Sir Charles Wyke was a
dear old man, who had spent most of his Diplomatic career in
Mexico and the South American Republics. He spoke Spanish better
than any other Englishman I ever knew, with the one exception of
Sir William Barrington. He was unmarried, and was a most
distinguished-looking old gentleman with his snow-white imperial
and moustache. He was unquestionably a little eccentric in his
habits. He had rendered some signal service to the Mexican
Government while British Minister there, by settling a dispute
between them and the French authorities. The Mexican Government
had out of gratitude presented him with a splendid Mexican saddle,
with pommel, stirrups and bit of solid silver, and with the
leather of the saddle most elaborately embroidered in silver. Sir
Charles kept this trophy on a saddle-tree in his study at Lisbon,
and it was his custom to sit on it daily for an hour or so. He
said that as he was too old to ride, the feel of a saddle under
him reminded him of his youth. When every morning I brought the
old gentleman the day's dispatches, I always found him seated on
his saddle, a cigar in his mouth, a skull-cap on his head, and his
feet in the silver shoe-stirrups.
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