of excise duties.  Mr. Gladstone was asked what “Mum” was, and confessed that he had not the smallest idea.  The opportunity for instructing the omniscient Mr. Gladstone seemed such a unique one, that I nearly jumped up in my place to tell him that it was a sweet black beer brewed from wheat, and peculiar to Brunswick; but being a very young Member of the House then, I refrained, as it looked too much like self-advertisement; besides, “Mum” was so obviously the word.  “White beer” is only made in Berlin; it is not unlike our ginger-beer, and is pleasant enough.  The orthodox way of ordering it in Berlin is to ask the waiter for “eine kuhle Blonde.”  I do not suppose that one drop of either of these beverages has been imported into the United Kingdom for a hundred years; equally I imagine that the first two Georges loved them as recalling their beloved Hanover, and indulged freely in them; whence their place in our Customs tariff.

One of the members of the English and French Club was a Mr. Vieweg, at that time, I believe, the largest manufacturer of sulphate of quinine in Europe.  Mr. Vieweg was that rara avis amongst middle-class German business-men, a born sportsman.  He had already made two sporting trips to Central Africa after big game, and rented a large shooting estate near Brunswick.  In common with the other members of the Club, he treated me very kindly and hospitably, and I often had quaint repasts at his house, beginning with sweet chocolate soup, and continuing with eels stewed in beer, carp with horseradish, “sour-goose,” and other Teutonic delicacies.  Mr. Vieweg’s son was one of Hentze’s pupils, and was the thin, silent boy I have already noticed.  I remember well how young Vieweg introduced himself to me in laboured English, “Are you a friend to fishing with the fly?” he asked.  “I also fish most gladly, and if you wish, we will together to the Harz Mountains go, and there many trout catch.”  As the Harz Mountains are within an hour of Brunswick by train, off we went, and young Vieweg was certainly a most expert fisherman.  My respect for him was increased enormously when I found that he did not mind in the least how wet he got whilst fishing.  Most German boys of his age would have thought standing in cold water up to their knees a certain forerunner of immediate death.

Vieweg told me, with perfect justice, that he knew every path and every track in the Northern Harz, and that he had climbed every single hill.  He complained that none of his German friends cared for climbing or walking, and asked whether I would accompany him on one of his expeditions.  So a week later we went again to the Harz, and Vieweg led me an interminable and very rough walk up-hill and down-dale.  He afterwards confessed that he was trying to tire me out, in which he failed signally, for I have always been, and am still, able to walk very long distances without fatigue.  He had taken four of his fellow-pupils from Hentze’s over the same road, and they had