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CHAPTER XXXVII.

A TRIP TO BARBARY.

Dedication of "My Diary in America" to W. H. Russell-A Story of Miss Florence Nightingale-Joseph Jefferson Accepts an Invitation Intended for Someone Else-The Misses Bateman and their Father-His Unruly HairIn Paris Once More-Marseilles-The Municipality and "the Widow Bonaparte"-Algiers-An Interview with Napoleon-The Promoter of the Red Cross Ambulance -A Droll Incident in the Theatre at Oran-The Flavour of Ostrich Egg-At Hamburg Again-Vicissitudes of Fortune at Cassel-In Holland.

SOON after returning to England I published the articles which I had written in the Daily Telegraph under the title of "My Diary in America in the Midst of War," and I dedicated the two volumes to W. H. Russell with the simple legend Crimea, India, America." Is there a British journalist who has done more for his country, for the Republic-I mean the term in its true sense, La Chose Publique, the Public Thing-than William Howard Russell? When our heroic soldiers before Sebastapol were half starving, in rags, and decimated by sickness, Russell, as war correspondent of the Times newspaper, recorded their sufferings and denounced the carelessness, the stupidity, the crass imbecility of the Government and its officials, who had been the prime cause of the misery and the mortality in the ranks of the British Army. No history of the war into the undertaking of which England was cajoled by the by the tortuous policy of

Napoleon III., would be complete without the amplest justice being done not only to William Howard Russell, but to the heroic Florence Nightingale, the "Lady of the Lamp" of Longfellow.

"On England's annals, through the long
Hereafter of her speech and song,

That light its rays shall cast
Through portals of the past.

"A Lady with a Lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good

Heroic womanhood."

By the way, Alexis Soyer, who, during his stay in the East, did yeoman's service in the hospital kitchens at Balaclava and Scutari, told me a story about Miss Nightingale which I have not seen in print. A soldier who had been severely and shockingly wounded was in such dire agony that, after the manner of his kind, he burst into a frenzy of cursing and swearing, for which he was sternly rebuked by the surgeon who was bandaging his wounds. "How dare he," asked the medico, "use such language in the presence of a lady?" Miss Nightingale was standing close by, and she said quietly to the surgeon: "Please to mind your own business. Can't you see that the poor man is in fearful pain, and does not know what he is saying?

"America in the Midst of War" was published by Tinsley Brothers, of Catherine Street, who paid me eight hundred pounds for the copyright. Thus,

contrasting the financial results of my American tour with those of my Russian journey seven years before, I think that on the whole the balance was much in favour of the Transatlantic expedition. I went back to my old business of writing six leaders a week in the Daily Telegraph, quite unconscious that another most stirring and eventful year was before me. In April, 1865, the Emperor Napoleon III. was preparing to make a progress through Algeria; and my proprietors suggested that I should follow the Imperial party, and send home letters descriptive of what I had seen in North Africa; so I once more bade farewell to my household gods in Guilford Street and started for Paris en route for Marseilles and Algiers.

Before, however, I recount my experiences of a trip to Barbary, I may mention a somewhat ludicrous adventure which happened to me in connection with that excellent American comedian, Mr. Joseph Jefferson, the unrivalled impersonator of Rip Van Winkle. One Saturday I saw an advertisement in the papers stating that on the ensuing Monday Mr. Jefferson was to make his appearance at the Adelphi Theatre in Dion Boucicault's strikingly romantic Rip Van Winkle. seemed to me that I had often met Mr. Jefferson in society in New York, and that we had been on friendly and, indeed, intimate terms; so I wrote to him at the Charing Cross Hotel as follows: "Dear Old Hoss,-Pork and beans to-morrow at seven. Come on." The letter was duly sent to the hotel; but early

It

on Sunday morning the terrible truth broke on my mind that the actor who had been so friendly to me in New York was not named Jefferson, but had an entirely different appellation; and that I did not know Mr. Joseph Jefferson of Rip Van Winkle fame from the Man in the Moon. How the astounding aberration had come about I cannot tell. I passed the day in moody perturbation! At 7.30 p.m., lo and behold! Mr. Joseph Jefferson, in full evening dress, duly made his appearance. 'I wasn't going to miss a good chance," he said, as he took his seat at our modest board, and we spent a delightful evening.

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I may also in this connection say that just before I went to the States I had the advantage to make the acquaintance of Miss Kate Bateman, a young and beautiful actress, who took the town by storm by her pathetic and impassioned performance of "Leah" in the drama of that name, which was played for I know not how many months in succession at the Adelphi. Horace and Augustus Mayhew, Charles Kenney, and I used to go at least three times a week to the stalls at the Adelphi for the express purpose of weeping bitterly over the woes of the persecuted Hebrew maiden, and of being thrilled by the terrific Curse which she uttered. I remembered the charming actress as having, when quite a little girl, played in conjunction with her sister as "The Bateman Children" at the Surrey Theatre, and also at the St. James's. Their Their papa was a highly typical American gentleman whom we used to call Colonel Bateman. Eventually, he became lessee

and manager of the Lyceum; and it was under his spirited management that Henry Irving made his earliest and most brilliant successes.

Colonel Bateman had one curious physical peculiarity; he had a head of hair as bushy as Henri Rochefort's; but it was rebellious hair, hair that would not be either parted or smoothed. There was

a story told about this head of hair and clever little William MacConnell, the artist, which will bear relating. There was a dress rehearsal at the Lyceum one evening, and the stalls were very full. Little MacConnell was sitting just behind Colonel Bateman, who had his hat on. The artist could see nothing of what was going on; on the shoulder, saying: "Will you be kind enough to take your hat off?" "Willingly," replied the always courteous and obliging colonel. Off went his hat, but suddenly up sprang his rebellious hair like so many quills of the fretful porcupine. "For Heaven's sake put your hat on again!" cried little MacConnell in dismay.

and he touched the manager

A very good fellow, an "all-round" one, was Colonel Bateman; he had a varied experience as a theatrical manager in the States, and was full of droll stories of theatrical vicissitudes; among which I remember one of his having taken a company touring in a barge down the Mississippi. Times were bad and audiences scanty. One evening when the colonel was playing King Lear to a sadly exiguous audience, in the middle of the storm scene the actor who played Edgar