I had almost forgotten the cold weather paper-chases, having so much of interest to recount in the way of racing. Lord Bill was very fond of riding after paper, and the Calcutta Paperchases were no child’s play. He ran second in the Cup in the cold weather of 1880-81, riding Oliver Twist, third on Mariner 1881-82, first on Premier in 1882-83, first on Diamond in 1887-88. Captain Muir, commanding the Body Guard, who has already been mentioned as having been left in charge of Lord Bill’s affairs when he started for Zululand, won the Calcutta Paperchase Cup three years running on his Warwickshire Lad, I believe, in the cold weather of 1877-78--1878-79--1879-80. The only person that I know of with such a record. I ought perhaps to explain that the Viceroy and each Governor has a Body Guard for escorts, guards, sentries, etc., much the same as the Household Cavalry in England with the King. The Viceroy’s Body Guard was very impressive with its scarlet uniform and lances. What a gift it is to be able to speak well. Lord Bill was a happy speaker, always to the point, and always amusing, and how people do like to be amused. We have only to look at the money made by humorists like Mr. George Robey, who earns £200 a week to make people laugh, and is worth it, or he would not receive that handsome money; Little Tich with his £250 a week, or Cissy Loftus, the mimic, who received £250 a week for her services. Compare with this the pay of some of our Indian officials, toiling in the heat, often separated from all that makes life lovely. Truly it is better to be funny than great, but then after all it is great to be funny. Lord William thought every boy ought to be taught to speak, and considered debating societies excellent practice for them, which no doubt they are, teaching them not only to think, but to express themselves intelligibly and to frame their sentences. As Lord William expressed it, “Everybody has not got the gift of the gab,” but most can acquire it, and no doubt this is true to a great extent; some great speakers have been miserable failures to begin with, though overflowing with things they wanted to say. Disraeli was an example. His first speech in the House of Commons was an utter failure, possibly partially from nervousness, also want of practice; eventually his phraseology was both forceful and picturesque. While Huxley, giving his first lecture at the Royal Institute, I am told, was quite painful, so much so, that he received a letter imploring him never to speak again, which was not encouraging. Some can speak and cannot write, others can write and cannot speak. This has been brought home to me lately while turning over old letters and documents searching for those relating to the subject of these memories.