We were furnished by Mr. Archibald, our Consul at New York, with the most accurate information as to all the men and ships engaged in the traffic; we knew them all, and we kept a sort of album and register, which I started, from which we sent out slips to the Admiralty to be forwarded to the West Coast of Africa. We got at last to find the sort of interest in our work that the detectives of Scotland Yard have in theirs, and to feel a certain professional pride in every conviction. It was interesting years afterwards to hear from my old friend Billy Hewitt, when he was commanding the _Basilisk_ in the China seas, of the prize money which those slips had been the means of putting into his pocket when he skippered a small vessel in the West African squadron. There was always plenty of work, though our hours were very late. We did not begin until twelve, or even after that, but then we did not strike the balance as Charles Lamb did, by going away early. We were often copying for the mails till after seven o’clock, and in stress of political weather we had to wait till almost any hour. But the free mornings were a great boon—I always had time for a drawing lesson at South Kensington, or an hour’s fencing and gymnastics at Harrison’s in Panton Street, where there was a daily gathering of the same men—amongst them Lord Stanley, then Colonial Minister, a very regular attendant. He would come in laden with a sheaf of blue books and despatches, speak to no one, and between his exercises bury himself in political work. He would leave as he came, silent and self-contained, carrying his papers under his arm. He was immensely strong, but clumsy; he could have felled an ox, but he would not have done it gracefully. When the late Lord Redesdale was staying at Knowsley, shortly after Lord Stanley had published his Iliad, he said to his host: “What does Stanley think of your Homer?” “He knows nothing about it,” answered Lord Derby, laughing, “he’s never read it. You see it isn’t a Blue Book!” Probably no statesman of Lord Stanley’s value has ever been so little understood; presumably it was his own choice, for certainly he did not wear his heart upon his sleeve, nor could anyone accuse him of affability, or of overmuch sympathy with his kind. Perhaps Lord Sanderson, who was not only his private secretary, but his intimate and trusted friend to boot, is the only man who could throw some light upon that strange character.