upstairs under his arms,--how also the genial giant, quite the
Arac of Tennyson's Princess, was the gentlest and kindest and least
dangerous of knights-errant (unless, indeed, his just wrath was aroused
by anything mean or insolent, when doubtless he could be terrible), and
how he was the idolised of men, especially his own brother giants of the
Royal Regiment of Blues, and naturally was also the adored of women
wherever he showed himself. This Admirable Crichton had every social
accomplishment, but as he was also gifted with a knowledge of many
tongues, even to Turkish and Arabic, beyond the more familiar French,
German, Italian, and Spanish, of course he must dare all sorts of
perilous travel, if only to prove that he was no carpet-knight, no mere
'gold stick' at court, or silver-casqued statue at the Horse Guards. So
he fearlessly risked his life in all ways on every possible occasion
which the War Office routine gave him on holiday.

"Khiva and Kars, and of late at last the fatal Mahdi war, had
fascinations for him of danger which his thirst for active service (too
much refused to him as obliged officially to be a stay-at-home) had not
power to resist; and we all know how gallantly, if indeed too rashly, he
fought and fell on what his Viking blood loved best as a deathbed, the
field of battle. For he came of an old Teutonic family, and on his
mother's side was also a direct descendant, as he told me himself, of
our heroic and gigantic King Edward III., whom he is said greatly to
have resembled, as the portrait at Windsor Castle proves. We were
talking about ancestry and the anecdote came out naturally enough.

"In politics a strong Conservative, he, with characteristic antagonism,
chose radical Birmingham for his coveted seat in Parliament, but alas!
he has not lived to hazard the election. He was a neat, fluent, and
epigrammatic speaker, as potent with his tongue as with his sword; and
as for the pen (albeit his handwriting must have puzzled compositors),
the myriads of readers who have enjoyed his stirring books in print, can
testify how brilliant and eloquent he was for the matter of authorship.
He told me of a new novel--of the satirico-political sort--which he had
written for the press, but as yet we hear nothing definite of its
publication.

"My own personal acquaintance with the familiar 'Fred. Burnaby' was
confined to several hospitable dinner-parties at the house of his
relative, Lady W----, my near neig