Part 1

THE MODERN TRAVELLER

BY H. B. and B. T. B. _Authors of “More Beasts (For Worse Children)”_

EDWARD ARNOLD 37, BEDFORD STREET, LONDON 1898

BY THE SAME AUTHORS.

BAD CHILD’S BOOK OF BEASTS. Fcap. 4to., 2s. 6d. nett. ALDEN & CO., OXFORD.

MORE BEASTS (for Worse Children). Demy 4to., 3s. 6d. EDWARD ARNOLD, LONDON.

THE MODERN TRAVELLER.

I.

The _Daily Menace_, I presume? Forgive the litter in the room. I can’t explain to you How out of place a man like me Would be without the things you see,-- The Shields and Assegais and odds And ends of little savage gods. Be seated; take a pew. (Excuse the phrase. I’m rather rough, And--pardon me!--but have you got A pencil? I’ve another here: The one that you have brought, I fear, Will not be long enough.)

And so the Public want to hear About the expedition From which I recently returned: Of how the Fetish Tree was burned; Of how we struggled to the coast, And lost our ammunition; How we retreated, side by side; And how, like Englishmen, we died. Well, as you know, I hate to boast, And, what is more, I can’t abide A popular position. I told the Duke the other day The way I felt about it. He answered courteously--“Oh!” An Editor (who had an air Of what the Dutch call _savoir faire_) Said, “Mr. Rooter, you are right, And nobody can doubt it.” The Duchess murmured, “Very true.” Her comments may be brief and few, But very seldom trite. Still, representing as you do A public and a point of view, I’ll give you leave to jot A few remarks,--a very few,-- But understand that this is not A formal interview. And, first of all, I will begin By talking of Commander Sin.

II.

Poor Henry Sin from quite a child, I fear, was always rather wild; But all his faults were due To something free and unrestrained, That partly pleased and partly pained The people whom he knew. Untaught (for what our times require), Lazy, and something of a liar, He had a foolish way Of always swearing (more or less); And, lastly, let us say A little slovenly in dress, A trifle prone to drunkenness; A gambler also to excess, And never known to pay. As for his clubs in London, he Was pilled at ten, expelled from three. A man Bohemian as could be-- But really vicious? Oh, no! When these are mentioned, all is said. And then--Commander Sin is dead: _De Mortuis cui bono?_

Of course, the Public know I mean To publish in the winter. I mention the intention in Connection with Commander Sin; The book is with the Printer. And here, among the proofs, I find The very thing I had in mind-- The portrait upon page thirteen.

Pray pause awhile, and mark The wiry limbs, the vigorous mien, The tangled hair and dark; The glance imperative and hot, That takes a world by storm: All these are in the plate, but what You chiefly should observe is The--Did you say his uniform Betrayed a foreign service?

Of course, it does! He was not born In little England! No! Beyond the Cape, beyond the Horn, Beyond Fernando Po, In some far Isle he saw the light That burns the torrid zone, But where it lay was never quite Indubitably known. Himself inclined to Martinique, His friends to Farralone. But why of this discussion speak? The Globe was all his own! Oh! surely upon such a birth No petty flag unfurled! He was a citizen of earth, A subject of the world!

As for the uniform he bore, He won it in the recent war Between Peru and Ecuador, And thoroughly he earned it. Alone of all who at the time Were serving sentences for crime, Sin, during his incarceration Had studied works on navigation; And when the people learned it, They promptly let him out of jail, But on condition he should sail.

It marked an epoch, and you may Recall the action in A place called Quaxipotle bay? Yes, both the navies ran away; And yet, if Ecuador can say That on the whole she won the day, The fact is due to Sin.

The Fleet was hardly ten weeks out, When somebody descried The enemy. Sin gave a shout, The Helmsmen put the ship about; For, upon either side, Tactics demanded a retreat. Due west retired the foreign fleet, But Sin he steered due east; He muttered, “They shall never meet.” And when, towards the close of day, The foemen were at least Fifteen or twenty miles away, He called his cabin-steward aft, The boldest of his men; He grasped them by the hand; he laughed A fearless laugh, and then, “Heaven help the right! Full steam a-head, Fighting for fighting’s sake,” he said.

Due west the foe--due east he steered. Ah, me! the very stokers cheered, And faces black with coal And fuzzy with a five days’ beard Popped up, and yelled, and disappeared Each in its little hole. Long after they were out of sight, Long after dark, throughout the night, Throughout the following day, He went on fighting all the time! Not war, perhaps, but how sublime!

Just as he would have stepped ashore, The President of Ecuador Came on his quarter deck; Embraced him twenty times or more, And gave him stripes and things galore, Crosses and medals by the score, And handed him a cheque,-- And then a little speech he read.

“Of twenty years, your sentence said, “That you should serve--another week “(Alas! it shames me as I speak) “Was owing when you quitted. “In recognition of your nerve, “It gives me pleasure to observe “The time you still had got to serve “Is totally remitted.

“Instead of which these friends of mine”-- (And here he pointed to a line Of Colonels on the Quay)-- “Have changed your sentence to a fine “Made payable to me. “No--do not thank me--not a word! “I am very glad to say “This little cheque is quite a third “Of what you have to pay.”

The crew they cheered and cheered again, The simple-loyal-hearted men!

Such deeds could never fail to be Renowned throughout the west. It was our cousins over sea That loved the Sailor best,-- Our Anglo-Saxon kith and kin, They doted on Commander Sin, And gave him a tremendous feast The week before we started. O’Hooligan, and Vonderbeast, And Nicolazzi, and the rest, Were simply broken-hearted.

They came and ate and cried, “God speed!” The Bill was very large indeed, And paid for by an Anglo-Saxon Who bore the sterling name of Jackson. On this occasion Sin was seen Toasting McKinley and the Queen. The speech was dull, but not an eye, Not even the champagne was dry.

[1]

Observe the face of William Jackson, How typical an Anglo-Saxon!

III.

Now William Blood, or, as I still Affectionately call him, Bill, Was of a different stamp; One who, in other ages born Had turned to strengthen and adorn The Senate or the Camp. But Fortune, jealous and austere, Had marked him for a great career Of more congenial kind-- A sort of modern Buccaneer, Commercial and refined. Like all great men, his chief affairs Were buying stocks and selling shares. He occupied his mind In buying them by day from men Who needed ready cash, and then At evening selling them again To those with whom he dined.

But such a task could never fill His masterful ambition That rapid glance, that iron will, Disdained (and rightfully) to make A profit here and there, or take His two per cent. commission. His soul with nobler stuff was fraught; The love of country, as it ought, Haunted his every act and thought. To that he lent his mighty powers, To that he gave his waking hours, Of that he dreamed in troubled sleep, Till, after many years, the deep Imperial emotion, That moves us like a martial strain, Turned his Napoleonic brain To company promotion.

He failed, and it was better so: It made our expedition. One day (it was a year ago) He came on foot across the town, And said his luck was rather down, And would I lend him half-a-crown? I did, but on condition (Drawn up in proper legal shape, Witnessed and sealed, and tied with tape, And costing two pound two), That, “If within the current year He made a hundred thousand clear,” He should accompany me in A Project I had formed with Sin To go to Timbuctoo. Later, we had a tiff because I introduced another clause, Of which the general sense is, That Blood, in the unlikely case Of this adventure taking place, Should pay the whole expenses. Blood swore that he had never read Or seen the clause. But Blood is dead.

Well, through a curious stroke of luck, That very afternoon he struck A new concern, in which, By industry and honest ways, He grew (to his eternal praise!) In something less than sixty days Inordinately rich.

Let me describe what he became The day that he succeeded,-- Though, in the searching light that Fame Has cast on that immortal name, The task is hardly needed.

The world has very rarely seen A deeper gulf than stood between The men who were my friends. And, speaking frankly, I confess They never cared to meet, unless It served their private ends.

Sin loved the bottle, William gold; ’Twas Blood that bought and Sin that sold, In all their mutual dealings. Blood never broke the penal laws; Sin did it all the while, because He had the finer feelings.

Blood had his dreams, but Sin was mad: While Sin was foolish, Blood was bad, Sin, though I say it, was a cad. (And if the word arouses Some criticism, pray reflect How twisted was his intellect, And what a past he had!) But Blood was exquisitely bred, And always in the swim, And people were extremely glad To ask him to their houses. Be not too eager to condemn: It was not he that hunted them, But they that hunted him.

In this fair world of culture made For men of his peculiar trade, Of all the many parts he played, The part he grew to like the best Was called “the self-respecting guest.” And for that very reason He found himself in great request At parties in the season, Wherever gentlemen invest, From Chelsea to Mayfair. From Lath and Stucco Gate, S.W., To 90, Berkeley Square. The little statesmen in the bud, The big provincial mayor, The man that owns a magazine, The authoress who might have been; They always sent a card to Blood, And Blood was always there. At every dinner, crush or rout, A little whirlpool turned about The form immoveable and stout, That marked the Millionaire.

Sin (you remember) could not stay In any club for half a day, When once his name was listed; But Blood belonged to ninety-four, And would have joined as many more Had any more existed. Sin at a single game would lose A little host of I.O.U.’s, And often took the oath absurd To break the punters or his word Before it was completed. Blood was another pair of shoes: A man of iron, cold and hard, He very rarely touched a card, But when he did he cheated.[2]

[2]

These gentlemen are bulls and bears, Their club has very curious chairs.

Again the origin of Sin, Was doubtful and obscure; Whereas, the Captain’s origin Was absolutely sure.

A document affirms that he Was born in 1853 Upon a German ship at sea, Just off the Grand Canary. And though the log is rather free And written too compactly, We know the weather to a T, The longitude to a degree, The latitude exactly, And every detail is the same; We even know his Mother’s name. As to his father’s occupation, Creed, colour, character or nation, (On which the rumours vary); He said himself concerning it, With admirably caustic wit, “I think the Public would much rather Be sure of me than of my father.”

The contrast curiously keen Their characters could yield Was most conspicuously seen Upon the Tented Field. Was there by chance a native tribe To cheat, cajole, corrupt, or bribe?-- In such conditions Sin would burn To plunge into the fray, While Blood would run the whole concern From fifty miles away.

He had, wherever honours vain Were weighed against material gain A judgment, practical and sane, Peculiarly his own. In this connection let me quote An interesting anecdote Not generally known. Before he sailed he might have been (If he had thought it paid him) A military man of note. Her gracious Majesty the Queen Would certainly have made him, In spite of his advancing years, A Captain of the Volunteers.

A certain Person of the Sort That has great influence at Court, Assured him it was so; And said, “It simply lies with you To get this little matter through. You pay a set of trifling fees To me--at any time you please----” Blood stopped him with a “No!” “This signal favour of the Queen’s Is very burdensome. It means A smart Review (for all I know), In which I am supposed to show Strategical ability: And after that tremendous fights And sleeping out on rainy nights, And much responsibility. Thank you: I have my own position, I need no parchment or commission, And everyone who knows my name Will call me ‘Captain’ just the same.” There was our leader in a phrase: A man of strong decisive ways, But reticent[3] and grim. Though not an Englishman, I own, Perhaps it never will be known What England lost in him!

[3]

This reticence, which some have called hypocrisy Was but the sign of nature’s aristocracy.

IV.

The ship was dropping down the stream, The Isle of Dogs was just abeam, And Sin and Blood and I Saw Greenwich Hospital go past, And gave a look--(for them the last)-- Towards the London sky! Ah! nowhere have I ever seen A sky so pure and so serene!

Did we at length, perhaps, regret Our strange adventurous lot? And were our eyes a trifle wet With tears that we repressed, and yet Which started blinding hot? Perhaps--and yet, I do not know, For when we came to go below, We cheerfully admitted That though there was a smell of paint (And though a very just complaint Had to be lodged against the food), The cabin furniture was good And comfortably fitted. And even out beyond the Nore We did not ask to go ashore.

To turn to more congenial topics, I said a little while ago The food was very much below The standard needed to prepare Explorers for the special fare Which all authorities declare Is needful in the tropics. A Frenchman sitting next to us Rejected the asparagus; The turtle soup was often cold, The ices hot, the omelettes old, The coffee worse than I can tell; And Sin (who had a happy knack Of rhyming rapidly and well Like Cyrano de Bergerac) Said “Quant à moi, je n’aime pas Du tout ce pâté de foie gras!” But this fastidious taste Succeeded in a startling way; At Dinner on the following day They gave us Bloater Paste. Well--hearty Pioneers and rough Should not be over nice; I think these lines are quite enough, And hope they will suffice To make the Caterers observe The kind of Person whom they serve.----

* * * * *

And yet I really must complain About the Company’s Champagne! This most expensive kind of wine In England is a matter Of pride or habit when we dine (Presumably the latter). Beneath an equatorial sky You _must_ consume it or you die; And stern indomitable men Have told me, time and time again, “The nuisance of the tropics is The sheer necessity of fizz.” Consider then the carelessness-- The lack of polish and address, The villainy in short, Of serving what explorers think To be a necessary drink In bottles holding something less Than one Imperial quart, And costing quite a shilling more Than many grocers charge ashore.

* * * * *

At sea the days go slipping past, Monotonous from first to last-- A trip like any other one In vessels going south. The sun Grew higher and more fiery.

We lay and drank, and swore, and played At Trick-my-neighbour in the shade; And you may guess how every sight, However trivial or slight, Was noted in my diary. I have it here--the usual things-- A serpent (not the sort with wings) Came rising from the sea: In length (as far as we could guess) A quarter of a mile or less. The weather was extremely clear The creature dangerously near And plain as it would be.

It had a bifurcated tail, And in its mouth it held a whale.

Just north, I find, of Cape de Verd We caught a very curious bird With horns upon its head; And--not, as one might well suppose, Web-footed or with jointed toes-- But having hoofs instead. As no one present seemed to know Its use or name, I let it go.

On June the 7th after dark A young and very hungry shark Came climbing up the side. It ate the Chaplain and the Mate-- But why these incidents relate? The public must decide, That nothing in the voyage out Was worth their bothering about, Until we saw the coast, which looks Exactly as it does in books.

V.

Oh! Africa, mysterious Land! Surrounded by a lot of sand And full of grass and trees, And elephants and Afrikanders, And politics and Salamanders, And Germans seeking to annoy, And horrible rhinoceroi, And native rum in little kegs, And savages called Touaregs (A kind of Soudanese). And tons of diamonds, and lots Of nasty, dirty Hottentots, And coolies coming from the East; And serpents, seven yards long at least And lions, that retain Their vigour, appetites and rage Intact to an extreme old age, And never lose their mane.

Far Land of Ophir! Mined for gold By lordly Solomon of old, Who sailing northward to Perim Took all the gold away with him, And left a lot of holes; Vacuities that bring despair To those confiding souls Who find that they have bought a share In marvellous horizons, where The Desert terrible and bare Interminably rolls.

Great Island! Made to be the bane Of Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. Peninsula! Whose smouldering fights Keep Salisbury awake at nights; And furnished for a year or so Such sport to M. Hanotaux.

Vast Continent! Whose cumbrous shape Runs from Bizerta to the Cape (Bizerta on the northern shore, Concerning which, the French, they swore It never should be fortified, Wherein that cheerful people lied).

Thou nest of Sultans full of guile, Embracing Zanzibar the vile And Egypt, watered by the Nile (Egypt, which is, as I believe, The property of the Khedive):-- Containing in thy many states Two independent potentates, And one I may not name. (Look carefully at number three, Not independent quite, but he Is more than what he used to be.) To thee, dear goal, so long deferred Like old Æneas--in a word To Africa we came.

We beached upon a rising tide At Sasstown on the western side; And as we touched the strand I thought--(I may have been mistook)-- I thought the earth in terror shook To feel its Conquerors land.

VI.