionably good, men would not grudge a little troubleand a little money, though they might stumble at laborious painsand generous sacrifices.  He could not believe in anyresolute badness.  ‘I cannot quite say,’ hewrote in his young manhood, ‘that I think there is no sinor misery.  This I can say: I do not remember one singlemalicious act done to myself.  In fact it is rather awkwardwhen I have to say the Lord’s Prayer.  I havenobody’s trespasses to forgive.’  And to thepoint, I remember one of our discussions.  I said it was adangerous error not to admit there were bad people; he, that itwas only a confession of blindness on our part, and that weprobably called others bad only so far as we were wrapped inourselves and lacking in the transmigratory forces ofimagination.  I undertook to describe to him three personsirredeemably bad and whom he should admit to be so.  In thefirst case, he denied my evidence: ‘You cannot judge a manupon such testimony,’ said he.  For the second, heowned it made him sick to hear the tale; but then there was nospark of malice, it was mere weakness I had described, and he hadnever denied nor thought to set a limit to man’sweakness.  At my third gentleman, he struck hiscolours.  ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I’mafraid that is a bad man.’  And then looking at meshrewdly: ‘I wonder if it isn’t a very unfortunatething for you to have met him.’  I showed himradiantly how it was the world we must know, the world as it was,not a world expurgated and prettified with optimisticrainbows.  ‘Yes, yes,’ said he; ‘but thisbadness is such an easy, lazy explanation.  Won’t yoube tempted to use it, instead of trying to understandpeople?’

In the year 1878, he took a passionate fancy for thephonograph: it was a toy after his heart, a toy that touched theskirts of life, art, and science, a toy prolific of problems andtheories.  Something fell to be done for a UniversityCricket Ground Bazaar.  ‘And the thought struckhim,’ Mr. Ewing writes to me, ‘to exhibitEdison’s phonograph, then the very newest scientificmarvel.  The instrument itself was not to bepurchased—I think no specimen had then crossed theAtlantic—but a copy of the Timeswith an account ofit was at hand, and by the help of this we made a phonographwhich to our great joy talked, and talked, too, with the purestAmerican accent.  It was so good that a second instrumentwas got ready forthwith.  Both were shown at the Bazaar: oneby Mrs. Jenkin to people willing to pay half a crown for aprivate view and the privilege of hearing their own voices, whileJenkin, perfervid as usual, gave half-hourly lectures on theother in an adjoining room—I, as his lieutenant, takingturns.  The thing was in its way a little triumph.  Afew of the visitors were deaf, and hugged the belief that theywere the victims of a new kind of fancy-fair swindle.  Ofthe others, many who came to scoff remained to take raffletickets; and one of the phonographs was finally disposed of inthis way, falling, by a happy freak of the ballot-box, into thehands of Sir William Thomson.’  The other remained inFleeming’s hands, and was a source of infiniteoccupation.  Once it was sent to London, ‘to bringback on the tinfoil the tones of a lady distinguished for clearvocalisations; at another time Sir Robert Christison was broughtin to contribute his powerful bass’; and there scarcelycame a visitor about the house, but he was made the subject ofexperiment.  The visitors, I am afraid, took their partslightly: Mr. Hole and I, with unscientific laughter,commemorating various shades of Scotch accent, or proposing to‘teach the poor dumb animal to swear.’  ButFleeming and Mr. Ewing, when we butterflies were gone, werelaboriously ardent.  Many thoughts that occupied the lateryears of my friend were caught from the small utterance of thattoy.  Thence came his inquiries into the roots of articulatelanguage and the foundations of literary art; his papers on vowelsounds, his papers in the Saturday Reviewupon the laws ofverse, and many a strange approximation, many a just note, thrownout in talk and now forgotten.  I pass over dozens of hisinterests, and dwell on this trifling matter of the phonograph,because it seems to me that it depicts the man.  So, forFleeming, one thing joined into another, the greater with theless.  He cared not where it was he scratched the surface ofthe ultimate mystery—in the child’s toy, in the greattragedy, in the laws of the tempest, or in the properties ofenergy or mass—certain that whatever he touched, it was apart of life—and however he touched it, there would flowfor his happy constitution interest and delight.  ‘Allfables have their morals,’ says Thoreau, ‘but theinnocent enjoy the story.’  There is a truthrepresented for the imagination in these lines of a noble poem,where we are told, that in our highest hours of visionaryclearness, we can but

      ‘see thechildren sport upon the shore
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.’

To this clearness Fleeming had attained; and although he heardthe voice of the eternal seas and weighed its message, he was yetable, until the end of his life, to sport upon these shores ofdeath and mystery with the gaiety and innocence of children.

IV.

It was as a student that I first knew Fleeming, as one of thatmodest number of young men who sat under his ministrations in asoul-chilling class-room at the top of the Universitybuildings.  His presence was against him as a professor: noone, least of all students, would have been moved to respect himat first sight: rather short in stature, markedly plain, boyishlyyoung in manner, cocking his head like a terrier with every markof the most engaging vivacity and readiness to be pleased, fullof words, full of paradox, a stranger could scarcely fail to lookat him twice, a man thrown with him in a train could scarcelyfail to be engaged by him in talk, but a student would neverregard him as academical.  Yet he had that fibre in him thatorder always existed in his class-room.  I do not rememberthat he ever addressed me in language; at the least sign ofunrest, his eye would fall on me and I was quelled.  Such afeat is comparatively easy in a small class; but I havemisbehaved in smaller classes and under eyes more Olympian thanFleeming Jenkin’s.  He was simply a man from whosereproof one shrank; in manner the least buckrammed of mankind, hehad, in serious moments, an extreme dignity of goodness.  Soit was that he obtained a power over the most insubordinate ofstudents, but a power of which I was myself unconscious.  Iwas inclined to regard any professor as a joke, and Fleeming as aparticularly good joke, perhaps the broadest in the vastpleasantry of my curriculum.  I was not able to follow hislectures; I somehow dared not misconduct myself, as was mycustomary solace; and I refrained from attending.  Thisbrought me at the end of the session into a relation with mycontemned professor that completely opened my eyes.  Duringthe year, bad student as I was, he had shown a certain leaning tomy society; I had been to his house, he had asked me to take ahumble part in his theatricals; I was a master in the art ofextracting a certificate even at the cannon’s mouth; and Iwas under no apprehension.  But when I approached Fleeming,I found myself in another world; he would have naught ofme.  ‘It is quite useless for youto come tome, Mr. Stevenson.  There may be doubtful cases, there is nodoubt about yours.  You have simply notattended myclass.’  The document was necessary to me for familyconsiderations; and presently I stooped to such pleadings androse to such adjurations, as made my ears burn to remember. He was quite unmoved; he had no pity for me.—‘You areno fool,’ said he, ‘and you chose yourcourse.’  I showed him that he had misconceived hisduty, that certificates were things of form, attendance a matterof taste.  Two things, he replied, had been required forgraduation, a certain competency proved in the final trials and acertain period of genuine training proved by certificate; if hedid as I desired, not less than if he gave me hints for anexamination, he was aiding me to steal a degree.  ‘Yousee, Mr. Stevenson, these are the laws and I am here to applythem,’ said he.  I could not say but that this viewwas tenable, though it was new to me; I changed my attack: it wasonly for my father’s eye that I required his signature, itneed never go to the Senatus, I had already certificates enoughto justify my year’s attendance.  ‘Bring them tome; I cannot take your word for that,’ said he. ‘Then I will consider.’  The next day I camecharged with my certificates, a humble assortment.  And whenhe had satisfied himself, ‘Remember,’ said he,‘that I can promise nothing, but I will try to find a formof words.’  He did find one, and I am still ashamedwhen I think of his shame in giving me that paper.  He madeno reproach in speech, but his manner was the more eloquent; ittold me plainly what a dirty business we were on; and I went fromhis presence, with my certificate indeed in my possession, butwith no answerable sense of triumph.  That was the bitterbeginning of my love for Fleeming; I never thought lightly of himafterwards.

Once, and once only, after our friendship was truly founded,did we come to a considerable difference.  It was, by therules of poor humanity, my fault and his.  I had been led todabble in society journalism; and this coming to his ears, hefelt it like a disgrace upon himself.  So far he was exactlyin the right; but he was scarce happily inspired when he broachedthe subject at his own table and before guests who were strangersto me.  It was the sort of error he was always ready torepent, but always certain to repeat; and on this occasion hespoke so freely that I soon made an excuse and left the housewith the firm purpose of returning no more.  About a monthlater, I met him at dinner at a common friend’s. ‘Now,’ said he, on the stairs, ‘I engageyou—like a lady to dance—for the end of theevening.  You have no right to quarrel with me and not giveme a chance.’  I have often said and thought thatFleeming had no tact; he belied the opinion then.  Iremember perfectly how, so soon as we could get together, hebegan his attack: ‘You may have grounds of quarrel with me;you have none against Mrs. Jenkin; and before I say another word,I want you to promise you will come to herhouse asusual.’  An interview thus begun could have but oneending: if the quarrel were the fault of both, the merit of thereconciliation was entirely Fleeming’s.

When our intimacy first began, coldly enough, accidentallyenough on his part, he had still something of the Puritan,something of the inhuman narrowness of the good youth.  Itfell from him slowly, year by year, as he continued to ripen, andgrow milder, and understand more generously the mingledcharacters of men.  In the early days he once read me abitter lecture; and I remember leaving his house in a fine springafternoon, with the physical darkness of despair upon myeyesight.  Long after he made me a formal retractation ofthe sermon and a formal apology for the pain he had inflicted;adding drolly, but truly, ‘You see, at that time I was somuch younger than you!’  And yet even in those daysthere was much to learn from him; and above all his fine spiritof piety, bravely and trustfully accepting life, and his singulardelight in the heroic.

His piety was, indeed, a thing of chief importance.  Hisviews (as they are called) upon religious matters varied much;and he could never be induced to think them more or less thanviews.  ‘All dogma is to me mere form,’ hewrote; ‘dogmas are mere blind struggles to express theinexpressible.  I cannot conceive that any singleproposition whatever in religion is true in the scientific sense;and yet all the while I think the religious view of the world isthe most true view.  Try to separate from the mass of theirstatements that which is common to Socrates, Isaiah, David, St.Bernard, the Jansenists, Luther, Mahomet, Bunyan—yes, andGeorge Eliot: of course you do not believe that this somethingcould be written down in a set of propositions like Euclid,neither will you deny that there is something common and thissomething very valuable. . . . I shall be sorry if the boys evergive a moment’s thought to the question of what communitythey belong to—I hope they will belong to the greatcommunity.’  I should observe that as time went on hisconformity to the church in which he was born grew more complete,and his views drew nearer the conventional.  ‘Thelonger I live, my dear Louis,’ he wrote but a few monthsbefore his death, ‘the more convinced I become of a directcare by God—which is reasonably impossible—but thereit is.’  And in his last year he took thecommunion.

But at the time when I fell under his influence, he stood morealoof; and this made him the more impressive to a youthfulatheist.  He had a keen sense of language and its imperialinfluence on men; language contained all the great and soundmetaphysics, he was wont to say; and a word once made andgenerally understood, he thought a real victory of man andreason.  But he never dreamed it could be accurate, knowingthat words stand symbol for the indefinable.  I came to himonce with a problem which had puzzled me out of measure: what isa cause? why out of so many innumerable millions of conditions,all necessary, should one be singled out and ticketed ‘thecause’?  ‘You do not understand,’ saidhe.  ‘A cause is the answer to a question: itdesignates that condition which I happen to know and you happennot to know.’  It was thus, with partial exception ofthe mathematical, that he thought of all means of reasoning: theywere in his eyes but means of communication, so to be understood,so to be judged, and only so far to be credited.  Themathematical he made, I say, exception of: number and measure hebelieved in to the extent of their significance, but thatsignificance, he was never weary of reminding you, was slender tothe verge of nonentity.  Science was true, because it toldus almost nothing.  With a few abstractions it could deal,and deal correctly; conveying honestly faint truths.  Applyits means to any concrete fact of life, and this high dialect ofthe wise became a childish jargon.

Thus the atheistic youth was met at every turn by a scepticismmore complete than his own, so that the very weapons of the fightwere changed in his grasp to swords of paper.  Certainly thechurch is not right, he would argue, but certainly not theanti-church either.  Men are not such fools as to be whollyin the wrong, nor yet are they so placed as to be ever wholly inthe right.  Somewhere, in mid air between the disputants,like hovering Victory in some design of a Greek battle, the truthhangs undiscerned.  And in the meanwhile what matter theseuncertainties?  Right is very obvious; a great consent ofthe best of mankind, a loud voice within us (whether of God, orwhether by inheritance, and in that case still from God), guideand command us in the path of duty.  He saw life verysimple; he did not love refinements; he was a friend to muchconformity in unessentials.  For (he would argue) it is inthis life as it stands about us, that we are given our problem;the manners of the day are the colours of our palette; theycondition, they constrain us; and a man must be very sure he isin the right, must (in a favourite phrase of his) be‘either very wise or very vain,’ to break with anygeneral consent in ethics.  I remember taking his adviceupon some point of conduct.  ‘Now,’ he said,‘how do you suppose Christ would have advised you?’and when I had answered that he would not have counselled meanything unkind or cowardly, ‘No,’ he said, with oneof his shrewd strokes at the weakness of his hearer, ‘noranything amusing.’  Later in life, he made lesscertain in the field of ethics.  ‘The old story of theknowledge of good and evil is a very true one,’ I find himwriting; only (he goes on) ‘the effect of the original doseis much worn out, leaving Adam’s descendants with theknowledge that there is such a thing—but uncertainwhere.’  His growing sense of this ambiguity made himless swift to condemn, but no less stimulating in counsel. ‘You grant yourself certain freedoms.  Verywell,’ he would say, ‘I want to see you pay for themsome other way.  You positively cannot do this: then therepositively must be something else that you can do, and I want tosee you find that out and do it.’  Fleeming wouldnever suffer you to think that you were living, if there werenot, somewhere in your life, some touch of heroism, to do or toendure.

This was his rarest quality.  Far on in middle age, whenmen begin to lie down with the bestial goddesses, Comfort andRespectability, the strings of his nature still sounded as high anote as a young man’s.  He loved the harsh voice ofduty like a call to battle.  He loved courage, enterprise,brave natures, a brave word, an ugly virtue; everything thatlifts us above the table where we eat or the bed we sleepupon.  This with no touch of the motive-monger or theascetic.  He loved his virtues to be practical, his heroesto be great eaters of beef; he loved the jovial Heracles, lovedthe astute Odysseus; not the Robespierres and Wesleys.  Afine buoyant sense of life and of man’s unequal characterran through all his thoughts.  He could not tolerate thespirit of the pick-thank; being what we are, he wished us to seeothers with a generous eye of admiration, not with the smallnessof the seeker after faults.  If there shone anywhere avirtue, no matter how incongruously set, it was upon the virtuewe must fix our eyes.  I remember having found muchentertainment in Voltaire’s Saül, and tellinghim what seemed to me the drollest touches.  He heard meout, as usual when displeased, and then opened fire on me withred-hot shot.  To belittle a noble story was easy; it wasnot literature, it was not art, it was not morality; there was nosustenance in such a form of jesting, there was (in his favouritephrase) ‘no nitrogenous food’ in suchliterature.  And then he proceeded to show what a finefellow David was; and what a hard knot he was in about Bathsheba,so that (the initial wrong committed) honour might well hesitatein the choice of conduct; and what owls those people were whomarvelled because an Eastern tyrant had killed Uriah, instead ofmarvelling that he had not killed the prophet also. ‘Now if Voltaire had helped me to feel that,’ saidhe, ‘I could have seen some fun in it.’  Heloved the comedy which shows a hero human, and yet leaves him ahero, and the laughter which does not lessen love.

It was this taste for what is fine in human-kind, that ruledhis choice in books.  These should all strike a high note,whether brave or tender, and smack of the open air.  Thenoble and simple presentation of things noble and simple, thatwas the ‘nitrogenous food’ of which he spoke so much,which he sought so eagerly, enjoyed so royally.  He wrote toan author, the first part of whose story he had seen withsympathy, hoping that it might continue in the same vein. ‘That this may be so,’ he wrote, ‘I long withthe longing of David for the water of Bethlehem.  But no manneed die for the water a poet can give, and all can drink it tothe end of time, and their thirst be quenched and the pool neverdry—and the thirst and the water are bothblessed.’  It was in the Greeks particularly that hefound this blessed water; he loved ‘a fresh air’which he found ‘about the Greek things even intranslations’; he loved their freedom from the mawkish andthe rancid.  The tale of David in the Bible, theOdyssey, Sophocles, Æschylus, Shakespeare, Scott;old Dumas in his chivalrous note; Dickens rather than Thackeray,and the Tale of Two Citiesout of Dickens: such were someof his preferences.  To Ariosto and Boccaccio he was alwaysfaithful; Burnt Njalwas a late favourite; and he found atleast a passing entertainment in the Arcadiaand theGrand Cyrus.  George Eliot he outgrew, finding herlatterly only sawdust in the mouth; but her influence, while itlasted, was great, and must have gone some way to form hismind.  He was easily set on edge, however, by didacticwriting; and held that books should teach no other lesson butwhat ‘real life would teach, were it as vividlypresented.’  Again, it was the thing made that tookhim, the drama in the book; to the book itself, to any merit ofthe making, he was long strangely blind.  He would preferthe Agamemnonin the prose of Mr. Buckley, ay, toKeats.  But he was his mother’s son, learning to thelast.  He told me one day that literature was not a trade;that it was no craft; that the professed author was merely anamateur with a door-plate.  ‘Very well,’ said I,‘the first time you get a proof, I will demonstrate that itis as much a trade as bricklaying, and that you do not knowit.’  By the very next post, a proof came.  Iopened it with fear; for he was indeed, as the reader will see bythese volumes, a formidable amateur; always wrote brightly,because he always thought trenchantly; and sometimes wrotebrilliantly, as the worst of whistlers may sometimes stumble on aperfect intonation.  But it was all for the best in theinterests of his education; and I was able, over that proof, togive him a quarter of an hour such as Fleeming loved both to giveand to receive.  His subsequent training passed out of myhands into those of our common friend, W. E. Henley. ‘Henley and I,’ he wrote, ‘have fairly goodtimes wigging one another for not doing better.  I wig himbecause he won’t try to write a real play, and he wigs mebecause I can’t try to write English.’  When Inext saw him, he was full of his new acquisitions. ‘And yet I have lost something too,’ he saidregretfully.  ‘Up to now Scott seemed to me quiteperfect, he was all I wanted.  Since I have been learningthis confounded thing, I took up one of the novels, and a greatdeal of it is both careless and clumsy.’

V.

He spoke four languages with freedom, not even English withany marked propriety.  What he uttered was not so much wellsaid, as excellently acted: so we may hear every day theinexpressive language of a poorly-written drama assume characterand colour in the hands of a good player.  No man had moreof the vis comicain private life; he played no characteron the stage, as he could play himself among his friends. It was one of his special charms; now when the voice is silentand the face still, it makes it impossible to do justice to hispower in conversation.  He was a delightful companion tosuch as can bear bracing weather; not to the very vain; not tothe owlishly wise, who cannot have their dogmas canvassed; not tothe painfully refined, whose sentiments become articles offaith.  The spirit in which he could write that he was‘much revived by having an opportunity of abusing Whistlerto a knot of his special admirers,’ is a spirit apt to bemisconstrued.  He was not a dogmatist, even aboutWhistler.  ‘The house is full of pretty things,’he wrote, when on a visit; ‘but Mrs. —’s tastein pretty things has one very bad fault: it is not mytaste.’  And that was the true attitude of his mind;but these eternal differences it was his joy to thresh out andwrangle over by the hour.  It was no wonder if he loved theGreeks; he was in many ways a Greek himself; he should have beena sophist and met Socrates; he would have loved Socrates, anddone battle with him staunchly and manfully owned his defeat; andthe dialogue, arranged by Plato, would have shown even inPlato’s gallery.  He seemed in talk aggressive,petulant, full of a singular energy; as vain you would have saidas a peacock, until you trod on his toes, and then you saw thathe was at least clear of all the sicklier elements ofvanity.  Soundly rang his laugh at any jest againsthimself.  He wished to be taken, as he took others, for whatwas good in him without dissimulation of the evil, for what waswise in him without concealment of the childish.  He hated adraped virtue, and despised a wit on its own defence.  Andhe drew (if I may so express myself) a human and humorousportrait of himself with all his defects and qualities, as hethus enjoyed in talk the robust sports of the intelligence;giving and taking manfully, always without pretence, always withparadox, always with exuberant pleasure; speaking wisely of whathe knew, foolishly of what he knew not; a teacher, a learner, butstill combative; picking holes in what was said even to thelength of captiousness, yet aware of all that was said rightly;jubilant in victory, delighted by defeat: a Greek sophist, aBritish schoolboy.

Among the legends of what was once a very pleasant spot, theold Savile Club, not then divorced from Savile Row, there aremany memories of Fleeming.  He was not popular at first,being known simply as ‘the man who dines here and goes upto Scotland’; but he grew at last, I think, the mostgenerally liked of all the members.  To those who truly knewand loved him, who had tasted the real sweetness of his nature,Fleeming’s porcupine ways had always been a matter of keenregret.  They introduced him to their own friends with fear;sometimes recalled the step with mortification.  It was notpossible to look on with patience while a man so lovable thwartedlove at every step.  But the course of time and the ripeningof his nature brought a cure.  It was at the Savile that hefirst remarked a change; it soon spread beyond the walls of theclub.  Presently I find him writing: ‘Will you kindlyexplain what has happened to me?  All my life I have talkeda good deal, with the almost unfailing result of making peoplesick of the sound of my tongue.  It appeared to me that Ihad various things to say, and I had no malevolent feelings, butnevertheless the result was that expressed above.  Well,lately some change has happened.  If I talk to a person oneday, they must have me the next.  Faces light up when theysee me.—“Ah, I say, comehere,”—“come and dine with me.” It’s the most preposterous thing I ever experienced. It is curiously pleasant.  You have enjoyed it all yourlife, and therefore cannot conceive how bewildering a burst of itis for the first time at forty-nine.’  And this latesunshine of popularity still further softened him.  He was abit of a porcupine to the last, still shedding darts; or ratherhe was to the end a bit of a schoolboy, and must still throwstones, but the essential toleration that underlay hisdisputatiousness, and the kindness that made of him a tendersicknurse and a generous helper, shone more conspicuouslythrough.  A new pleasure had come to him; and as with allsound natures, he was bettered by the pleasure.

I can best show Fleeming in this later stage by quoting from avivid and interesting letter of M. EmileTrélat’s.  Here, admirably expressed, is how heappeared to a friend of another nation, whom he encountered onlylate in life.  M. Trélat will pardon me if I correct,even before I quote him; but what the Frenchman supposed to flowfrom some particular bitterness against France, was onlyFleeming’s usual address.  Had M. Trélat beenItalian, Italy would have fared as ill; and yet Italy wasFleeming’s favourite country.

Vous savez comment j’ai connu FleemingJenkin!  C’était en Mai 1878.  Nousétions tous deux membres du jury de l’ExpositionUniverselle.  On n’avait rien fait qui vaille àla première séance de notre classe, qui avait eulieu le matin.  Tout le monde avait parlé etreparlé pour ne rien dire.  Cela durait depuis huitheures; il était midi.  Je demandai la parole pourune motion d’ordre, et je proposai que la séance futlevée à la condition que chaque membrefrançais, emportâtà déjeunerun juré étranger.  Jenkin applaudit. ‘Je vous emmène déjeuner,’ luicriai-je.  ‘Je veux bien.’ . . . Nouspartîmes; en chemin nous vous rencontrions; il vousprésente et nous allons déjeuner tous troisauprès du Trocadéro.

Et, depuis ce temps, nous avons été de vieuxamis.  Non seulement nous passions nos journées aujury, où nous étions toujours ensemble,côte-à-côte.  Mais nos habitudess’étaient faites telles que, non contents dedéjeuner en face l’un de l’autre, je leramenais dîner presque tous les jours chez moi.  Celadura une quinzaine: puis il fut rappelé enAngleterre.  Mais il revint, et nous fîmes encore unebonne étape de vie intellectuelle, morale etphilosophique.  Je crois qu’il me rendaitdéjà tout ce que j’éprouvais desympathie et d’estime, et que je ne fus pas pour rien dansson retour à Paris.

Chose singulière! nous nous étionsattachés l’un à l’autre par lessous-entendus bien plus que par la matière de nosconversations.  À vrai dire, nous étionspresque toujours en discussion; et il nous arrivait de nous rireau nez l’un et l’autre pendant des heures, tant nousnous étonnions réciproquement de ladiversité de nos points de vue.  Je le trouvais siAnglais, et il me trouvais si Français!  Ilétait si franchement révolté de certaineschoses qu’il voyait chez nous, et je comprenais si malcertaines choses qui se passaient chez vous!  Rien de plusintéressant que ces contacts qui étaient descontrastes, et que ces rencontres d’idées quiétaient des choses; rien de si attachant que leséchappées de cœur ou d’espritauxquelles ces petits conflits donnaient à tout momentcours.  C’est dans ces conditions que, pendant sonséjour à Paris en 1878, je conduisis un peu partoutmon nouvel ami.  Nous allâmes chez Madame Edmond Adam,où il vit passer beaucoup d’hommes politiques aveclesquels il causa.  Mais c’est chez les ministresqu’il fut intéressé.  Le momentétait, d’ailleurs, curieux en France.  Je merappelle que, lorsque je le présentai au Ministre duCommerce, il fit cette spirituelle repartie: ‘C’estla seconde fois que je viens en France sous laRépublique.  La première fois,c’était en 1848, elle s’étaitcoiffée de travers: je suis bien heureux de salueraujourd’hui votre excellence, quand elle a mis son chapeaudroit.’  Une fois je le menai voir couronner laRosière de Nanterre.  Il y suivit lescérémonies civiles et religieuses; il y assista aubanquet donné par le Maire; il y vit notre de Lesseps,auquel il porta un toast.  Le soir, nous revînmes tardà Paris; il faisait chaud; nous étions un peufatigués; nous entrâmes dans un des rarescafés encore ouverts.  Il devintsilencieux.—‘N’êtes-vous pas content devotre journée?’ lui dis-je.—‘O, si! maisje réfléchis, et je me dis que vous êtes unpeuple gai—tous ces braves gens étaient gaisaujourd’hui.  C’est une vertu, la gaieté,et vous l’avez en France, cette vertu!’  Il medisait cela mélancoliquement; et c’était lapremière fois que je lui entendais faire une louangeadressée à la France. . . . Mais il ne faut pas quevous voyiez là une plainte de ma part.  Je serais uningrat si je me plaignais; car il me disait souvent: ‘Quelbon Français vous faites!’  Et ilm’aimait à cause de cela, quoiqu’ilsemblât n’aimer pas la France. C’était là un trait de sonoriginalité.  Il est vrai qu’il s’entirait en disant que je ne ressemblai pas à mescompatriotes, ce à quoi il ne connaissait rien!—Toutcela était fort curieux; car, moi-même, jel’aimais quoiqu’il en eût à monpays!

En 1879 il amena son fils Austin à Paris. J’attirai celui-ci.  Il déjeunait avec moi deuxfois par semaine.  Je lui montrai ce qu’étaitl’intimité française en le tutoyantpaternellement.  Cela reserra beaucoup nos liensd’intimité avec Jenkin. . . . Je fis inviter mon amiau congrès de l’Association française pourl’avancement des sciences, qui se tenait àRheims en 1880.  Il y vint.  J’eus le plaisir delui donner la parole dans la section du génie civil etmilitaire, que je présidais.  Il y fit unetrès intéressante communication, qui me montraitune fois de plus l’originalité de ses vues et lasûreté de sa science.  C’est àl’issue de ce congrès que je passai lui faire visiteà Rochefort, où je le trouvai installé enfamille et où je présentai pour la premièrefois mes hommages à son éminente compagne.  Jele vis là sous un jour nouveau et touchant pour moi. Madame Jenkin, qu’il entourait si galamment, et ses deuxjeunes fils donnaient encore plus de relief à sapersonne.  J’emportai des quelques heures que jepassai à côte de lui dans ce charmant paysage unsouvenir ému.

J’étais allé en Angleterre en 1882 sanspouvoir gagner Edimbourg.  J’y retournai en 1883 avecla commission d’assainissement de la ville de Paris, dontje faisais partie.  Jenkin me rejoignit.  Je le fisentendre par mes collègues; car il était fondateurd’une société de salubrité.  Ileut un grand succès parmi nous.  Mais ce voyage merestera toujours en mémoire parce que c’estlà que se fixa défenitivement notre forteamitié.  Il m’invita un jour àdîner à son club et au moment de me faire asseoirà côté de lui, il me retint et me dit:‘Je voudrais vous demander de m’accorder quelquechose.  C’est mon sentiment que nos relations nepeuvent pas se bien continuer si vous ne me donnez pas lapermission de vous tutoyer.  Voulez-vous que nous noustutoyions?’  Je lui pris les mains et je lui disqu’une pareille proposition venant d’un Anglais, etd’un Anglais de sa haute distinction, c’étaitune victoire, dont je serais fier toute ma vie.  Et nouscommencions à user de cette nouvelle forme dans nosrapports.  Vous savez avec quelle finesse il parlait lefrançais: comme il en connaissait tous les tours, comme iljouait avec ses difficultés, et même avec sespetites gamineries.  Je crois qu’il aété heureux de pratiquer avec moi ce tutoiement,qui ne s’adapte pas à l’anglais, et qui est sifrançais.  Je ne puis vous peindrel’étendue et la variété de nosconversations de la soirée.  Mais ce que je puis vousdire, c’est que, sous la caresse du tu, nosidées se sont élevées.  Nous avionstoujours beaucoup ri ensemble; mais nous n’avions jamaislaissé des banalités s’introduire dans noséchanges de pensées.  Ce soir-là, notrehorizon intellectuel s’est élargie, et nous y avonspoussé des reconnaissances profondes et lointaines. Après avoir vivement causé à table, nousavons longuement causé au salon; et nous nousséparions le soir à Trafalgar Square, aprèsavoir longé les trottoirs, stationné aux coins desrues et deux fois rebroussé chemin en nous reconduisantl’un l’autre.  Il était prèsd’une heure du matin!  Mais quelle belle passed’argumentation, quels beaux échanges de sentiments,quelles fortes confidences patriotiques nous avionsfournies!  J’ai compris ce soir là que Jenkinne détestait pas la France, et je lui serrai fort lesmains en l’embrassant.  Nous nous quittions aussi amisqu’on puisse l’être; et notre affections’était par lui étendue et comprise dans untufrançais.

CHAPTER VII. 1875–1885.

Mrs. Jenkin’s Illness—CaptainJenkin—The Golden Wedding—Death of UncleJohn—Death of Mr. and Mrs. Austin—Illness and Deathof the Captain—Death of Mrs. Jenkin—Effect onFleeming—Telpherage—The End.

And now I must resume my narrativefor that melancholy business that concludes all humanhistories.  In January of the year 1875, whileFleeming’s sky was still unclouded, he was readingSmiles.  ‘I read my engineers’ livessteadily,’ he writes, ‘but find biographiesdepressing.  I suspect one reason to be that misfortunes andtrials can be graphically described, but happiness and the causesof happiness either cannot be or are not.  A grand newbranch of literature opens to my view: a drama in which peoplebegin in a poor way and end, after getting gradually happier, inan ecstasy of enjoyment.  The common novel is not the thingat all.  It gives struggle followed by relief.  I wanteach act to close on a new and triumphant happiness, which hasbeen steadily growing all the while.  This is the realantithesis of tragedy, where things get blacker and blacker andend in hopeless woe.  Smiles has not grasped my grand idea,and only shows a bitter struggle followed by a little respitebefore death.  Some feeble critic might say my new idea wasnot true to nature.  I’m sick of this old-fashionednotion of art.  Hold a mirror up, indeed!  Let’spaint a picture of how things ought to be and hold that up tonature, and perhaps the poor old woman may repent and mend herways.’  The ‘grand idea’ might be possiblein art; not even the ingenuity of nature could so round in theactual life of any man.  And yet it might almost seem tofancy that she had read the letter and taken the hint; for toFleeming the cruelties of fate were strangely blended withtenderness, and when death came, it came harshly to others, tohim not unkindly.

In the autumn of that same year 1875, Fleeming’s fatherand mother were walking in the garden of their house atMerchiston, when the latter fell to the ground.  It wasthought at the time to be a stumble; it was in all likelihood apremonitory stroke of palsy.  From that day, there fell uponher an abiding panic fear; that glib, superficial part of us thatspeaks and reasons could allege no cause, science itself couldfind no mark of danger, a son’s solicitude was laid atrest; but the eyes of the body saw the approach of a blow, andthe consciousness of the body trembled at its coming.  Itcame in a moment; the brilliant, spirited old lady leapt from herbed, raving.  For about six months, this stage of herdisease continued with many painful and many patheticcircumstances; her husband who tended her, her son who wasunwearied in his visits, looked for no change in her conditionbut the change that comes to all.  ‘Poormother,’ I find Fleeming writing, ‘I cannot get thetones of her voice out of my head. . . I may have to bear thispain for a long time; and so I am bearing it and sparing myselfwhatever pain seems useless.  Mercifully I do sleep, I am soweary that I must sleep.’  And again later: ‘Icould do very well, if my mind did not revert to my poormother’s state whenever I stop attending to mattersimmediately before me.’  And the next day: ‘Ican never feel a moment’s pleasure without having mymother’s suffering recalled by the very feeling ofhappiness.  A pretty, young face recalls hers bycontrast—a careworn face recalls it by association.  Itell you, for I can speak to no one else; but do not suppose thatI wilfully let my mind dwell on sorrow.’

In the summer of the next year, the frenzy left her; it lefther stone deaf and almost entirely aphasic, but with some remainsof her old sense and courage.  Stoutly she set to work withdictionaries, to recover her lost tongues; and had already madenotable progress, when a third stroke scattered heracquisitions.  Thenceforth, for nearly ten years, strokefollowed upon stroke, each still further jumbling the threads ofher intelligence, but by degrees so gradual and with suchpartiality of loss and of survival, that her precise state wasalways and to the end a matter of dispute.  She stillremembered her friends; she still loved to learn news of themupon the slate; she still read and marked the list of thesubscription library; she still took an interest in the choice ofa play for the theatricals, and could remember and find parallelpassages; but alongside of these surviving powers, were lapses asremarkable, she misbehaved like a child, and a servant had to sitwith her at table.  To see her so sitting, speaking with thetones of a deaf mute not always to the purpose, and to rememberwhat she had been, was a moving appeal to all who knew her. Such was the pathos of these two old people in their affliction,that even the reserve of cities was melted and the neighboursvied in sympathy and kindness.  Where so many were more thanusually helpful, it is hard to draw distinctions; but I amdirected and I delight to mention in particular the good Dr.Joseph Bell, Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Archibald Constable with boththeir wives, the Rev. Mr. Belcombe (of whose good heart and tasteI do not hear for the first time—the news had come to me byway of the Infirmary), and their next-door neighbour, unweariedin service, Miss Hannah Mayne.  Nor should I omit to mentionthat John Ruffini continued to write to Mrs. Jenkin till his owndeath, and the clever lady known to the world as Vernon Lee untilthe end: a touching, a becoming attention to what was only thewreck and survival of their brilliant friend.

But he to whom this affliction brought the greatest change wasthe Captain himself.  What was bitter in his lot, he borewith unshaken courage; only once, in these ten years of trial,has Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin seen him weep; for the rest of the timehis wife—his commanding officer, now become his tryingchild—was served not with patience alone, but with a lovelyhappiness of temper.  He had belonged all his life to theancient, formal, speechmaking, compliment-presenting school ofcourtesy; the dictates of this code partook in his eyes of thenature of a duty; and he must now be courteous for two. Partly from a happy illusion, partly in a tender fraud, he kepthis wife before the world as a still active partner.  Whenhe paid a call, he would have her write ‘with love’upon a card; or if that (at the moment) was too much, he would goarmed with a bouquet and present it in her name.  He evenwrote letters for her to copy and sign: an innocent substitution,which may have caused surprise to Ruffini or to Vernon Lee, ifthey ever received, in the hand of Mrs. Jenkin the very obviousreflections of her husband.  He had always adored this wifewhom he now tended and sought to represent in correspondence: itwas now, if not before, her turn to repay the compliment; mindenough was left her to perceive his unwearied kindness; and asher moral qualities seemed to survive quite unimpaired, achildish love and gratitude were his reward.  She wouldinterrupt a conversation to cross the room and kiss him.  Ifshe grew excited (as she did too often) it was his habit to comebehind her chair and pat her shoulder; and then she would turnround, and clasp his hand in hers, and look from him to hervisitor with a face of pride and love; and it was at such momentsonly that the light of humanity revived in her eyes.  It washard for any stranger, it was impossible for any that loved them,to behold these mute scenes, to recall the past, and not toweep.  But to the Captain, I think it was allhappiness.  After these so long years, he had found his wifeagain; perhaps kinder than ever before; perhaps now on a moreequal footing; certainly, to his eyes, still beautiful.  Andthe call made on his intelligence had not been made invain.  The merchants of Aux Cayes, who had seen him tried insome ‘counter-revolution’ in 1845, wrote to theconsul of his ‘able and decided measures,’ ‘hiscool, steady judgment and discernment’ with admiration; andof himself, as ‘a credit and an ornament to H. M. NavalService.’  It is plain he must have sunk in all hispowers, during the years when he was only a figure, and often adumb figure, in his wife’s drawing-room; but with this newterm of service, he brightened visibly.  He showed tact andeven invention in managing his wife, guiding or restraining herby the touch, holding family worship so arranged that she couldfollow and take part in it.  He took (to the world’ssurprise) to reading—voyages, biographies, Blair’sSermons, even (for her letter’s sake) a work ofVernon Lee’s, which proved, however, more than he was quiteprepared for.  He shone more, in his remarkable way, insociety; and twice he had a little holiday to Glenmorven, where,as may be fancied, he was the delight of the Highlanders. One of his last pleasures was to arrange his dining-room. Many and many a room (in their wandering and thriftlessexistence) had he seen his wife furnish with exquisite taste, andperhaps with ‘considerable luxury’: now it was histurn to be the decorator.  On the wall he had an engravingof Lord Rodney’s action, showing the Prothée,his father’s ship, if the reader recollects; on either sideof this on brackets, his father’s sword, and hisfather’s telescope, a gift from Admiral Buckner, who hadused it himself during the engagement; higher yet, the head ofhis grandson’s first stag, portraits of his son and hisson’s wife, and a couple of old Windsor jugs from Mrs.Buckner’s.  But his simple trophy was not yetcomplete; a device had to be worked and framed and hung below theengraving; and for this he applied to his daughter-in-law:‘I want you to work me something, Annie.  An anchor ateach side—an anchor—stands for an old sailor, youknow—stands for hope, you know—an anchor at eachside, and in the middle Thankful.’  It is not easy, onany system of punctuation, to represent the Captain’sspeech.  Yet I hope there may shine out of these facts, evenas there shone through his own troubled utterance, some of thecharm of that delightful spirit.

In 1881, the time of the golden wedding came round for thatsad and pretty household.  It fell on a Good Friday, and itscelebration can scarcely be recalled without both smiles andtears.  The drawing-room was filled with presents andbeautiful bouquets; these, to Fleeming and his family, the goldenbride and bridegroom displayed with unspeakable pride, she sopainfully excited that the guests feared every moment to see herstricken afresh, he guiding and moderating her with his customarytact and understanding, and doing the honours of the day withmore than his usual delight.  Thence they were brought tothe dining-room, where the Captain’s idea of a feastawaited them: tea and champagne, fruit and toast and childishlittle luxuries, set forth pell-mell and pressed at random on theguests.  And here he must make a speech for himself and hiswife, praising their destiny, their marriage, their son, theirdaughter-in-law, their grandchildren, their manifold causes ofgratitude: surely the most innocent speech, the old, sharpcontemner of his innocence now watching him with eyes ofadmiration.  Then it was time for the guests to depart; andthey went away, bathed, even to the youngest child, in tears ofinseparable sorrow and gladness, and leaving the golden bride andbridegroom to their own society and that of the hired nurse.

It was a great thing for Fleeming to make, even thus late, theacquaintance of his father; but the harrowing pathos of suchscenes consumed him.  In a life of tense intellectualeffort, a certain smoothness of emotional tenor were to bedesired; or we burn the candle at both ends.  Dr. Bellperceived the evil that was being done; he pressed Mrs. Jenkin torestrain her husband from too frequent visits; but here was oneof those clear-cut, indubitable duties for which Fleeming lived,and he could not pardon even the suggestion of neglect.

And now, after death had so long visibly but still innocuouslyhovered above the family, it began at last to strike and itsblows fell thick and heavy.  The first to go was uncle JohnJenkin, taken at last from his Mexican dwelling and the losttribes of Israel; and nothing in this remarkable oldgentleman’s life, became him like the leaving of it. His sterling, jovial acquiescence in man’s destiny was adelight to Fleeming.  ‘My visit to Stowting has been avery strange but not at all a painful one,’ he wrote. ‘In case you ever wish to make a person die as he ought todie in a novel,’ he said to me, ‘I must tell you allabout my old uncle.’  He was to see a nearer instancebefore long; for this family of Jenkin, if they were not veryaptly fitted to live, had the art of manly dying.  UncleJohn was but an outsider after all; he had dropped out of hail ofhis nephew’s way of life and station in society, and wasmore like some shrewd, old, humble friend who should have kept alodge; yet he led the procession of becoming deaths, and began inthe mind of Fleeming that train of tender and grateful thought,which was like a preparation for his own.  Already I findhim writing in the plural of ‘these impendingdeaths’; already I find him in quest of consolation. ‘There is little pain in store for these wayfarers,’he wrote, ‘and we have hope—more than hope,trust.’

On May 19, 1884, Mr. Austin was taken.  He wasseventy-eight years of age, suffered sharply with all his oldfirmness, and died happy in the knowledge that he had left hiswife well cared for.  This had always been a bosom concern;for the Barrons were long-lived and he believed that she wouldlong survive him.  But their union had been so full andquiet that Mrs. Austin languished under the separation.  Intheir last years, they would sit all evening in their owndrawing-room hand in hand: two old people who, for all theirfundamental differences, had yet grown together and become allthe world in each other’s eyes and hearts; and it was feltto be a kind release, when eight months after, on January 14,1885, Eliza Barron followed Alfred Austin.  ‘I wish Icould save you from all pain,’ wrote Fleeming six dayslater to his sorrowing wife, ‘I would if I could—butmy way is not God’s way; and of this beassured,—God’s way is best.’

In the end of the same month, Captain Jenkin caught cold andwas confined to bed.  He was so unchanged in spirit that atfirst there seemed no ground of fear; but his great age began totell, and presently it was plain he had a summons.  Thecharm of his sailor’s cheerfulness and ancient courtesy, ashe lay dying, is not to be described.  There he lay, singinghis old sea songs; watching the poultry from the window with achild’s delight; scribbling on the slate little messages tohis wife, who lay bed-ridden in another room; glad to have Psalmsread aloud to him, if they were of a pious strain—checking,with an ‘I don’t think we need read that, mydear,’ any that were gloomy or bloody. Fleeming’s wife coming to the house and asking one of thenurses for news of Mrs. Jenkin, ‘Madam, I do notknow,’ said the nurse; ‘for I am really so carriedaway by the Captain that I can think of nothingelse.’  One of the last messages scribbled to his wifeand sent her with a glass of the champagne that had been orderedfor himself, ran, in his most finished vein of childish madrigal:‘The Captain bows to you, my love, across thetable.’  When the end was near and it was thought bestthat Fleeming should no longer go home but sleep at Merchiston,he broke his news to the Captain with some trepidation, knowingthat it carried sentence of death.  ‘Charming,charming—charming arrangement,’ was theCaptain’s only commentary.  It was the proper thingfor a dying man, of Captain Jenkin’s school of manners, tomake some expression of his spiritual state; nor did he neglectthe observance.  With his usual abruptness,‘Fleeming,’ said he, ‘I suppose you and I feelabout all this as two Christian gentlemen should.’  Alast pleasure was secured for him.  He had been waiting withpainful interest for news of Gordon and Khartoum; and by greatgood fortune, a false report reached him that the city wasrelieved, and the men of Sussex (his old neighbours) had been thefirst to enter.  He sat up in bed and gave three cheers forthe Sussex regiment.  The subsequent correction, if it camein time, was prudently withheld from the dying man.  An hourbefore midnight on the fifth of February, he passed away: agedeighty-four.

Word of his death was kept from Mrs. Jenkin; and she survivedhim no more than nine and forty hours.  On the day beforeher death, she received a letter from her old friend Miss Bell ofManchester, knew the hand, kissed the envelope, and laid it onher heart; so that she too died upon a pleasure.  Half anhour after midnight, on the eighth of February, she fell asleep:it is supposed in her seventy-eighth year.

Thus, in the space of less than ten months, the four seniorsof this family were taken away; but taken with such features ofopportunity in time or pleasant courage in the sufferer, thatgrief was tempered with a kind of admiration.  The effect onFleeming was profound.  His pious optimism increased andbecame touched with something mystic and filial.  ‘Thegrave is not good, the approaches to it are terrible,’ hehad written in the beginning of his mother’s illness: hethought so no more, when he had laid father and mother side byside at Stowting.  He had always loved life; in the brieftime that now remained to him, he seemed to be half in love withdeath.  ‘Grief is no duty,’ he wrote to MissBell; ‘it was all too beautiful for grief,’ he saidto me; but the emotion, call it by what name we please, shook himto his depths; his wife thought he would have broken his heartwhen he must demolish the Captain’s trophy in thedining-room, and he seemed thenceforth scarcely the same man.

These last years were indeed years of an excessive demand uponhis vitality; he was not only worn out with sorrow, he was wornout by hope.  The singular invention to which he gave thename of telpherage, had of late consumed his time, overtaxed hisstrength and overheated his imagination.  The words in whichhe first mentioned his discovery to me—‘I am simplyAlnaschar’—were not only descriptive of his state ofmind, they were in a sense prophetic; since whatever fortune mayawait his idea in the future, it was not his to see it bringforth fruit.  Alnaschar he was indeed; beholding about him aworld all changed, a world filled with telpherage wires; andseeing not only himself and family but all his friendsenriched.  It was his pleasure, when the company wasfloated, to endow those whom he liked with stock; one, at least,never knew that he was a possible rich man until the grave hadclosed over his stealthy benefactor.  And however Fleemingchafed among material and business difficulties, this rainbowvision never faded; and he, like his father and his mother, maybe said to have died upon a pleasure.  But the strain told,and he knew that it was telling.  ‘I am becoming afossil,’ he had written five years before, as a kind ofplea for a holiday visit to his beloved Italy.  ‘Takecare!  If I am Mr. Fossil, you will be Mrs. Fossil, and Jackwill be Jack Fossil, and all the boys will be little fossils, andthen we shall be a collection.’  There was no fearmore chimerical for Fleeming; years brought him no repose; he wasas packed with energy, as fiery in hope, as at the first;weariness, to which he began to be no stranger, distressed, itdid not quiet him.  He feared for himself, not withoutground, the fate which had overtaken his mother; others sharedthe fear.  In the changed life now made for his family, theelders dead, the sons going from home upon their education, eventheir tried domestic (Mrs. Alice Dunns) leaving the house aftertwenty-two years of service, it was not unnatural that he shouldreturn to dreams of Italy.  He and his wife were to go (ashe told me) on ‘a real honeymoon tour.’  He hadnot been alone with his wife ‘to speak of,’ he added,since the birth of his children.  But now he was to enjoythe society of her to whom he wrote, in these last days, that shewas his ‘Heaven on earth.’  Now he was torevisit Italy, and see all the pictures and the buildings and thescenes that he admired so warmly, and lay aside for a time theirritations of his strenuous activity.  Nor was thisall.  A trifling operation was to restore his formerlightness of foot; and it was a renovated youth that was to setforth upon this reënacted honeymoon.

The operation was performed; it was of a trifling character,it seemed to go well, no fear was entertained; and his wife wasreading aloud to him as he lay in bed, when she perceived him towander in his mind.  It is doubtful if he ever recovered asure grasp upon the things of life; and he was still unconsciouswhen he passed away, June the twelfth, 1885, in the fifty-thirdyear of his age.  He passed; but something in his gallantvitality had impressed itself upon his friends, and stillimpresses.  Not from one or two only, but from many, I hearthe same tale of how the imagination refuses to accept our lossand instinctively looks for his reappearing, and how memoryretains his voice and image like things of yesterday. Others, the well-beloved too, die and are progressivelyforgotten; two years have passed since Fleeming was laid to restbeside his father, his mother, and his Uncle John; and thethought and the look of our friend still haunt us.

p.277APPENDIX.

I.  Note on the Contributions ofFleeming Jenkin to Electrical and EngineeringScience.  By Sir William Thomson,F.R.S., LL. D., etc., etc.

In the beginning of the year 1859my former colleague (the first British University Professor ofEngineering), Lewis Gordon, at that time deeply engaged in thethen new work of cable making and cable laying, came to Glasgowto see apparatus for testing submarine cables and signallingthrough them, which I had been preparing for practical use on thefirst Atlantic cable, and which had actually done service uponit, during the six weeks of its successful working betweenValencia and Newfoundland.  As soon as he had seen somethingof what I had in hand, he said to me, ‘I would like to showthis to a young man of remarkable ability, at present engaged inour works at Birkenhead.’  Fleeming Jenkin wasaccordingly telegraphed for, and appeared next morning inGlasgow.  He remained for a week, spending the whole day inmy class-room and laboratory, and thus pleasantly began ourlifelong acquaintance.  I was much struck, not only with hisbrightness p.278and ability, but with his resolution to understandeverything spoken of, to see if possible thoroughly through everydifficult question, and (no if about this!) to slur overnothing.  I soon found that thoroughness of honesty was asstrongly engrained in the scientific as in the moral side of hischaracter.

In the first week of our acquaintance, the electric telegraphand, particularly, submarine cables, and the methods, machines,and instruments for laying, testing, and using them, formednaturally the chief subject of our conversations and discussions;as it was in fact the practical object of Jenkin’s visit tome in Glasgow; but not much of the week had passed before I foundhim remarkably interested in science generally, and full ofintelligent eagerness on many particular questions of dynamicsand physics.  When he returned from Glasgow to Birkenhead acorrespondence commenced between us, which was continued withoutintermission up to the last days of his life.  It commencedwith a well-sustained fire of letters on each side about thephysical qualities of submarine cables, and the practical resultsattainable in the way of rapid signalling through them. Jenkin used excellently the valuable opportunities for experimentallowed him by Newall, and his partner Lewis Gordon, at theirBirkenhead factory.  Thus he began definite scientificinvestigation of the copper resistance of the conductor, and theinsulating resistance and specific inductive capacity of itsgutta-percha coating, in the factory, in various stages p. 279ofmanufacture; and he was the very first to introducesystematically into practice the grand system of absolutemeasurement founded in Germany by Gauss and Weber.  Theimmense value of this step, if only in respect to the electrictelegraph, is amply appreciated by all who remember or who haveread something of the history of submarine telegraphy; but it canscarcely be known generally how much it is due to Jenkin.

Looking to the article ‘Telegraph (Electric)’ inthe last volume of the old edition of the‘Encyclopædia Britannica,’ which was publishedabout the year 1861, we find on record that Jenkin’smeasurements in absolute units of the specific resistance of puregutta-percha, and of the gutta-percha with Chatterton’scompound constituting the insulation of the Red Sea cable of1859, are given as the only results in the way of absolutemeasurements of the electric resistance of an insulating materialwhich had then been made.  These remarks are prefaced in the‘Encyclopædia’ article by the followingstatement: ‘No telegraphic testing ought in future to beaccepted in any department of telegraphic business which has notthis definite character; although it is only within the last yearthat convenient instruments for working, in absolute measure,have been introduced at all, and the whole system of absolutemeasure is still almost unknown to practicalelectricians.’

A particular result of great importance in respect to testingis referred to as follows in the ‘Encyclopædia’p. 280article:‘The importance of having results thus stated in absolutemeasure is illustrated by the circumstance, that the writer hasbeen able at once to compare them, in the manner stated in apreceding paragraph, with his own previous deductions from thetestings of the Atlantic cable during its manufacture in 1857,and with Weber’s measurements of the specific resistance ofcopper.’  It has now become universallyadapted—first of all in England; twenty-two years later byGermany, the country of its birth; and by France and Italy, andall the other countries of Europe and America—practicallythe whole scientific world—at the Electrical Congress inParis in the years 1882 and 1884.

An important paper of thirty quarto pages published in the‘Transactions of the Royal Society’ for June 19,1862, under the title ‘Experimental Researches on theTransmission of Electric Signals through submarine cables, PartI.  Laws of Transmission through various lengths of onecable, by Fleeming Jenkin, Esq., communicated by C. Wheatstone,Esq., F.R.S.,’ contains an account of a large part ofJenkin’s experimental work in the Birkenhead factory duringthe years 1859 and 1860.  This paper is called Part I. Part II. alas never appeared, but something that it would haveincluded we can see from the following ominous statement which Ifind near the end of Part I.: ‘From this value, theelectrostatical capacity per unit of length and the specificinductive capacity of the dielectric, could be determined. These points will, however, be more fully p. 281treated ofin the second part of this paper.’  Jenkin had in factmade a determination at Birkenhead of the specific inductivecapacity of gutta-percha, or of the gutta-percha andChatterton’s compound constituting the insulation of thecable, on which he experimented.  This was the very firsttrue measurement of the specific inductive capacity of adielectric which had been made after the discovery by Faraday ofthe existence of the property, and his primitive measurement ofit for the three substances, glass, shellac, and sulphur; and atthe time when Jenkin made his measurements the existence ofspecific inductive capacity was either unknown, or ignored, ordenied, by almost all the scientific authorities of the day.

The original determination of the microfarad, brought outunder the auspices of the British Association Committee onElectrical Standards, is due to experimental work by Jenkin,described in a paper, ‘Experiments on Capacity,’constituting No. IV. of the appendix to the Report presented bythe Committee to the Dundee Meeting of 1867.  No otherdetermination, so far as I know, of this important element ofelectric measurement has hitherto been made; and it is no smallthing to be proud of in respect to Jenkin’s fame as ascientific and practical electrician that the microfarad which wenow all use is his.

The British Association unit of electrical resistance, onwhich was founded the first practical approximation to absolutemeasurement on the system of Gauss and p. 282Weber, waslargely due to Jenkin’s zeal as one of the originators, andpersevering energy as a working member, of the first ElectricalStandards Committee.  The experimental work of first makingpractical standards, founded on the absolute system, which led tothe unit now known as the British Association ohm, was chieflyperformed by Clerk Maxwell and Jenkin.  The realisation ofthe great practical benefit which has resulted from theexperimental and scientific work of the Committee is certainly ina large measure due to Jenkin’s zeal and perseverance assecretary, and as editor of the volume of Collected Reports ofthe work of the Committee, which extended over eight years, from1861 till 1869.  The volume of Reports includedJenkin’s Cantor Lectures of January, 1866, ‘OnSubmarine Telegraphy,’ through which the practicalapplications of the scientific principles for which he had workedso devotedly for eight years became part of general knowledge inthe engineering profession.

Jenkin’s scientific activity continued without abatementto the end.  For the last two years of his life he was muchoccupied with a new mode of electric locomotion, a veryremarkable invention of his own, to which he gave the name of‘Telpherage.’  He persevered with endlessingenuity in carrying out the numerous and difficult mechanicalarrangements essential to the project, up to the very last daysof his work in life.  He had completed almost every detailof the realisation of the system which was recently opened p. 283forpractical working at Glynde, in Sussex, four months after hisdeath.

His book on ‘Magnetism and Electricity,’ publishedas one of Longman’s elementary series in 1873, marked a newdeparture in the exposition of electricity, as the firsttext-book containing a systematic application of the quantitativemethods inaugurated by the British Association Committee onElectrical Standards.  In 1883 the seventh edition waspublished, after there had already appeared two foreign editions,one in Italian and the other in German.

His papers on purely engineering subjects, though notnumerous, are interesting and valuable.  Amongst these maybe mentioned the article ‘Bridges,’ written by himfor the ninth edition of the ‘EncyclopædiaBritannica,’ and afterwards republished as a separatetreatise in 1876; and a paper ‘On the Practical Applicationof Reciprocal Figures to the Calculation of Strains inFramework,’ read before the Royal Society of Edinburgh, andpublished in the ‘Transactions’ of that Society in1869.  But perhaps the most important of all is his paper‘On the Application of Graphic Methods to the Determinationof the Efficiency of Machinery,’ read before the RoyalSociety of Edinburgh, and published in the‘Transactions,’ vol. xxviii. (1876–78), forwhich he was awarded the Keith Gold Medal.  This paper was acontinuation of the subject treated in ‘Reulaux’sMechanism,’ and, recognising the value of that work,supplied the elements required to p. 284constitute from Reulaux’skinematic system a full machine receiving energy and doingwork.

II.  Note on the work of FleemingJenkin in connection with Sanitary Reform.  By Lt. Col. Alexander Fergusson.

It was, I believe, during theautumn of 1877 that there came to Fleeming Jenkin the firstinkling of an idea, not the least in importance of the many thatemanated from that fertile brain, which, with singular rapidity,took root, and under his careful fostering expanded into a schemethe fruits of which have been of the utmost value to hisfellow-citizens and others.

The phrase which afterwards suggested itself, and came intouse, ‘Healthy houses,’ expresses very happily thedrift of this scheme, and the ultimate object that Jenkin had inview.

In the summer of that year there had been much talk, and somenewspaper correspondence, on the subject of the unsatisfactorycondition of many of the best houses in Edinburgh as regardstheir sanitary state.  One gentleman, for example, drew anappalling picture of a large and expensive house he had bought inthe West-end of Edinburgh, fresh from the builder’shands.  To ascertain precisely what was wrong, and the stepsto be taken to remedy the evils, the effects p. 285of whichwere but too apparent, obviously demanded the expenditure of muchtime and careful study on the part of the intelligent proprietorhimself and the professional experts he had to call in, and, itis needless to add, much money.  There came also, from thepoorer parts of the town, the cry that in many cases the housesof our working people were built anyhow that the dictates of anarrow economy suggested to the speculative and irresponsiblebuilder.  The horrors of what was called the ‘Sandwichsystem,’ amongst other evils, were brought to light. It is sufficient to say, generally, that this particular practiceof the builder consists in placing in a block of workmen’shouses, to save space and money, the water cisterns of one flat,directly under the sanitary appliances of the other, and so on tothe top of a house of several storeys.  It is easy toconceive the abominations that must ensue when the leakage of theupper floors begins to penetrate to the drinking waterbelow.  The picture was a hideous one, apart from thewell-known fact that a whole class of diseases is habituallyspread by contaminated water.

In October, 1876, a brisk and interesting discussion had beencarried on in the columns of the Timesat intervals duringthe greater part of that month, in which the same subject, thatof the health and sewage of towns, had been dealt with by severalwriters well informed in such matters.  Amongst others,Professor Jenkin himself took part, as did Professor G. F.Armstrong, p.286who now occupies the chair of Civil Engineering inEdinburgh.  Many of the truths then advanced had beenrecently discussed at a meeting of the British Association.

It was while such topics were attracting attention thatFleeming Jenkin’s family were shocked by the sadintelligence of the loss that friends of theirs had sustained inthe deaths of several of their children from causes that could betraced up to the unsanitary condition of their house. Sympathy took the practical form of an intense desire thatsomething might be done to mitigate the chance of suchcalamities; and, I am permitted to say, the result of a home-talkon this subject was an earnest appeal to the head of the house toturn his scientific knowledge to account in some way that shouldmake people’s homes more healthy, and theirchildren’s lives more safe.  In answer to the callJenkin turned his thoughts in this direction.  And thescheme which I shall endeavour briefly to sketch out was theresult.

The obvious remedy for a faulty house is to call in a skilfulexpert, architect or engineer, who will doubtless point out bymeans of reports and plans what is wrong, and suggest a remedy;but, as remarked by Professor Jenkin, ‘it has not been thepractice for leading engineers to advise individuals about theirhouse arrangements, except where large outlay is incontemplation.’  A point of very considerableimportance in such a case as that now supposed.

p. 287Theproblem was to ensure to the great body of the citizens soundprofessional advice concerning their houses, such as had hithertobeen only obtainable at great cost—but ‘with dueregard to economical considerations.’

The advantages of co-operation are patent to all. Everyone can understand how, if a sufficient number of personscombine, there are few luxuries or advantages that are not withintheir reach, for a moderate payment.  The advice of afirst-rate engineer regarding a dwelling-house was a palpableadvantage; but within the reach of comparatively few.  Onehas heard of a winter in Madeira being prescribed as the cure fora poor Infirmary sufferer.

Like most good plans Jenkin’s scheme was simple in theextreme, and consisted in combinationand a smallsubscription.

‘Just,’ he says, ‘as the leading physicianof the day may give his services to great numbers of poorpatients when these are gathered in a hospital, although he couldnot practically visit them in their own houses, so the simplefact of a number of clients gathered into a group will enable theleading engineer to give them the benefit of hisadvice.’

But it was his opinion that only ‘continual supervisioncould secure the householder from danger due to defects insanitary appliances.’  He had in his eye a caseprecisely similar.  The following passage in one of hisfirst lectures, afterwards repeated frequently, conveys p. 288the essenceof Professor Jenkin’s theory, as well as a gracefulacknowledgment of the source from which this happy idea wasderived:—

‘An analogous case occurred to him,’ he said,‘in the “Steam Users’ Association,” inLancashire.  So many boilers burst in that district for wantof inspection that an association was formed for having theboilers under a continual course of inspection.  Let aperfect boiler be bought from a first-rate maker, the owner hasthen an apparatus as perfect as it is now sought to make thesanitary appliances in his house.  But in the course of timethe boiler must decay.  The prudent proprietor, therefore,joins the Steam-boiler Association, which, from time to time,examines his boiler, and by the tests they apply are able to givean absolute guarantee against accident.  This idea of aninspection by an association was due,’ the lecturercontinued, ‘to Sir William Fairbairn, under whom he had thehonour of serving his apprenticeship.’ [288]  The steam users were thusabsolutely protected from danger; and the same idea it was soughtto apply to the sanitary system of a house.

To bring together a sufficient number of persons, to form sucha ‘group’ as had been contemplated, was the firststep to be taken.  No time was lost in taking it.  Theidea hitherto roughly blocked out was now given a more definiteform.  The original sketch, as p. 289dictated by Jenkin himself, isbefore me, and I cannot do better than transcribe it, seeing itis short and simple.  Several important alterations wereafterwards made by himself in consultation with one or two of hisProvisional Council; and as experience suggested:—

‘The objects of this Association aretwofold.

‘1.  By taking advantage of the principle ofco-operation, to provide its members at moderate cost with suchadvice and supervision as shall ensure the proper sanitarycondition of their own dwellings.

‘2.  By making use of specially qualified officersto support the inhabitants and local authorities in enforcingobedience to the provisions of those laws and by-laws whichaffect the sanitary condition of the community.

‘It is proposed that an Association with these objectsbe formed; and that all residents within the municipal boundariesof Edinburgh be eligible as members.  That each member ofthe Association shall subscribe one guineaannually. That in return for the annual subscription each member shall beentitled to the following advantages:—

‘1.  A report by the Engineer of the Association onthe sanitary condition of his dwelling, with specificrecommendations as to the improvement of drainage, ventilation,&c., should this be found necessary.

‘2.  The supervision of any alterations in thesanitary fittings of his dwelling which may be carried out by theadvice, or with the approval, of the officers of theAssociation.

p.290‘3.  An annual inspection of his premises bythe Engineer of the Association, with a report as to theirsanitary condition.

‘4.  The right, in consideration of a payment offive shillings, of calling on the Engineer, and legal adviser [290] of the Association to inspect andreport on the existence of any infraction or supposed infractionof any law affecting the sanitary condition of the community.

‘It is proposed that the Association should be managedby an unpaid Council, to be selected by ballot from among itsmembers.

‘That the following salaried officers be engaged by theAssociation:

‘1.  One or more acting engineers, who should givetheir services exclusively to the Association.

‘2.  A consulting engineer, who should exercise ageneral supervision, and advise both on the general principles tobe followed, and on difficult cases.

‘3.  A legal agent, to be engaged on such terms asthe Council shall hereafter think fit.

‘4.  A permanent secretary.

‘It is also proposed that the officers of theAssociation should, with the sanction of the Council, have powerto take legal proceedings against persons who shall, in theiropinion, be guilty of any infraction of sanitary regulations inforce throughout the district; and generally it is intended thatthe Association shall p. 291further and promote all undertakingswhich, in their opinion, are calculated to improve the sanitarycondition of Edinburgh and its immediate neighbourhood.

‘In one aspect this Association will be analogous to theSteam Boiler Users’ Association, who co-operate in theemployment of skilled inspectors.  In a second aspect itwill be analogous to the Association for the Prevention ofCruelty to Animals, which assists the community in enforcingobedience to existing laws.’

Towards the end of November, 1877, this paper was handed aboutamong those who were thought most likely, from their position andpublic spirit, to forward such a scheme, so clearly for the goodof the community.  Nay more, a systematic‘canvass’ was set on foot; personal application themost direct was made use of.  The thing was new, and itsadvantages not perfectly obvious to all at a glance. Everyone who knows with what enthusiastic earnestness Jenkinwould take hold of, and insist upon, what he felt to be wholesomeand right will understand how he persisted, how he patientlyexplained, and swept away objections that were raised.  Onecould not choose but listen, and understand, and agree.

On the evening of 2nd January, 1878, or, to be more correct,the morning of the 3rd, two old school-fellows of his at theEdinburgh Academy walked home with him from an annual dinner oftheir ‘Class.’  All the way in glowing languagehe expounded his views of house inspection, and the protection ofhealth, asking p.292for sympathy.  It was most readily given, and theyparted from him with pleasant words of banter regarding thisvision of his of grafting ‘cleanliness’ upon anotherquality said to be a growth, in some sort, of this northern landof ours.

But they reckoned hardly sufficiently on the fact that whenJenkin took a thing of this kind in hand it must be; if itlay within the scope of a clear head and boundless energy.

Having secured a nucleus of well-wishers, the next step was toenlist the sympathies of the general public.  It was soughtto effect this by a series of public lectures.  The first ofthese (one of two) was given on 22nd January under the auspicesof the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution.  It was apparentto the shrewd lecturer that in bringing before the people ascheme like this, where there was much that was novel, it wasnecessary first of all that his audience should be aware of theevils to which they were exposed in their own houses, beforeunfolding a plan for a remedy.  The correspondence alreadyreferred to as having been carried on in the summer of theprevious year had shown how crude were the ideas of many personswell informed, or considered to be so, on this subject.  Forexample, there are few now-a-days who are not aware that a drain,to be safe, must have at intervals along its course openings tothe upper air, or that it must be ‘ventilated,’ asthe phrase goes.  But at the time spoken of there were somewho went so far as to p. 293question this principle; even toargue against it; calling forth this forciblereply—’Here is a pretty farce.  You pour out apoison and send it off on its way to the sea, and forget that onits way there its very essence will take wings and fly back intoyour house up the very pipes it but recently randown.’  A properly ‘trapped’ andventilated drain was the cure for this.

And the lecturer proceeded to show that in Edinburgh, wherefor the most part house construction is good and solid, but, asin other towns, the bulk of the houses were built when thearrangements for internal sewerage and water supply were verylittle understood, many serious errors were made. ‘But,’ the lecturer went on to say, ‘SanitaryScience was now established on a fairly sound basis, and the germtheory, or theory of septic ferments, had explained much whichused to be obscure.  This theory explained how it was thatfamilies might in certain cases live with fair health for manyyears in the midst of great filth, while the dwellers in largeand apparently clean mansions were struck down by fever anddiphtheria.  The filth which was found compatible withhealth was always isolated filth, and until the germs of somespecific disease were introduced, this dirt was merely injurious,not poisonous.  The mansions which were apparently clean andyet fever-visited were found to be those in which arrangementshad been made for the removal of offensive matter, whicharrangements served also to distribute poison germs from onehouse to another, from one p. 294room to another.  Thesemansions had long suckers extended from one to another throughthe common sewer.  Through these suckers, commonly called“house drains,” they imbibed every taint which anyone house in the system could supply.  In fact, arrangementswere too often made which simply “laid on” poison tobed-rooms just as gas or water was laid on.  He had known anintelligent person declare that no harm could come up a certainpipe which ended in a bed-room, because nothing offensive wentdown.  That person had never realised the fact that his pipejoined another pipe, which again joined a sewer, which againwhenever there was an epidemic in the neighbourhood, receivedinnumerable poison germs; and that, although nothing more seriousthan scented soap and water went down, the germs of typhoid fevermight any day come up.’

Professor Jenkin then proceeded to show how a house might beabsolutely cut off from all contamination from these sources ofevil.  Then by means of large diagrams he showed the severalsystems of pipes within a house.  One system colouredredshowed the pipes that received foul matter.  Asystem marked in blueshowed pipes used to ventilate thisred system.  The essential conditions of safety in theinternal fittings of a house—it was inculcated—werethat no air to be breathed, no water to be drunk, should ever becontaminated by connection with redor bluesystems.  Then in yellowwere shown the pipes whichreceived p.295dirty water, which was not necessarily foul. Lastly a whitesystem, which under no circumstances mustever touch the ‘red,’ ‘blue,’ or‘yellow’ systems.  Such a diagram recalled thecomplicated anatomical drawings which illustrate the system ofarteries and veins in the human frame.  Little wonder, then,that one gentleman remarked, in perplexity, that he had not roomin his house for such a mass of pipes; but they were alreadythere, with other pipes besides, all carefully hidden away, as inthe human tenement, with the inevitable result—as thepreacher of cleanliness and health declared—‘out ofsight, out of mind.’

In plain and forcible language were demonstrated the ills thisproduct of modern life is heir to; and the drastic measures thatmost of them demand to secure the reputation of a healthyhouse.  Lastly the formation of an Association to carry outthe idea (already sketched) cheaply, was briefly introduced.

Next morning, January 23rd, was the moment chosen to lay thescheme formally before the public.  In all the Edinburghnewspapers, along with lengthy reports of the lecture, appeared,in form of an advertisement, a statement [295] of the scheme and its objects,supported p.296by an imposing array of ‘ProvisionalCouncil.’  In due course several of the Scotsnewspapers and others, such as the Building News, gaveleading articles, all of them directing attention to this newthing, as ‘an interesting experiment about to be tried inEdinburgh,’ ‘what promises to be a very usefulsanitary movement, now being organised, and an example set thatmay be worthy of imitation elsewhere,’ and so on.

Several of the writers waxed eloquent on the singularingenuity of the scheme; the cheap professional advice to itsadherents, &c.; and the rare advantages to be gained by meansof co-operation and the traditional ‘one poundone.’

The Provisional Council was absolutely representative of thecommunity, and included names more than sufficient to inspireconfidence.  It included the Lord-Lieutenant of the county,Lord Rosebery; the Lord Justice Clerk, Lord Moncrieff; the LordAdvocate; Sir Robert Christison; several of the Judges of theCourt of Session; the Presidents of the Colleges of Physicians,and of Surgeons; many of the Professors of the University; theBishop of Edinburgh, and the p. 297Dean; several of the best known ofthe Clergy of the Church of Scotland, Established, Free, and ofother branches; one or two members of Parliament; more than onelady (who should have been perhaps mentioned earlier on thislist) well known for large views and public spirit; severalwell-known country gentlemen; one or two distinguished civilengineers and architects; and many gentlemen of repute forintelligence and business qualities.

Very soon after the second of the promised lectures, themembers of the new Society began to be numbered byhundreds.  By the 28th of February, 500 subscribers havingbeen enrolled, they were in a position to hold their firstregular meeting under the presidency of Sir Robert Christison,when a permanent Council composed of many of those who had fromthe first shown an interest in the movement—for example,Professor (now Sir Douglas) Maclagan and Lord Dean of Guild (nowSir James) Gowans, Professor Jenkin himself undertaking theduties of Consulting Engineer—were appointed.  AndJenkin was singularly fortunate in securing as Secretary the lateCaptain Charles Douglas, a worker as earnest as himself.  Itwas the theory of the originator that the Council, composed ofleading men not necessarily possessed of engineering knowledge,should ‘give a guarantee to the members that the officialsemployed should have been carefully selected, and themselves workunder supervision.  Every householder in this town,’he p. 298adds,‘knows the names of the gentlemen composing ourCouncil.’

The new Association was a success alike in town andcountry.  Without going far into statistics it will beevident what scope there was, and is, for such operations when itis stated that last year (1885) 60 per cent. of the housesinspected in London and its neighbourhood were found to have foulair escaping direct into them, and 81 per cent. had theirsanitary appliances in an unsatisfactory state.  Here inEdinburgh things were little, if any, better; as for the countryhouses, the descriptions of some were simply appalling.  Asthe new Association continued its operations it became therôleof the Consulting Engineer to note suchobjections, hypothetical or real, as were raised against theworking of his scheme.  Some of these were ingenious enough:but all were replied to in order, and satisfactorilyresolved.  It was shown, for example, that ‘you mighthave a dinner party in your house on the day of yourinspection’; that the Association worked in the utmostharmony with the city authorities, and with the tradesmen usuallyemployed in such business; and that the officials were as‘confidential’ as regards the infirmities of a houseas any physician consulted by a patient.  The strength ofthe engineering staff has been varied from time to time asoccasion required; at the moment of writing employment is foundin Edinburgh and country districts in various parts of Scotlandfor five engineers temporarily or permanently engaged.

p. 299Theposition Jenkin claimed for the Engineers was a high one, but nottoo high: thus he well defined it:—

‘In respect of Domestic Sanitation thebusiness of the Engineer and that of the medical man overlap; forwhile it is the duty of the engineer to learn from the doctorwhat conditions are necessary to secure health, the engineer may,nevertheless, claim in his turn the privilege of assisting in thewarfare against disease by using his professional skill todetermine what mechanical and constructive arrangements are bestadapted to secure these conditions.’ [299]

Flattery in the form of imitation followed in duecourse.  A branch was established at St. Andrews, and one ofthe earliest of similar institutions was founded at Newport inthe United States.  Another sprang up atWolverhampton.  In 1881 two such societies were announced ashaving been set on foot in London.  And the TimesofApril 14th, in a leading article of some length, drew attentionto the special features of the plan which it was stated hadfollowed close upon a paper read by Professor Fleeming Jenkinbefore the Society of Arts in the preceding month ofJanuary.  The adherents included such names as those of SirWilliam Gull, Professor Huxley, Professor Burdon Sanderson, andSir Joseph Fayrer.  The Saturday Review, in January,had already in a characteristic article enforced the principlesof the scheme, and shown how, for a small annual payment,‘the helpless and hopeless p. 300condition of the householder at themercy of the plumber’ might be for ever changed.

The London Association, established on the lines of the parentsociety, has been followed by many others year by year; amongstthese are Bradford, Cheltenham, Glasgow, and Liverpool in 1882;Bedford, Brighton, and Newcastle in 1883; Bath, Cambridge,Cardiff, Dublin, and Dundee in 1884; and Swansea in 1885; andwhile we write the first steps are being taken, with help fromEdinburgh, to establish an association at Montreal; sixteenAssociations.

Almost, it may be said, a bibliography has been achieved forFleeming Jenkin’s movement.

In 1878 was published Healthy Houses(Edin., DavidDouglas), being the substance of the two lectures alreadymentioned as having been delivered in Edinburgh with theintention of laying open the idea of the scheme then incontemplation, with a third addressed to the Medico-ChirurgicalSociety.  This book has been long out of print, and such hasbeen the demand for it that the American edition [300] is understood to be also out of print,and unobtainable.

In 1880 was printed (London, Spottiswoode & Co.) apamphlet entitled What is the Best Mode of Amending thePresent Laws with Reference to Existing Buildings, p. 301and alsoof Improving their Sanitary Condition with due Regard toEconomical Considerations?—the substance of a paperread by Professor Jenkin at the Congress of the Social ScienceAssociation at Edinburgh in October of that year.

The first item of Health Lectures for the People(Edin., 1881) consists of a discourse on the ‘Care of theBody’ delivered by Professor Jenkin in the Watt Institutionat Edinburgh, in which the theories of house sanitation are dwelton.

House Inspection, reprinted from the SanitaryRecord, was issued in pamphlet form in 1882.  Andanother small tract, Houses of the Poor; their SanitaryArrangement, in 1885.

In this connection it may be said that while the ideaformulated by Jenkin has been carried out with a measure ofsuccess that could hardly have been foreseen, in one point only,it may be noted, has expectation been somewhat disappointed asregards the good that these Associations should haveeffected—and the fact was constantly deplored by thefounder—namely, the comparative failure as a means ofimproving the condition of the dwellings of the poorerclasses.  It was ‘hoped that charity and public spiritwould have used the Association to obtain reports on poortenements, and to remedy the most glaring evils.’ [301]

p. 302Thegood that these associations have effected is not to be estimatedby the numbers of their membership.  They have educated thepublic on certain points.  The fact that they exist hasbecome generally known, and, by consequence, persons of allclasses are induced to satisfy themselves of the reasons for theexistence of such institutions, and thus they learn of the evilsthat have called them into being.

Builders, burgh engineers, and private individuals in any wayconnected with the construction of dwellings in town or countryhave been put upon their mettle, and constrained to keepthemselves abreast with the wholesome truths which theengineering staff of all these Sanitary Associations are themeans of disseminating.

In this way, doubtless, some good may indirectly have beendone to poorer tenements, though not exactly in the mannercontemplated by the founder.

Now, if it be true that Providence helps those who helpthemselves, surely a debt of gratitude is due to him who hasplaced (as has been attempted to be shown in this briefnarrative) the means of self-help and the attainment of apalpable benefit within the reach of all through the working of asimple plan, whose motto well may be, ‘HealthyHouses’; and device a strangled snake.

A. F.

FOOTNOTES

[113]  Reminiscences of My LaterLife, by Mary Howitt, Good Words, May 1886.

[288]  See paper read at the Congressof the Social Science Association, Edinburgh, October 8,1880.

[290]  It was ultimately agreed not toappoint an officer of this kind till occasion should arise forhis services; none has been appointed.

[295]  Briefly stated, the pointssubmitted in this prospectus were these:

1.  That the proposed Association was a Society for thebenefit of its members and the community that cannot be used forany purposes of profit.

2.  The privileges of members include the annualinspection of their premises, as well as a preliminary report ontheir condition with an estimate of the cost of any alterationsrecommended.

3.  The skilled inspection from time to time of drainsand all sanitary arrangements.

4.  No obligation on the part of members to carry out anyof the suggestions made by the engineers of the Association, whomerely give skilled advice when such is desired.

5.  The officers of the Association to have no interestin any outlay recommended.

6.  The Association might be of great service to thepoorer members of the community.

[299]  Healthy Houses, byProfessor Fleeming Jenkin, p. 54.

[300]  It is perhaps worth mentioningas a curiosity of literature that the American publishers whoproduced this book in the States, without consulting the author,afterwards sent him a handsome cheque, of course unsolicited byhim.

[301]  It is true, handsome tenementsfor working people have been built, such as the picturesque groupof houses erected with this object by a member of the Council ofthe Edinburgh Sanitary Association, at Bell’s Mills, sowell seen from the Dean Bridge, where every appliance thatscience can suggest has been made use of.  But for theordinary houses of the poor the advice of the Association’sengineers has been but rarely taken advantage of.

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