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and　appointed　my　old　friend　and　neighbour；　Captain　Meade　of　Earsham　Hall；　to　act　for　me　when　I　was　away。　I　was　touched　at　this　evidence　of　their　regard　and　confidence。

In　1895　the　mittee　did　me　the　honour　to　elect　me　to　the　Athenaeum　Club　under　Rule　2；　and　in　the　following　year　I　was　chosen　Chairman　of　mittee　of　the　Society　of　Authors；　a　post　which　I　held　until　1898。

About　this　time　I　made　the　acquaintance　of　one　of　the　most　interesting　of　all　my　friends；　Major　F。　R。　Burnham；　D。S。O。；　concerning　whom　and　whose　career　I　should　like　to　say　a　few　words。　Burnham　is　an　American；　born　among　the　Indians　on　the　frontiers　of　Minnesota　in　1861；　and　one　of　the　best　specimens　of　that　great　people　whom　I　have　ever　met。　Indeed；　taking　him　altogether；　I　am　not　sure　that　when　the　circumstances　of　his　upbringing　and　life　are　considered；　he　is　not　the　most　remarkable　man　whom　it　has　been　my　privilege　to　know。　He　belongs　to　the　seventh　generation　of　pioneers；　as　his　family　went　to　America　from　England　in　1635。

In　personal　appearance　he　is　small　and　quiet…mannered；　with　steady；　grey…blue　eyes　that　have　in　them　a　far…away　look　such　as　those　acquire　whose　occupation　has　caused　them　to　watch　continually　at　sea　or　on　great　plains。　He　does　not　smoke；　fearing；　as　he　told　me；　lest　it　should　injure　the　acuteness　of　his　sense　of　smell；　and　he　drinks　less　liquid　perhaps　than　anyone　else。　One　wineglass　of　water；　or　perhaps　claret；　is　the　amount　he　will　consume　during　a　long　meal。　He　has　trained　himself　to　this　abstinence　in　order　that；　when　scouting　or　travelling　where　there　is　no　water；　he　may　still　be　able　to　exist；　with　the　result　that　on　one　occasion　at　least　he　survived　when　all　or　nearly　all　of　his　panions　died；　I　think　in　the　deserts　of　Arizona。　He　is　not　at　all　municative；　indeed　I　remember　his　telling　me　that　I　was　one　of　the　very　few　people　to　whom　he　had　imparted　any　information　concerning　his　many　adventures。

When　he　was　in　England　Charles　Longman　was　very　anxious　that　he　should　write　his　Life；　but　although　he　offered　him　a　handsome　sum　on　account　and；　to　my　knowledge；　Burnham　at　the　time　was　not　too　well　supplied　with　money；　in　spite　of　my　entreaties　and　offers　of　assistance；　this；　to　my　lasting　regret；　he　absolutely　refused　to　do。　Therefore；　if　he　still　lives；　as　I　believe　to　be　the　case　—　although　somewhat　to　my　surprise　I　have　heard　nothing　from　him　for　the　last　three　or　four　years　—　when　he　dies　the　record　of　all　his　extraordinary　adventures；　of　which　he　has　experienced　more　in　fact　than　Allan　Quatermain　himself　in　fiction；　will；　I　fear；　perish　with　him。　Of　those　adventures；　of　course；　I　can　only　repeat　a　few　specimens　from　memory；　as　he　has　told　them　to　me　walking　about　the　land　or　sitting　together　over　the　fire　in　this　house。

His　first　recollection　is　of　being　carried　away　by　his　mother　when　the　savage　Indians　attacked　the　place　where　they　lived；　somewhere　on　the　Mexican　border。　He　was　then　about　three　years　old；　and　at　last　his　mother；　unable　to　bear　him　any　farther；　hid　him　in　a　shock　of　maize；　telling　him　that　he　must　keep　quite　silent。　From　between　the　stalks　of　the　maize　presently　he　saw　the　pursuing　Indians　pass。　Next　day　his　mother　returned　and　rescued　him。

Later　on；　as　a　married　man；　he　found　his　way　with　some　members　of　his　family　to　Rhodesia；　attracted　by　the　magic　name　of　Cecil　Rhodes；　and　took　part　in　the　settlement　of　that　colony。　Prospecting　and　the　management　of　mines　were　their　occupations。　Here　his　little　girl　was　born；　the　first　white　child　that　saw　the　light　in　Buluwayo。　He　named　her　Nada　after　the　heroine　of　my　Zulu　tale。　Poor　infant；　she　did　not　live　long；　as　the　following　dedication　to　one　of　my　stories　shows：

To　the　Memory　of　the　Child

NADA　BURNHAM

who　“bound　all　to　her”　and；　while　her　father　cut　his　way　through　the　hordes　of　the　Ingubu　Regiment；　perished　of　the　hardships　of　war　at　Buluwayo　on　May　22nd；　1896；　I　dedicate　this　tale　of　Faith　triumphant　over　savagery　and　death。

Burnham　was　with　Wilson　when　he　was　wiped　out　on　the　banks　of　the　Shangani；　together　with　all　his　panions；　except　Burnham　himself　and　his　brother…inlaw；　Ingram；　who　had　been　sent　back　to　try　to　bring　help　from　the　column。　All　that　tale　I　have　told　in　the　“Red　True　Story　Book”　（Longmans）；　so　I　need　not　repeat　it　here。　I　shall　never　forget　Burnham’s　account　of　how　he　tracked　the　missing　men　in　the　darkness；　by　feeling　the　spoor　with　his　fingers　and　by　smell；　or　of　how；　still　in　the　darkness；　he　counted　the　Matabele　impi　as　they　passed　him　close　enough　to　touch　them。

Subsequently　Burnham　took　service　as　a　scout　under　our　flag　in　the　Boer　War。　Indeed　I　believe　that　Lord　Roberts　cabled　to　him　in　the　Klondike。　Here　many　things　befell　him。　Thus　he　was　out　scouting　from　Headquarters　at　the　time　of　the　Sannah’s　Post　affair；　saw　the　Boers　post　their　ambuscade；　saw　the　British　walking　into　the　trap。　He　rode　to　a　hill　and；　with　a　large　red　pocket…handkerchief　which　he　always　carried；　tried　to　signal　to　them　to　keep　back。　But　nobody　would　take　the　slightest　notice　of　his　signals。　Even　the　Boers　were　puzzled　by　so　barefaced　a　performance；　and　for　quite　a　long　while　did　not　interfere　with　him。　So　the　catastrophe　occurred　—　because　it　was　nobody’s　business　to　take　notice　of　Burnham’s　signals！　Ultimately　some　Boers　rode　out　and　made　him　a　prisoner。　They　led　him　to　a　stone…walled　cattle　kraal　where　a　number　of　them　were　ensconced；　whence　he　saw　everything。

When　the　British　were　snared　a　Boer　lad　took　some　sighting　shots　at　them；　and　at　length　said　laconically；　“Sechzen　hondert！”　whereon　the　Boers　sighted　their　rifles　to　that　range　and　began　to　use　them　with　deadly　effect。　A　whole　battery　of　English　guns　opened　fire　upon　this　kraal。　The　air　screamed　with　shells。　Some　fell　short　and　exploded　against　the　wall；　some　went　high；　some　hit　upon　the　top　of　the　wall。　The　　result　of　that　terrific　bombardment　was　—　one　horse　blown　to　bits。　The　practice　was　not　bad；　but　those　behind　the　fortable。

When　everything　was　over　Burnham　was　taken　off　as　a　prisoner。　A　change　of　guard　enabled　him　to　pretend　a　wound；　so　he　was　placed　on　an　ox…waggon。　He　sat　on　the　fore…part　of　the　waggon；　and　just　before　day　the　guards　nodding　in　their　saddles　gave　him　the　chance　to　drop　down　between　the　wheels；　letting　the　waggon　trek　away　over　him。　Then　he　rolled　himself　into　a　little　gully　near　the　road；　and；　as　he　dared　not　stand　up；　lay　cooking　there　during　the　whole　of　the　following　day　with　the　fierce　sun　beating　on　his　back。　When　night　came　again　he　walked　back　to　the　English　camp；　a　distance　of　nearly　a　hundred　miles；　and　reported　himself。

This　exploit　was　equalled；　if　not　surpassed；　by　one　of　my　sons…inlaw；　Major　Reginald　Cheyne　of　the　Indian　Army。　He　was　posted　on　a　ridge　with　a　few　men　in　one　of　the　affairs　of　this　war　when　an　overwhelming　force　of　Boers　opened　fire　on　them。　He　held　out　until　all　but　two　of　those　with　him　were　dead　or　wounded　and　the　ammunition　—　even　of　the　wounded　—　exhausted。　Then；　having　been　shot　through　the　face　behind　the　nose；　in　another　part　of　the　head；　and　also　cut　by　a　bullet　all　along　the　forehead；　which　caused　the　blood　to　flow　down　into　his　eyes　and　blind　him；　he　surrendered。　He　was　taken　prisoner；　and　in　this　dreadful　state　carried　off　in　a　waggon。　At　night　he　pretended　that　it　was　necessary　for　him　to　retire。　The　Boer　guard　showed　him　his　revolver；　which　he　tapped　significantly。　Cheyne　nodded　and；　taking　his　risks；　made　a　bolt　for　it。　In　due　course　he；　too；　staggered　into　the　British　camp；　where　he　recovered。　I　hope　I　have　given　the　details　right；　but　Cheyne；　like　Burnham；　is　not　given　to　talking　of　such　things。　It　was　only　after　much　urging　on　the　part　of　my　daughter　that　he　told　me　the　story；　of　which　I　had　heard　rumours　from　a　brother　officer；　who　spoke　of　him　as　“a　hero。”　He　was　remended；　together　with　his　Colonel；　for　a　V。C。　or　a　D。S。O。　—　I　forget　which　—　but；　unfortunately　for　him；　the　Boers　captured　and　burnt　the　despatch；　so　that　nothing　was　known　at　home　of　his　services　until　too　late。　However；　they　made　him　a　brevet…major。　Such　are　the　fortunes　of　war。

After　Pretoria　was　occupied　Burnham　was　sent　out　to　cut　the　railway　line　by　which　the　Boers　were　retreating。　He　exploded　part　of　his　gun…cotton　and　destroyed　the　line；　and　then　rode　over　a　ridge　—　straight　into　a　Boer　bivouac！　He　turned　his　horse　and；　lying　flat　on　the　saddle；　galloped　off　under　a　heavy　fire。　He　thought　he　was　safe；　but　the　Boers　had　got　his　range　against　the　skyline　—　it　was　night　—　and　suddenly　he　remembered　no　more。　When　he　came　to　himself　the　sun　was　shining；　and　he　lay　alone　upon　the　veld。　The　horse　was　gone；　where　to　he　never　learned。　He　felt　himself　all　over　and　found　that　he　had　no　wound；　also　that　he　was　injured　internally；　probably　owing　to　the　horse　falling　on　him　when　it　was　struck　by　a　bullet。　Near　by　was　a　little　cattle　or　goat　kraal；　into　which　he　crept　and　lay　down。　From　this　kraal　he　saw　the　Boers　e　and　mend　the　line。　When　night　fell　again　he　crawled　upon　his　hands　and　knees　—　he　could　not　walk　—　down　to　the　line　and　destroyed　it　afresh；　for　his　gun…cotton　cartridges　remained　in　a　bag　upon　his　shoulders。　I　am　not　certain　whether　he　did　this　once　or　twice。　At　any　rate　in　the　end；　feeling　that　he　was　a　dead　man　if　he　remained　where　he　was；　he　tore　up　the　bag；　tied　the　sacking　round　his　wrists　and　knees；　and；　thus　protected　against　the　stones　and　grass　stumps；　dragged　himself　out　into　the　veld；　where；　by　the　mercy　of　Providence；　an　English　patrol　found　him。　It　turned　out　that　his　stomach　had　been　ruptured；　and　that；　had　it　not　been　for　his　long　abstinence　from　food；　he　must　have　expired。　No　treatment　could　possibly　have　been　better　for　him；　and　as　it　was　the　break　in　the　tissues　found　time　to　heal。　In　the　end　he　recovered；　though　that　was　the　last　service　which　he　did　in　South　Africa。　It　was　rewarded　with　a　D。S。O。　and　the　rank　of　major　in　the　British　Army。　Lord　Roberts　gave　him　a　remarkable　letter　of　thanks　and　appreciation：　it　sets　forth　his　admiration　of　Burnham’s　skill；　endurance　and　ability　in　difficult　scouting　inside　the　lines　of　the　enemy。

Burnham　told　me　that　during　that　war　on　many　occasions　he　passed　through　the　sentries　of　both　the　British　and　the　Boer　forces　without　being　seen。　Once　he　perated　into　a　Boer　camp　and　came　to　a　waggon　where　a　fat　old　Dutchman　lay　snoring。　To　the　trek…tow　were　tied　sixteen　beautiful　black　oxen；　no　doubt　that　Dutchman’s　especial　pride。　With　his　knife　he　cut　them　loose　and　drove　them　away　back　into　the　British　lines。　Often；　he　told　me；　he　had　speculated　as　to　what　the　old　Boer　said　when　he　woke　up　and　found　them　gone　for　ever。　On　another　occasion　when　he　was　scouting　he　was　absolutely　surrounded　by　the　Boers　and　could　find　no　cover　in　which　to　hide。　With　the　help　of　an　old　Kaffir　blanket　and　a　stick　he　made　himself　up　as　a　beggar　and　limped　away　between　them　without　even　being　questioned。

In　all　such　matters　he　seems　to　possess　a　kind　of　sixth　sense；　evolved　no　doubt　in　the　course　of　his　long　training　in　Indian　warfare。　He　was　one　of　the　pioneers　in　the　Klondike；　whither　he　travelled　across　the　winter　snows　on　a　sledge　drawn　by　dogs；　which　for　some　weeks　were　his　sole　panions。　These　dogs　he　watched　very　closely；　and　as　a　result　of　his　observations　informed　me　that　he　was　sure　from　their　conduct　at　night　that　t