<h2> <SPAN name="ch15" id="ch15"></SPAN><br/> <br/> CHAPTER XV. </h2>
<p><small><i>Wagga-Wagga—The Tichborne Claimant—A Stock Mystery—The
Plan of the Romance—The Realization—The Henry Bascom Mystery—Bascom
Hall—The Author's Death and Funeral<br/> <br/> <br/></i></small></p>
<p><i>Truth is stranger than fiction—to some people, but I am
measurably familiar with it.</i></p>
<p>—Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.</p>
<p><i>Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to
stick to possibilities; Truth isn't.</i></p>
<p>Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.</p>
<p>The air was balmy and delicious, the sunshine radiant; it was a charming
excursion. In the course of it we came to a town whose odd name was famous
all over the world a quarter of a century ago—Wagga-Wagga. This was
because the Tichborne Claimant had kept a butcher-shop there. It was out
of the midst of his humble collection of sausages and tripe that he soared
up into the zenith of notoriety and hung there in the wastes of space a
time, with the telescopes of all nations leveled at him in unappeasable
curiosity—curiosity as to which of the two long-missing persons he
was: Arthur Orton, the mislaid roustabout of Wapping, or Sir Roger
Tichborne, the lost heir of a name and estates as old as English history.
We all know now, but not a dozen people knew then; and the dozen kept the
mystery to themselves and allowed the most intricate and fascinating and
marvelous real-life romance that has ever been played upon the world's
stage to unfold itself serenely, act by act, in a British court by the
long and laborious processes of judicial development.</p>
<p>When we recall the details of that great romance we marvel to see what
daring chances truth may freely take in constructing a tale, as compared
with the poor little conservative risks permitted to fiction. The
fiction-artist could achieve no success with the materials of this
splendid Tichborne romance.</p>
<p>He would have to drop out the chief characters; the public would say such
people are impossible. He would have to drop out a number of the most
picturesque incidents; the public would say such things could never
happen. And yet the chief characters did exist, and the incidents did
happen.</p>
<p>It cost the Tichborne estates $400,000 to unmask the Claimant and drive
him out; and even after the exposure multitudes of Englishmen still
believed in him. It cost the British Government another $400,000 to
convict him of perjury; and after the conviction the same old multitudes
still believed in him; and among these believers were many educated and
intelligent men; and some of them had personally known the real Sir Roger.
The Claimant was sentenced to 14 years' imprisonment. When he got out of
prison he went to New York and kept a whisky saloon in the Bowery for a
time, then disappeared from view.</p>
<p>He always claimed to be Sir Roger Tichborne until death called for him.
This was but a few months ago—not very much short of a generation
since he left Wagga-Wagga to go and possess himself of his estates. On his
death-bed he yielded up his secret, and confessed in writing that he was
only Arthur Orton of Wapping, able seaman and butcher—that and
nothing more. But it is scarcely to be doubted that there are people whom
even his dying confession will not convince. The old habit of assimilating
incredibilities must have made strong food a necessity in their case; a
weaker article would probably disagree with them.</p>
<p>I was in London when the Claimant stood his trial for perjury. I attended
one of his showy evenings in the sumptuous quarters provided for him from
the purses of his adherents and well-wishers. He was in evening dress, and
I thought him a rather fine and stately creature. There were about
twenty-five gentlemen present; educated men, men moving in good society,
none of them commonplace; some of them were men of distinction, none of
them were obscurities. They were his cordial friends and admirers. It was
"Sir Roger," always "Sir Roger," on all hands; no one withheld the title,
all turned it from the tongue with unction, and as if it tasted good.</p>
<p>For many years I had had a mystery in stock. Melbourne, and only
Melbourne, could unriddle it for me. In 1873 I arrived in London with my
wife and young child, and presently received a note from Naples signed by
a name not familiar to me. It was not Bascom, and it was not Henry; but I
will call it Henry Bascom for convenience's sake. This note, of about six
lines, was written on a strip of white paper whose end-edges were ragged.
I came to be familiar with those strips in later years. Their size and
pattern were always the same. Their contents were usually to the same
effect: would I and mine come to the writer's country-place in England on
such and such a date, by such and such a train, and stay twelve days and
depart by such and such a train at the end of the specified time? A
carriage would meet us at the station.</p>
<p>These invitations were always for a long time ahead; if we were in Europe,
three months ahead; if we were in America, six to twelve months ahead.
They always named the exact date and train for the beginning and also for
the end of the visit.</p>
<p>This first note invited us for a date three months in the future. It asked
us to arrive by the 4.10 p.m. train from London, August 6th. The carriage
would be waiting. The carriage would take us away seven days later-train
specified. And there were these words: "Speak to Tom Hughes."</p>
<p>I showed the note to the author of "Tom Brown at Rugby," and he said:
"Accept, and be thankful."</p>
<p>He described Mr. Bascom as being a man of genius, a man of fine
attainments, a choice man in every way, a rare and beautiful character. He
said that Bascom Hall was a particularly fine example of the stately
manorial mansion of Elizabeth's days, and that it was a house worth going
a long way to see—like Knowle; that Mr. B. was of a social
disposition; liked the company of agreeable people, and always had samples
of the sort coming and going.</p>
<p>We paid the visit. We paid others, in later years—the last one in
1879. Soon after that Mr. Bascom started on a voyage around the world in a
steam yacht—a long and leisurely trip, for he was making
collections, in all lands, of birds, butterflies, and such things.</p>
<p>The day that President Garfield was shot by the assassin Guiteau, we were
at a little watering place on Long Island Sound; and in the mail matter of
that day came a letter with the Melbourne post-mark on it. It was for my
wife, but I recognized Mr. Bascom's handwriting on the envelope, and
opened it. It was the usual note—as to paucity of lines—and
was written on the customary strip of paper; but there was nothing usual
about the contents. The note informed my wife that if it would be any
assuagement of her grief to know that her husband's lecture-tour in
Australia was a satisfactory venture from the beginning to the end, he,
the writer, could testify that such was the case; also, that her husband's
untimely death had been mourned by all classes, as she would already know
by the press telegrams, long before the reception of this note; that the
funeral was attended by the officials of the colonial and city
governments; and that while he, the writer, her friend and mine, had not
reached Melbourne in time to see the body, he had at least had the sad
privilege of acting as one of the pall-bearers. Signed, "Henry Bascom."</p>
<p>My first thought was, why didn't he have the coffin opened? He would have
seen that the corpse was an imposter, and he could have gone right ahead
and dried up the most of those tears, and comforted those sorrowing
governments, and sold the remains and sent me the money.</p>
<p>I did nothing about the matter. I had set the law after living lecture
doubles of mine a couple of times in America, and the law had not been
able to catch them; others in my trade had tried to catch their
impostor-doubles and had failed. Then where was the use in harrying a
ghost? None—and so I did not disturb it. I had a curiosity to know
about that man's lecture-tour and last moments, but that could wait. When
I should see Mr. Bascom he would tell me all about it. But he passed from
life, and I never saw him again.. My curiosity faded away.</p>
<p>However, when I found that I was going to Australia it revived. And
naturally: for if the people should say that I was a dull, poor thing
compared to what I was before I died, it would have a bad effect on
business. Well, to my surprise the Sydney journalists had never heard of
that impostor! I pressed them, but they were firm—they had never
heard of him, and didn't believe in him.</p>
<p>I could not understand it; still, I thought it would all come right in
Melbourne. The government would remember; and the other mourners. At the
supper of the Institute of Journalists I should find out all about the
matter. But no—it turned out that they had never heard of it.</p>
<p>So my mystery was a mystery still. It was a great disappointment. I
believed it would never be cleared up—in this life—so I
dropped it out of my mind.</p>
<p>But at last! just when I was least expecting it——</p>
<p>However, this is not the place for the rest of it; I shall come to the
matter again, in a far-distant chapter.<br/> <br/> <br/> <br/></p>
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