CHAPTER XVI THE DEATH OF CANON HARFORD-PARKHURST PRISON CONAN DOYLE THE CHARGE OF -SIR A. THE LIGHT BRIGADE-AN AFTERNOON WITH Ο N Nov. 11th, 1906, my father writes in his "commonplace" book : 1 Last night, Nov. 10th, 1906, as I was on my way back to De Vere Gardens from the Athenæum Club, it struck me that I would look in on my old friend, Minor Canon F. K. Harford, in Deans Yard. Mrs Smith said I 1 He and those of the family then at home were temporarily staying at the Prince of Wales Hotel, De Vere Gardens, Kensington, prior to moving to his last home, 8в Portman Mansions, Baker Street. 2 Minor Canon of Westminster-also an accomplished linguist, composer of music, sculptor and poet. He boasted that he could make an impromptu rhymed verse from any word suggested to him : * A genuine rhyme for Kennedy? Just wait a minute, There oughtn't to be any di- * What! No one ever found a rhyme for month? If Jo dare laugh-I'll say that he's a dunth. * Afterwards published in a book: "Epigrammatica," Hy. Sotheran. FREDERICK KILL HARFORD have very bad news for you. : 245 But I had heard this so often before that I took little heed. But by and by she lighted a taper and took me up to poor Harford's room studio-a very piggery, where all in the dark he was lying propped up on pillows, perfectly unconscious, apparently moribund; she held the taper to his face: his mouth was open his eyes closed looking as if they were glued together. I took his hand and felt his pulse which was very feeble tho' his hand was warm. I tried to get him to speak, but in vain. This afternoon, Sunday, Nov. 11th, I called again with Dr Wright, my friend. He had rallied slightly in the morning and had said, “Tell the King I give him my blessing"; he had also asked her to read the lesson for the day and to hold his hand. When we saw him he had relapsed and was totally unconscious breathing very quickly & his pulse very feeble, his feet cold, his hand and cheek also. I felt his cheek. Dr Wright said he was plainly dying-thought he would not last the night, the case was quite hopeless. Poor dear old Harford-he was nobody's enemy but his own-truly an extraordinary and unique man. When I got this morning, Monday 12th, to the University (Birmingham) there was a letter from Wright, "Canon Harford died last night at 7-20 when we were at dinner." That would be about one hour and three-quarters after we left him. Requiescat in pace. * Come, James; at rhymes you're always bold, "I can't, becauth I've taken cold, and cot it id by stubbock." * Ibid. Wednesday, Dec. 26th, 1906. Went with Donkin to Isle of Wight to see Parkhurst Prison : had a pleasant journey. Next day visited the Prison-saw it thoroughly-sat with him while he heard the Convicts who had any complaints or requests to make: most interesting. Saw all over the grounds and in fact the whole thing. Returned to Pier Hotel Ryde: Dr Archdall Reid dined with us and had long talk till nearly 1 a.m. Visited the Prison again-saw this time the Weak-Minded. On Friday at five we left for Conan Doyle's at Hindhead. Motor met usrather frightened me by the speed with which it raced along the narrow snow-covered road. Had a delightful time with Conan Doyle who is on fire with the Edalji case: going to deal exhaustively with it in the Daily Telegraph. Besides their common interest in the Edalji Case in particular and in criminology generally, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle says: "His tastes and mine ran close in literature and many passages which I could vaguely indicate he would recite right off. There was one prodigious tour-de-force. 'Can you recall,' said I, 'Napier's account of the Fusiliers at Albuera.' He thought for a moment and then started right off on that fine rolling passage. I knew it well enough to miss one fine sentence and I recalled the purport of it. He harked back, picked up the missing sentence, and went on to the end, covering, I daresay, two HIS COMPACT WITH A FRIEND 247 thirds of a printed page entirely from the memory of having read it years before. I think the dignity of diction which he possessed was one of his most striking attributes. I have often thought that Dr Johnson's style must have been somewhat the same. It was slow, sonorous, measured, with a volume of sound and meaning. The most ordinary incident became impressive from his lips. His memory too excelled anything I can remember. He had a great heart for any case of oppression. It made him quite frenzied with indignation, for he had a fine sense of justice. Yet he weighed a case well before he went into it." The next entry in his Memoirs is concerned with a séance which he attended. On the subject of spiritualistic phenomena his mind was quite open, and he had a genuine interest in the search for any true manifestations of this kind. Some time before going to this séance he had made a compact with an intimate friend, named Alaric Watts, that whoever died first would do his best to appear to the other in some form at a particular place in Oxford, where the compact was made. Watts, who was a confirmed spiritualist, died first, and though my father for his part held to the agreement and kept a lonely vigil in the dark at the appointed place, the spirit of his friend did not manifest itself in any way. Far from discouraged, my father was all the more eager to get into communication with his lost friend by methods which are supposed to produce more successful results. And so he went to a séance. I am, unfortunately, not at liberty to print his account of it, as several distinguished people were present, and his remarks on their credulity, as well as on the proceedings, are more forcible than polite. All who knew him will remember that he could express himself very forcibly on occasions, and were unwilling to expose themselves to his wrath. One evening the conversation turned upon the less frequented country walks, and my father remarked to Mr Max Beerbohm that he had been reading his Essays, and was much interested in Prangley Valley which is there depicted in glowing terms, adding that he intended taking my mother there for one of their Sunday walks. "For Heaven's sake, don't do that," said the alarmed "Max,” “I have had a letter about that walk from an enraged colonel, who, after wandering about for three hours in the broiling sun, with two ladies, failed to find the place. And that for a very good reason," continued "Max" with a twinkle in his eye, "there aint no sich place!" After this digression, let us return to the Memoirs, where there is the following account, as |