The Romance of a Pro-Consul | Page 3

'Why, I am getting, to be quite a depository of your
memories and ideas.' At that he smiled, 'And who, do you fancy, would

thank you for them?' Thus a portrait of Sir George grew with me, and I
was for stroking it down somehow. 'Oh well,' quoth he, 'let's try and
gather together what may be fresh, or suggestive, in my experiences,
and yours be the blame. Whatever you do must have a certain spirit of
action--you know what I mean!--or nobody will look at it. You'll need
to whisk along.'
In Froude's phrase, the life of Sir George Grey had been a romance, and
that was the road which caught me. No wonder, for it was a broad road,
in the sense that his whole being was a romance. He saw things beneath
a radiant light, and he saw many which to others would have been
invisible. Nor, was his grasp of them less accurate, because he strained
his eye most earnestly for what was most beautiful. The romantic
element in his outlook gave colour, vividness, meaning to the
unconsidered trifles--in fine, you had a chronicle and a seer.
On the one hand, then, I sought for the texts with a likely stir in them;
on the other for those of personality, streaked by affairs. The references
were consulted, or Sir George's own words of old delved among; and
from his discourse there sprang a regular series of notes. 'It's a kind of
task,' he remarked once, 'that might easily enough lend itself to
vain-glory. We must avoid that.'
If there is anything that could so be read, I alone am the sinner; for with
his memories there go my interpretation and appreciation of him. What
should I do but write of Sir George Grey as I beheld him, of his career
as one captured by it? His nature, like every rich nature, had folds, but I
only knew their warmth. With that, I step round the mountain side.

II HOME IS THE WARRIOR
Things call to each other after the great silence has fallen, scenes come
together, and that is how it seems here.
A ship, bound on a far voyage, lay in Plymouth waters the day that the
Queen succeeded to the throne. It was laden with an expedition for the

new wonderland of the Australias, whither it duly sailed. As leader, the
expedition had a young lieutenant of the 83rd Foot Regiment, George
Grey.
On a spring afternoon, fifty-seven years later, there landed at the same
port, from a New Zealand liner, an aged man who received marked
attention. He was as a gnarled oak of the wide-ranged British forest,
and the younger trees bent in salute to him. It was Sir George Grey,
returned finally to the Motherland, which had sent him forth to build
nations.
He had gone in a tubby wooden craft, the winds his carrier, across
oceans that were pathless, except to the venturer. He returned by steam,
through seas which it had tamed to the churn and rumble of the screw.
What thought in the contrasting pictures of the world! The two
Englands might have met each other in the street, and passed, strangers.
'From the windows of my hotel at Plymouth,' Sir George recalled, 'I
watched the citizens proclaim the young Queen. Who among them
could have imagined the glorious reign hers was to be? It was to
surpass in bounty of achievement all foretelling.'
Now, he would meet, for the last time, the Sovereign who, like himself,
had tended the rise of Oceana. This was at Windsor, to which he had
summons soon after he reached England. He had been exalted a
member of the Privy Council, and must be sworn in by the Queen. The
tribute was cheerful to him, since the very nature of it set seal upon his
services to the Empire. The longing for some word of England's
remembrance had assuredly been in his heart, which had often been left
desolate. It was all rapture to England, like a child's to its mother.
'For mere honours themselves,' was his broad attitude thereon, 'I
entertain no special regard. A title to one's name, a red ribbon, or
something else, what are they but baubles, unless there is more? What
more? Why, they hand down a record of the public work that a person
may have endeavoured to perform. In that respect they should have
esteem, being the recognition of efforts to serve Queen and people.

'Nothing could be more unfortunate than that a country should neglect
services rendered to it. The loss is its own, because, apart from justice
to the individual, his example is not kept alive to encourage others
coming after. In so far, then, as that reasoning may apply to myself--not
very far, perhaps--I