f 'alifornia gional cility ■Ai?! "Jil- *t^:.-:-fi ^^^JJ^-.' m, MY CONFIDENCES. fu-m) a/ JtA^,-&jncl"ois la grace de ne pas les ecoutor.' 214 MY CONFIDENCES fistful of cock-and-hen feathers at either end, and none in the centre ; the crevices in the window- frame were much too wide, and the cotton bed- clothes a great deal too narrow ; ' the blankets were thin and the sheets they were sma' ' ^ — quite untuck- able. I had a comfortless night of it, with no hope for the morrow. I have not spared Mr. Dene in this description, and I will swear that I have not immensely exaggerated the incompleteness of himself and his establishment ; if so, and it is so, you must take into account my grievous disappointment. I am thankful to say that I never broke down. I retained my native amiability of manner to the bitter end, and we parted the best of friends. I think both husband and wife were sorry to bid me ' good-bye,' and I murmured something about ' seeing you again.' Since then I have occasionally written to her. I hope they think kindly of me. I now think most kindly of them. Indeed, I re- member them as I believe they would wish to be remembered. I recollect as I drove away from Mr. Dene's I had one cause for satisfaction, and only one. I felt I had done my very best to gain my point ; that I had not said too much,- and that I could not blame ' I see I have said this at p. 109. * La Bruyere says that nobody regrets having said too little. I PERFECT MV FOLIO SHAKESPEARE 215 myself for any diplomatic slip or for the manner in which I had conducted the negotiations. Was not my square-headed squire a queer fellow ? He had not the slightest literary interest in his Shakespeare ; to him the volume on his shelf was a folio book and nothing more — it was nothing beyond the bare fact of possession. Perhaps so ; but he was not an ' illiterate booby.' I do not take the same view of the matter now as I did then, at any rate not in the same degree. Some years after the dealer who sold me my Shakespeare (1623) was at a print sale, and he chanced to hear a man in the crowd of buyers say that a friend of his had the precious leaf of verses — it was pasted into an old scrapbook ! — and that he had been told it was worth 80/. or 1001. It has ended in my becoming the possessor of this leaf for the larger sum. So I suppose I may now consider my Shakespeare is perfect.^ Here comes the moral of a very long story. 1. If ever you want a perfect copy of the foHo (1G23), do not buy one which has not the leaf of verses with the hope of getting it afterwards. 2. What right had I to scheme to get Mr. Dene's leaf out of him ; and, having failed, what right have I to abuse him in • One hundred poxinds seems a large sum for a single mutilated leaf, hut sensible peojilu have paid more than that tor a lilaci< tulip or a blue ribbon. 216 MY CONFIDENCES revenge for my disappointment and chagrin ? Was not I rightly served ? Adieu pa7iiers, vendanges so7it faites. The Philobiblon I have been for many years a member of the Philobiblon. It is a small and select breakfasting society, and it has an object. Half a dozen times during the London season we meet at each other's houses and admire each other's illuminated books and ancient manuscripts. On these occasions I have seen and handled the most priceless volumes, bind- ings glowing with the arms of Mazarin or the cypher of Mary Queen of Scots, or the skilled needles of those apparently overworked virgins, the nuns of Little Gidding — books so rare that the individual copy was almost the species. The mere remem- brance of such treasures must have a benign in- fluence on the soul of the true book-lover ; indeed, it can emolliently affect the nervous system of people who have no real sensibility. However, I may remark that it is a mistake to suppose that your book-collector is much of a reader. Your true bibliophile rarely reads anything — he contem- plates, he examines bindings, criticises illustra- tions, and scrutinises title-pages or pagination. MEMBERS OF THE PHILOBIBLON 217 He does not read ; but still, when he shall have passed away into bookless ether, at least let the lingering scholar drop a flower, or flyleaf, on the turf where his once book-collecting body is laid. These books and manuscripts are the ostensible interest of our meetings, but there is another and a more pressing, a far deeper interest, of which I will speak to you presently. The Prince Consort was our patron, and he was succeeded by the Due d'Aumale, who, while he lived in England, entertained the Society most royally, and with a captivating honhomie. iVmong our thirty-tive members are, or w^ere, the Prince Consort, the Duke of Albany, Robert Curzon, the Dukes of Hamilton and Newcastle, Eichard Ford, Evelyn Shirley, Deans Stanley and Milman, Stirling-Maxwell, H. Hucks Gibbs, Silvain Van de Weyer (and his wadow after him). Bishop ^Yilber- force, ' Big ' Higgins, Lords Ellesmere, Acton, Dufferin, Salisbury, and Houghton, Henry Puffe, and Hildebrand Buggins. ' Van de Weyer -was ninch regarded by the Society, and with reason, so when he died his wife was elected in his place. Her name appears in vol. xiv. among the list of members. Vicomte de Tharon, of tlie Affaires Etrangeres, told me that in the French war with England a French commanding otlicer had blown np his ship (and himself) to prevent its being taken, and that his Government had recog7iised his heroism by entering his sister's (his only surviving rela- tive) name in the place in the French Navy List which his name had occupied, where it remained till her deatli. 218 MY CONFIDENCES The last is the widely known vinegar merchant and virtuoso, and he would thereby be well qualified for membership but for his bearing and conversa- tion, which are noisy and arrogant — so much so that the man and his manners have become almost ridiculous. I do not think T ever remember a Philobiblon breakfast at which Mr. Buggins did not very much assist. He is now exceedingly old, but he has yet to learn that an occasional absence has a charm. During the first year of my membership we happened to be breakfasting, I think, with Lord Powis. I was seated between Messrs. Euffe and Buggins, and I complained to the former of the way in which the guests were packed : ' Seven or eight lords huddled together, and we two or three ignoble ones' (ignoble because untitled) ' left out in the cold.' ' Oh ! ' says Euffe, in a grave and nervous whisper, ' that's not it — that isn't it. Haven't you observed as we walked in to breakfast how everybody tries to get away from that brute Buggins ? — that's how it is that we get " packed," as you facetiously put it. I assure you there is no sort of notion of exclusive- ness, altro ! ' Ruffe may have been right ; but, as a new member, this extreme unpopularity of Mr. Buggins had not come entirely home to me, for we are much too polite a society to even hint at such a thing. MR. BUGGINS 219 However, certainly on reflection I called to mind, and it sank pretty deep into my soul, that hitherto, for the few times that I had breakfasted, somehow or other I had always been seated in Mr. Buggins's pocket ! Since that morning in Berkeley Square I have greatly hardened my heart, have frantically strug- gled, and have generally succeeded in escaping from Mr. Buggins. It requires alertness, added to con- siderable presence of mind, to do this decently and decisively. However, it is practicable, for provi- dentially we have two much-valued members, both of distinguished rank, one of whom is exceedingly inert, while the other is as meek as he is long-suffer- ing ; and I observe that the unconscious Mr. Bug- gins almost invariably sits by one or other. I can assure you that the fifteen seconds of time during which we are passing from the library to the dining- room is an ordeal. When the company is assem- bled and seated, the first thing that everybody does is to glance round the table furtively, to find out which of the party have fallen a prey to Mr. Bug- gins. Now you know the supreme interest of our break- fasts : the might-and-main, the hammer-and-tongs struggle to escape from Mr. Buggins. Perhaps Ruffe expressed himself intemperately when he called Buggins 'a brute,' but, poor fellow! 220 MY CONFIDENCES he had suffered. He is large and unwieldy ; added to that, he has terrific attacks of gout, and after one of these he is completely at the mercy of this un- couth person. He does his best to escape. He hobbles — for his heart is good ; could he go faster than he could ? — he hobbles, but sometimes he is headed ; whereas I can slip through and away like a lizard. Hildebrand Buggins is an extraordinary animal, seul de so7i espcce. He is entirely destitute of social tact ; he curiously combines the foibles of youth with the frailties of age ; he bawls, he brags, he domineers ; he grossly exaggerates about his bid- dings, his pictures, his china — the prices he has paid for them — and his exploits generally. His flights of fancy are not calculated mendacity — they are merely a mental mirage. Mr. Buggins's philobiblical ego is enormously developed. The Due d'Aumale, for instance, will be unaf- fectedly exhibiting a copy of that very rare volume, Frans Kabelais's ' Plaisante et joyeuse Histoyre du grand geant Gargantua,' on vellum, bound by Antoine Padeloup, perhaps with the arms of Eenault Cesar Louis de Choiseul, due de Praslin, in gold, on the side, which he has just had the astounding- good fortune to secure in Paris, or The Hague, or on a bookstall in Pekin. Well, above the gentle MR. BUGGINS 221 siisurrus of polite conversation you hear Mr. Bug- gins's detestable staccato, ' Yes, sir, I've two copies of that book, and mine are taller and finer. One of them is with the cancelled leaves, which appa- rently your Eoyal Highness's don't possess,' (fee. The Duke is not the least annoyed, and talks of * ce cher Buggins ; ' but his Eoyal Highness does not sit next to him at breakfast. If I were asked whether Buggins was always disagreeable, I should say he is always as disagree- able as the special circumstances admit of. You see, he would go out of his way (if he had any such to go out of) to be unpleasant. Perhaps there are people in the world more annoying than Mr. Bug- gins, who more need our prayers, but they are not Philobiblons. Is it fair to gibbet anybody as a social scarecrow? Is it kindly to be merciless to the absurd ? Cer- tainly not. And now, my children, I tremble, for is it not well known that a man never betrays his own character more completely than when he laughs at that of somebody else ? However, I hope I hardly ever laugh at any one unless I like them — just a little. My dear children, let me whisper in j-our ears : make up your minds that there is no such person as Mr. Hildebrand Buggins. 222 MY CONFIDENCES Mr. Doo ' On the 15th instant, at his residence in Eaton Square, deeply regretted by all who knew him, John Doo, Esq., F.S.A., F.G.S., F.E.G.S., J.P., in the 80th year of his age. Friends are requested,' &G. A propos of this announcement, I must tell you another long story of a little book, a volume of extraordinary rarity, and of which at one time I greatly coveted the possession. It had the scarce title-page without the date ; there is only one other copy known with this peculiarity, and that copy is locked up at Sion College. This little book is curiously connected in my mind with the above-named Mr. Doo, a consequen- tial old gentleman whom I used frequently to meet at the club. I fancy I see him. He would stand before the fire with a pinch of snuff between his finger and thumb, his coat-tails and the ' Art Journal ' in the other hand. He had a slow, a delibe- rate cough, a pug nose, and long hairy ears — ears as long and as hairy as the ears of a jackass — which he was. He had eyes with scarlet rims, and a prodigious quantity of white whiskers ; but there was nothing venerable about Mr. Doo.^ To look at him, it seemed impossible that he could ever have ^ Extracted from PatchioorJc. MR. DOO 223 been dandled in a fond mother's embraces ; but people do change considerably. Mr. Doo was a patron of the fine arts, a person whose conversation was pompous and empty — in fact, so extremely tire- some that his fellow-creatures, myself included, gave him the widest possible berth. He had once beguiled me into seeing his collection in Eaton Square, and had often pressed me to go there again, or, as he phrased it, to ' overhaul his portfolios.' One day, while he was holding forth on art revival and the decay of literature, and I was meditating how it would be possible to give him the slip, he mentioned the title of the rare little book at Sion College. I instantly pricked up my ears. But when he casually let drop that he pos- sessed a copy of it, and without the date on the title, I was indeed surprised, and at once became inter- ested in everything concerning him — his collection, his conversation, and even his cough ! I am ashamed, too, to confess it, but from that moment I was a deal more attentive to him than I had hitherto been. I sought him out, and listened respectfully while he expatiated on what was ex- ploded, enlarged on what was trivial, and bragged of his inlluence in the art world. I stultified myself by defending him behind his back. After this, when we met, our talk somehow always got round to the rare little book. 224 MY CONFIDED' CES One day — it was a memorable day for me — Mr. Doo cleared his throat, and said, in his usual hum- drum tones : ' I have been thinking about that shabby little book of mine. It is tossing about some- where in my town house ; I begin to think it's quite wrong for me to keep the little fellow all to myself — it's much more in your way now ; ' and then he paid me one or two rancid compliments about my 'Lyrics ' which I should be ashamed to detail here, and which T am more ashamed to have half swallowed then. I ought to have suspected that Mr. Doo was acting a part, for he exaggerated it. He over- stepped the modesty of nature. ' I wish,' said he, with a glittering grin which was as false as what it revealed, ' you would just name a day, and come and have a good overhauling of my portfolios.' Then he added, 'And you know, about that book — now, I really don't think I ought to keep such a gem all to myself. When you come, you will find it on the corner of the table, and you'll slip it into your pocket without saying anything to anybody, and that will be all about it — eh ? You know it has got the scarce title without the date, &c.' Conceive my feelings ! I at once, there and then, fixed a day — I nailed him to it. ' Yes, to-morrow, at eleven o'clock,' would ' suit me down to the ground.' The next morning, punctual to the minute, I found myself in Mr. Doo's library. MR. DOO'S 'CHAMBER OF HORRORS' 225 When I entered this ' chamber of horrors ' (interesting because everything was so exquisitely in keeping), I naturally looked at all the corners of the tables. I did not see the book, but I made up my mind that it would be forthcoming at the right time, and I was quite cheerful. We again went through his pictures, this time thoroughly — his Haydons, his Hiltons, his Fuselis (masters that I detest), a smirk- ing Eomney or two, very flagrant specimens of what may be called ' the roguish school.' Mr. Doo had one oil-picture that was extremely interesting. I am reluctant to mention it, as its possession was a credit to him.^ Mr. Doo had a long, long history about each, and all to his own glorification. At first I listened with interest, and then with politeness and patience ; but, as has been well remarked, tedious- ness has a peculiar power of propagating itself, and I began to be very stupid, for there was no end to the stories and no mention of the precious little book. It was then that, to my horror, he brought out his ' folios.' These were a caution to snakes ! — heaps and heaps of seventeenth-century prints, worn-out impressions after Goltzius and the schools of M. Angelo and Kubens — the sort of rubbish one used to see exposed for sale in an old umbrella in the New Cut. I feigned as deep an interest as I ' Michel, le Sieur de Montaigne, observes that it is not wrong to say of a thief that he has a handsome leg. Q 226 MY CONFIDENCES could, but my nerves were fast giving way under the strain. I was very weary. I began to suffer from a queer sensation, as if I were being nibbled to death by ducks — in other words, I had an acute attack of the fidgets, and should have liked to kick Doo's shins under the table. Twelve o'clock had struck — one o'clock had struck ; I wished old Doo at the deuce, and began to perceive an ominous something in his manner that made me suspect he was beginning to have much the same sort of feeling about myself. It was getting on for two o'clock ; I was bored through and through, and, as we turned over the last Goltzius, I yawned cavernously in his face, and murmured something about its being ' time to go,' and of ' an appointment at the Zoo- logical Gardens.' I thanked him ; I spoke with effusion of his ' extreme Idndness ; ' I begged he would excuse me : ' I must be off — due at the Monkey House at two o'clock.' Not a word about my precious little volume ! ' But you have not yet seen my folio of Everdingens. Great creator, Ever- dingen, tnalo cutti Platone errare — eh ? ' said Doo. ' Oh, hang your Everdingens ! ' I mentally ejacu- lated, ' where's my book ? ' Not a word was uttered about it. I again said, ' I fear I must go,' and for the twentieth time I glanced at all the corners of all the tables. I did it, and yet I knew it was quite useless. And old Doo saw me doing it ! In vain I MR. DOO EXASPERATES ME 227 sought it, for it was not there. We shook hands. I moved to go — I went ; but as I grasped the handle of the door I turned round, and, with a cadaverous smile, a smile so sickly that the hand of death was upon it, I said : ' By the bye, Mr. Doo ' (sprightlily, just as if it was occurring to me for the first time), ' I haven't seen that little book of yours.' ' Oh ! — oh ! ' says Doo, in his exasperatingly deliberate way — ' the book, eh ? Yes, I've been considering about that little fellow. He's a gem, and really — I don't know — but the fact is, you see, I've been thinking I ought to consult my relatives ' (mind, he was not far from eighty years of age) ' before I proceed further in that matter. Good morning.' I never felt in such a rage in my life ; I nearly bawled out, ' You and your relations may go to glory, sir, for aught I care, and be blest to you ! ' I was furious — I had been so completely bamboozled and made such a fool of. But I stifled my wrath ; I kept silence, though it was a pain and grief to me, got out of the room and out of the house as quickly as I could, and banged the door behind me. I banged the door with such a slam It sounded like a wooden d n.' All this occurred three years ago, and even now ' Poor Sganarelle and his 'Ah nies gages! lues gages! tout le monde est content ; il n'y a que moi seul de malheureux.' My book 1 my book ! my book ! a 2 228 MY CONFIDENCES I am in doubt as to the exact object of that miserable old man ; but I am inclined to think that from beginning to end it was an artfully devised plot to humiliate me, a scheme carried out with deliberate malice and consummate cunning. I doubt if he ever had the book at all. However, I shall go to the sale of his library. The whole affair, like unto Gil Bias's legacy, is only another instance of the deplorable uncertainty of human hopes and expectations. Unfortunate old man ! I do not say that he was a humbug and a traitor, but he had that order of mind that inclines its possessor to villainous courses. I suppose he could not help it.^ The Barbarians I have paid many a pleasant visit in my day, some to smart people in smart houses, one or two to Lord and Lady Tadcaster at Babram, formerly Babraham, near Bosworth, the land of Kobert Burton and George Eliot ; but Burton and George ^ This sketch appeared in Patchivork. That work was issued to the public on a Wednesday, and, curiously enough, old Doo died on the Friday following. My friends pretend that he read it and instantly took to his bed. BABRAM HALL 229 Eliot are prophet and prophetess about whoni Babram does not mightily concern itself. I have been to them at The Hut. The Tadcasters are addicted to the turf, and their surroundings somewhat, and not unpleasantly, savour of that fancy. I made their acquaintance at Doncaster. Lady Tadcaster was a Blois, and I venture to assert that she is still divinely beautiful. ' Serieusement, c'est une chose surprenante que sa beaute ! ' She is connected with the Cavendishes, Cecils, &c. Babram Hall is stately and imposing, and the demesne is perfection. We know^ that God Almighty planted the first garden ; those of Babram were laid out by a Eeverend Sir Hilary Jinks — brilliant parterres, somewhat in the Dutch style, and enchanting lawnlets. Lady Tadcaster has a passion for her flowers — a passion that Lenotre would have respected — and the flowers requite her affection. The park is very fine. There is a scarcity of water that would satisfy even a Dutch- man. These, however, were not my principal attrac- tions to Babram. My attractions were Lady Tad- caster herself and the interesting library. You see, I unhesitatingly place the fair lady first. Among many important and desirable volumes — quaint Bibles, patristic folios, choice old county 230 MY CONFIDENCES histories, and solemn jest-books — are one or two of Shakespeare's quartos of extraordinary rarity, rarissima \ Can you conceive it ? — they have the four Shakespeare fohos ; the ' Sonnets ' (1609) ; 'Borneo and JuHet ' (1599); ' Eichard II.' (1598) ; 'Eichard III.' (1597); 'Midsummer Night's Dream ' (Fisher, 1600), and the ' Hamlet ' of 1604 ; to say nothing of Anthony Munday's ' Banquet of Daintie Conceits ' (1558) and Edmund Spenser's ' Shepherd's Calendar,' first edition. Now, in cold blood, I ask myself why, in the name of all that's wonderful, have I not appropri- ated a few of these little old books ? Why ? oh, why ? They would never have been missed, and there would have been some chique in adding the ' Hamlet ' of 1604 to one's starved little treasure-house at home — that is to say, if it had been stolen ! In those days we used to sit a good deal in the library, where the beautiful old bindings are in perfect harmony with all that female taste and refinement can devise for the adornment of such a room. However, during the talk, which now and again indicated a slackening of mental activity (there are such lacuncB in the most refined circles), ' poor old Bibliophile ' could not help sometimes say- ing to himself (the gay and frivolous scene before him glittering, as it were, through the passing grimness of the thought), ' By Jupiter ! and all THE TREASURES OF BABRA.M 231 this time there are those disregarded quartos with- in a few yards of all our heads ! ' You now know why I specially speak of Babram. Yes, it is those priceless books — and a pair of beauti- ful blue eyes. I would call them eyes of watchet hue if I were quite sure what ' watchet ' means. Would that we had a Latour or a Cosway to do justice to the eyes ! The power that she has o'er me lies, Not in her books, but in her eyes. As a child of the epoch, Lady Tadcaster is graciously exclusive and captivatingly matter of fact ; her style is so excellent that it seems some- thing very like impertinence to praise her. Did I write the following lines in her visitors' book ? If so, it must have been a long, long time ago. A WORD THAT MAKES US LINGER. Fair hostess mine, who raised the latch. And welcomed me beneath your thatch, "Who makes me here forget the pain And all the pleasures of Cockaigne. Now, pen in hand, and pierced with woe, I'll write one word before I go — A word that dies upon my lips While thus you kiss your finger-tips. When ' Black-eyed Sue ' was rowed to land. That word she cried, and waved her hand — Her lily hand ! It seems absurd, But I can't write that dreadful word. 232 MY CONFIDENCES There is a good deal that is exhilarating in the society of the ' Barbarian.' I could be eloquent about it. The men are so manly, the women so womanly ; and both are so good-looking, so plucky, and so natural — they are nearly always that. They cultivate what John Dryden calls ' the sweet civilities of life,' which make life so smooth and which, like grace and beauty, beget love at first sight. It is these that open the door and let the stranger in. Then in their bearing there is a charming un- ceremoniousness, a polished off-handedness, and an easy unconcern that go straight to the point. These qualities, rare as they are, come to them insensibly in the air which they breathe, being not much else than the result of one, or, it may be, even two generations of an assured position. I must not be thought ungrateful if I now confess that unadul- terated barbarism has its drawbacks and (I brace my resolution to say so) its drearier side. The truth is that there is more than the proba- bility of the Barbarians missing nearly everything that is finest in literature and art, and possibly in life itself. This is a discredit, seeing that they have abundance of capabilities and opportunities, and, if they would but determine it, a luxury of leisure. With tastes and instincts that are excellent. BAEBARIAN TASTES AND INSTINCTS 233 they do themselves scant justice, for they give themselves no time for that which is the outcome of simple living — and of that only. Not that they are indolent ; on the contrary, there is a self-reli- ance, an energy about them that is remarkable. They dress, and dance, and shoot, and ride, and please themselves ; they are passionately fond of pleasure ; new frocks, love-letters, and many other good things gush forth at their feet in increasing streams. And no wonder they indulge. They are often inconsequent and capricious, but not specially selfish or insincere ; but in everyday life they are apt to be governed by the humour of the moment, and to be influenced by the chance sympathy of any one who attracts them, or w^hom they may desire to attract. Indeed, their admirations often betray them into the very strangest company. Nor are they incapable of sacrifices. They are capable of much ; for they would battle for a form of faith the spirit of which they do not understand and the precepts of which they habitually disregard. Indeed, I believe, if the necessity arose, they would part, heroically part, with their diamond shoe-buckles, and take cheerfully to primitive shoe- ties. I suppose they think that they discharge their duty to their fellow-creatures by simply existing ; that intellectual pursuits are no special concern of 234 MY CONFIDENCES theirs ; that such properly belong to the working classes — Darwin, G. Stephenson, C. Dickens, Fara- day, Wordsworth, Hallam, &c. — for the working classes to cultivate, and for them to enjoy. It is thus they spend their careless hours. Time flies, my pretty one ! These precious hours are very sweet to thee ; make the most of them. Now, even now, as thou twinest that brown curl on thy finger — see ! it grows grey. Dear children, our life is a shadow dance. I say this, and yet my common sense keeps telling me that while we are here we should be content to do our best for ourselves as well as for our fellow-creatures : to do our dut}^ without worrjdng about the ' great hereafter.' But as I get older the magnitude of the unknown oppresses me, overpowers me ; and this, perhaps, may account for the rather fleeting view I take of life, and may have unduly influenced these remarks. How should I feel, and w^hat should I do, if I were young — again young and active and buoyant as those about me ? All nature seems at work : The bees are stirring, birds are on the wing, And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. SMART SOCIETY 235 Society Dear children, I told you in a former chapter how much pleasure I found in the company of the Barbarian ; but writing as I now do, far away in the Rowfant woods, I venture to hint that the sort of existence these attractive savages make for them- selves is not altogether satisfying. One values the privilege of entree, but it must be indulged in with moderation, for they lose it that do buy it with overmuch care. The more estimable of the people who compose smart society (what will it be called in the next generation ?) are courteous, obliging, and hospitable. I admire their simple manners and good breeding, their frank self-reliance and tempered reserve, their graceful negligence ; sometimes a certain freemasonry of refined clownishness — a tone which cannot be acquired, and which is the inheritance of a privileged class that, for many a long day, has not been disturbed by the feeling of social insecurity, and has breathed an atmosphere of more or less refinement. I especially recognise this agreeable negligence, this freedom of demeanour, in royal personages. I observed its dawn in the young princes and prin- cesses (the Queen's children) as they grew up. Its 236 MY CONFIDENCES possession is small credit, for by reason of their being placed in such an exalted condition they can be perfectly unaffected, and say exactly what they choose without jeopardising their status ; they can afford to be merciful to the absurd and indulgent to even the presuming. Consider what an advantage it gives a royal, or even a titled converser, to be sure of a deferential and appreciative audience ! He can talk when he pleases, and change the subject when he so decrees it. He can skulk behind his title. At a state ball at Buckingham Palace I was struck with the demeanour of the Shah of Persia. He sat enthroned, and gazed at the dancers as at an anthill ; he looked material and stolid enough, and his manner and gloomy stare gave one the idea of indolent indifference ; but it was indifference en- gendered by a supreme will, the result of power that had never been challenged. However, to return, I see in these exclusives who consider themselves of the ' haute volee, ce qu'il y a de mieux au monde ' (they ignore some three-quarters of the Peerage because it does not happen to be in their set), the same weakness that is to be discovered in all coteries. They think they have the monopoly of everything which is of any real importance ; that those who are not in their sacrosanct circle are nowhere. They may be wrong, CHARACTERISTICS OF SMART SOCIETY 237 but when people who have a powerful position have made up their minds, it becomes embarrassing. As regards the least gifted and most trifling, if they ever reflect, if they are ever mindful of the outside world, it is with a careless curiosity, perhaps with a good-natured contempt ; and yet, if you took your brainless Alcibiades, or vapid Lady Clara, aw^ay from their special babblement, their futile pleasures, and the fineries and impertinences of life, you would discover they had just as much to say for themselves as, and not more than, any other gabies. Their little lives are rounded by the vision of eligible lovers, becoming costumes, luxurious upholstery, and all the other exigencies of a frivolous existence ; and from that, as time overtakes them, they pass easily and by slow degrees to small scandal, conventional prayers, and a serene or acri- monious nothingness.^ Consider the opulence of their surroundings and the penury of their talk ! It is indeed small, it is humiliating — the iniquities of a cook or a gover- ness, the naming of a thoroughbred, social fracas- series, poor political intrigues, the last on dit, or the general question of the distractions of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow. ' An old, old woman who was asked how she contrived to get thronf,'li her day, replied : ' Well, you see, I couglis a bit, and I scolds a bit, and I i)rays a bit, and it all helps to pass the time.' 238 MY CONFIDENCES Like Mary Wollstonecraft's baby,^ they are pas- sionately fond of material enjoyments, and they pursue them (without always overtaking them) with an ostentatious candour which, in people of less assured position, would be thought almost shocking. On the other hand, there are your bourgeois acquaintance, some of whom may have become suddenly opulent, and are pretty sure not to have been improved thereby. The wealth of these people is apt to rot into luxury and extravagance. Material enjoyment is much more expensive than intellec- tual : reading costs little, thinking and conversation cost nothing at all. Yes, matter is more expensive than mind, so I cannot help contrasting such people, to their disadvantage, with persons of birth and breeding, and maybe even larger possessions, who conduct themselves with dignity, moderation, and decency. Such are greatly to be admired. There is something almost ludicrous in the arrogance of many of the suddenly enriched. Pride was not made for Adam's posterity, especially placed as they are in a corner of a fussy and very inferior planet. My children, I have been speaking of the delightful characteristics of persons of rank and ' Mary WoUstonecraft said of her baby : ' Besides looking at me, there are three other things that dehght her — to ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and to hear loud music' TOADIES AND FLUNKEYS 239 fashion, and I will add that these are the qualities which their satellites are apt to imitate, distort, and even defile. Persons not naturally belonging to exclusive circles, but who obtain admittance to them and habitually haunt them, are apt to develop into w^hat have been brutally called toadies and flunkeys. These are men and women not necessarily base, but upon whom Nature has bestowed an abnormally flexible spine. Who fetch and carry nonsense for my lord. These people are often affectionate, sometimes in- telligent, not seldom cultivated and agreeable, and not to be despised. However, they are not to be admired, much less to be imitated. I have known many such people. And there will ever be a certain demand for the parasite, who begins by being tole- rated, then grows useful, and often ends by becom- ing contemptibly indispensable. The ' Rambler ' says that few can be assiduous without servility, and none can be servile without corruption. Such is poor human nature ! ' Fuge magna . . . dulcis inexpertis cultura potentis amici ; expertus metuit.' There is force in these words of warning, coming to us as they do across the ages, and uttered as they were by a satirist whose father had been a serf. I would have my cliildren lay them to heart. How- ever, I think the tone of criticism on this subject 240 MY CONFIDENCES usually indulged in by people not the best qualified to judge is crude and misleading. I know people who are under no special obliga- tion to the aristocracy of their country, but who are curiously dependent on them. For example, there is S , a kindly, a domestic fellow — a tame cat — and, in what he calls his own set, rather looked up to than not. Quite lately he and I were spending the evening at Mrs. R 's, whom we all like so well. There were eight or ten guests, but not one of them had any social vogue, and, as they kept arriving, S became languid — more languid — almost plaintive. This continued and increased till Lady G arrived — not the young and clever, observe you, but the aged and dull. However, with this addition to our party S soon got back all his sprightliness. He was completely braced up by the serene vacuity, in itself almost regal, of kindly old Lady G . It had been the entire absence of patrician oxy- gen in our social atmosphere which had disturbed him. Mrs. R was hurt, and spoke to me about it. ' Didn't you notice him ? ' ' Yes,' said I ; ' indeed I did, and be hanged to him ! ' 'I like you for that,' quoth she ; ' but just now I pointed out the idiotic way he was going on to Molly F , and she was so taken up with that pretty new lilac neglige of hers that she hadn't noticed it. Is that because A 'BOUDOm DIOGENES' REFLECTION 241 she is so stupid ? ' ' No,' I replied ; ' I think it is because you and I are more sensitive — may I say, more in sympathy with S ? ' A worldhng, a boudoir Diogenes,^ has observed that it is advisable to associate with the highest, not because the highest are the best, but because, if you become disgusted with them, you can at any time descend ; but that if you begin with the lower, woe unto you, for the ascent is wellnigh impos- sible. In the grand theatre of human life a box- ticket carries one all over the house. Our aristocracy is fast becoming a plutocracy, and we know that each section of society has its besetting virtues and its characteristic frailties ; but in the great essentials the various ranks are more alike than the observer who spends his time in con- templating the surface of things would imagine. However, all are not equally pleasant to live with. I dare say nearly all I have been saying here has been said before, and much better said ; but it is the result of my personal experience, and I repeat it because I would have my children retain their in- dependence of character, and at the same time keep clear of cant. Traditional class prejudice is the bondage of unreason. * The Rev. Caleb Cotton, author of Lacon. B 242 my confidences My Guardian Angel ' Abra was ready when I called her name, And, tho' I called another, Abra came.' I will here describe a ridiculous misfortune that happened to me about fifteen years ago, and record my obligations to my guardian angel. I was calling on some friends in Pentonville (I do not care to reveal the exact address). It was in June, and they were not at home ; however, as I had come a long distance, and really wished to see them, I asked the servant to let me wait their return. This handmaid was past her giddy youth, but had not nearly arrived at middle age. She was of haughty eye and serene countenance. Some people might have called her comely, some at- tractive. I found her anything but cordial ; in fact, she had a slightly chilling manner, as if she was not overjoyed to see me, and would not break her heart if she never saw me again. However, in I walked, and was taken to a drawing-room on the ground- floor with French windows (open) to the garden. The apartment was gorgeously furnished — gold wall-paper, sumptuous hangings, and an ag- gressive crimson and orange carpet. It was quite new, of the kind which, I think, is called ' velvet pile.' There were books on the inlaid tables — depressing books, books of beauty, illuminated A CURIOUS IXKSTAND 243 volumes of devotion, views in the Holy Land, and gems from our poets, all elaborately bound. Hum- ming-birds were stifling under glass shades ; there were gimcrack ornaments, frail, carved ivory absurdities, only waiting for someone to smash them, and magnificent paper-knives, smelling- bottles, and all the rest of it, in velvet cases. This was not cosy, not even homelike, for there was no inkstand in the room, and no writing materials.' I resented this. Fifteen years ago — alas I I was fifteen years younger than I am now — rhymes were more often trotting in my head. It happened that such became the case as I sat waiting for my friends, and I felt if I did not at once secure them they might be lost to me and for ever. I had no pencil, and only the back of a letter. So, rather cautiously — for I felt ashamed of what I was doing — I opened the door and stole across the pas- sage to the library. There I found pens and a gigantic glass inkstand. It was somewhat this shape : ' However, I am bound to say that there was compensation, for a garden-chair was drawn to the open window ; also a small table, on which a fan and a few freshly gathered roses were laid. A pair of pearl-tinted kid gloves, lying light as fallen leaves, and an open book, were on the chair, just as the fair owner had left them. She had actually been reading that delightful prose idyll of " Old Cheeseman ' ! 244 MY CONFIDENCES I had never seen the form before, and I am not ambitious of beholding it again. I bore it across che hall as far as the centre of the drawing-room ; then, all of a sudden, without any warning, the lower portion (till that moment I had supposed the bloated monster to be one piece of glass) detached itself from that which I held in my hand, and to which it had hitherto clung corroded, and fell to the floor, rolling over and over along the wretched crimson and orange velvet pile, and emptying its ample contents as it rolled. Can you conceive my feelings ? I spun round the room in an agony. I tore at the bell, then at the other bell, then at both the bells ; then I dashed into the library, and rang the bells there, and then back again to the drawing-room. The maid who had admitted me came up almost immediately, looking as calm as possible, and when she saw the mischief she seemed all at once to rise to the gravity of the occasion. She did not say a word^ she did not even look dismayed, but in answer to my frenzied appeal she smiled, and vanished. ' In the twinkling of a bedpost,' however, she was back again with a pail of hot water, soap, sponge, &c., and was soon mopping up the copious stains with a damp flannel, kneeling, and looking beautiful as she knelt. Then did I throw myself into an easy chair, exhausted with excitement, and, I may say, agony MY GU^IEDIAN ANGEL SAVES ME 245 of mind, and I swore to myself : ' Good heavens, if this blessed creature should really help me in this frightful imbroglio I will give her a sovereign. It will be cheap at a sovereign. Yes, she shall have her 206-. ! ' Well, what with sponging and dabbing, the ^reat black stain began gradually to wax fainter, and my spirit revived in proportion ; and all the while this angelic being spoke so cheerfully, and had altogether such a delightful air, that I longed to assure her how profoundly I respected her. Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet. However, at this juncture — I am almost ashamed to confess it — I began to revolve in my mind whether ten shillings might not be a sufficient recompense, for, after all, she had not been much more than ten minutes about the whole affair. Well, the scrubbing went on ; then she took to her brush, and in cer- tainly less than twenty minutes the stains had entirely disappeared, and my guardian angel rose to her feet and asked me, with a quiet little smile, as though it were all the most natural thing in the world, if I should hke to have a cup of tea. I accepted her pious offer with joy and gratitude ; and there I sat me down, and gazed complacently at the again gorgeous crimson and orange velvet pile, and sipped my tea, and by the time I had finished it 246 MY CONFIDENCES (and my rhyme) my esteemed friends made their appearance. You may suppose that at first I felt a little uncomfortable ; especially so when, in something less than ten seconds, my good and demonstrative friend bawled to his fascinating wife, who had be- come at once occupied with her roses, ' Millicent 1 Millicent ! look here ! Now, isn't this too bad ? Just look at my carpet ! ' My soul died within me. I had my back to him. He was not far from the window ; he seemed close to the spot where the catastrophe had happened. ' Yes,' said he, ' they will leave the windows open, and your brute of a pug has brought all this filthy gravel in on his paws.' I breathed again, and, feeling constrained to say something, I observed, with a sickly smile : ' So our friend Edgar is very particular about his carpet, eh ? ' ' Particular ! ' says the little woman ; ' I should think he was particular — and awfully so just now, for this is a 7ietv purchase, don't you know ; it was only laid down yesterday. You can't con- ceive how awfully fidgety Edgar is about his carpets — it's perfectly ghastly ! Won't you have some tea ? ' All this tumbled out of her pretty mouth with enviable ingenuousness, of which she alone had the secret. But it was not reassuring. I lost heart ; I became completely demoralised. I am ashamed to say I made a hurried excuse, bolted out of the room, AN IGNOMINIOUS RETREAT 247 and out of the house, without telHng my friends a word of what had occurred. On my honour, I had intended to tell them, but could not muster up courage to begin ; indeed, they never gave me the chance. As I journeyed home I speculated whether that dreadful stain, like the crimson traces of a foul murder, might not reappear next day ; or — horrid thought ! — whether my beloved parlourmaid might not betray me. I feared she might do so ; therefore, and before I went to bed, I wrote my friends a penitential, I might almost say a pitiful, letter, giving a full and true account of what had happened. I threw myself on their mercy. I posted this letter — I posted it myself — but I do not say that anybody is bound to reply to a letter, unless it is greatly to his interest to do so. I have almost forgotten to say that I presented my guardian angel with a handsome donation of five shillings ! This is the end of a true story. Mrs. Bran AG II a\ Four or five years ago Frank Grant and I were on our way to Great Russell Street, to call upon Miss Sylvia Robinson, the Euterpe of Bloomsbury. 248 MY CONFIDENCES Perhaps you never heard of that forgotten district, for it is remote and out of fashion, as it is dingy and desolate ; indeed, our genteel novelists make use of humdrum old Bloomsbury when they want to point a moral of social degradation. The man who is completely undone, the man who has married his cook, is relegated to that bourgeois region. However, as Miss Sylvia is its muse, and her mission is to delight us, I had put on my best hat the more completely to do her honour. Great Eussell is a very long street, and it began to rain hard while we had still some distance to go ; so out of consideration to my hat we ran a few undignified paces, and then, as it came on still heavier, I took refuge on a doorstep which afforded a narrow verge of shelter, while Grant made the best of his way to the maiden's bower. Whilst I was leaning with my back against the front door an errand-boy arrived from the chemist's, and in answer to his summons a strapping, short- nosed, black-browed hussy of a servant-girl sud- denly opened it behind me, w^hich caused me to stagger backwards on to the mat. The girl took no sort of notice of me, received the physic from the boy, automatically slammed the street-door on his retiring form, w^hisked past me, and flitted down the kitchen stairs. This was all done before you could say Sylvia Robinson; and thus, to my surprise, and, AN IXVOLUNTARY ENTRY 249 let me say, perplexity, I found myself completely sheltered from the storm, but standing in the hall of an entirely strange house ! Then, immediately, and ere I could make any arrangement for absence of body, let alone presence of mind, a rather tall, ample, and majestic-looking lady emerged from the ' front parlour ' and sailed into the passage. She looked about forty ; she was dressed in a hght-coloured and voluminous dressing, or rather tea robe ; her hair, although no doubt it had been scrupulously coijfce, was curiously dishevelled, almost standing on end. I have seen children's dolls, neglected dolls (dolls which, after being sub- jected to the most frightful ill-usage, have been thrust away into an untidy nursery-cupboard), peep- ing out with just such heads of hair as had this lady. Madame Mohl, of the liue du Bac, had such. This startling apparition made me a sweeping curtsey, and when I began, in abject fashion, to apologise for the way in which I, an entire stranger, found myself in her house, she exclaimed : ' Oh ! never mind, sir ; I'm delighted to see you ! ' (with a slight Irish accent). ' It's raining hard ; would you like to sit awhile ? ' I said I could not think of such a thing ; that I could not possibly trespass further on her indulgence. But the gracious lady insisted, and 250 MY CONFIDENCES in less than no time I found myself seated by her side in the dining-room. I was bewildered ; I could not make it out. I thought she might be a little eccentric. I did not know what to think. I am not naturally bashful^ but I behaved as if I had left my tongue in the hall, where I should have left my umbrella — if I had brought one. However, I concealed my trepidation, and she soon began to tell me about herself, her ailments, her prolonged agonies — neuralgia, or some other obscure malady. Poor soul ! seated in that unlovely chamber, it seemed to do her good to talk to me — to pour her tale of suffering into my ear. I think I was not a bad listener, for her kindness and courtesy had quite won me. It seemed she was a lonely spirit hungering for human fellowship, and that she had made up her mind that I, for one short half-hour at least, was harmless, possibly sympathetic. Enfin ! After a while I again proposed to relieve her of my presence ; but she would have none of it, and reiterated and insisted that she was delighted to see me. She even, kind lady that she was, asked me if I would take anything. I was overcome by her hos- pitable offers ; but I must confess that the situation was a novel one — so strange, indeed, that all my old landmarks of convention seemed fast crumbling away. I declined the tea, and fell to talking of MRS. BRANAGIIAN'S COURTESY 251 the prints on the walls. We brightened up, we dis- cussed ; we even argued — we took sides. She was for Jones, I was for Brown. ^ However, at last, saying, and indeed feeling, that I must not trespass further on her great kindness, and Sunday hat in hand, I made her a bow — my most deferential salutation. But before going out I mustered up courage — or rather, without the courage I couldn't muster, I murmured something as to not knowing to whom I was so deeply indebted for such genuine hospitality. ' Perhaps you may know or may have heard of Patrick Branaghan, the member of Parlia- ment. He is my husband.' 'Indeed,' said I, with feiwour — ' indeed, I have not the honour of a personal acquaintance with that distinguished person ; but I know his writings, I have read his speeches, and, what is more, I have a copy of his son's — of your son's essay, which your son was so obliging as to give me.' ' 'Deed,' cried Mrs. Brana- ghan with enthusiasm, ' this is remarkable ! ' But when I told her my name the good soul threw up her arms with an appearance of transport. ' Now, this is wonderful, this is indeed a privilege, Mr. Cocker ! I never could have expected such a thing. What ! the Mr. Cocker who wrote the j^omes that I've heard of so often ? They say we sometimes entertain angels unawares. 'Deed now,' &c. ' At that time there were two accouiphshed painters so named. 2o'2 MY CONFIDENCES All this was exceedingly pleasant. Many and more compliments passed from either side ; and then I effected my escape. But, after such real kind- ness, it would not be gracious, indeed it would not be correct, so to characterise my leave-taking. I found Grant waiting for me at Miss Sylvia's door — on the damp side of the door ; so the faithful fellow had not stolen a perfidious march on me. It appeared that the world was getting smaller and rounder ; for when I spoke to the fair Sylvia of her benevolent neighbour, she exclaimed, ' Oh dear ! how like good, kind Mrs. Branaghan ! ' She knew her quite well. That evening I happened to dine with Arthur and Augusta Stanley, and they w^ere much in- terested in my Bloomsbury adventure. Arthur affected to be diverted by it, and said that such could only have hetallen-a, senti7nental rover; whereas it seems to me that, under the circumstances, I could have done nothing different from that I did. He added that he had just had the pleasure and profit of reading Mr. Branaghan's book, and, in consequence of what I told him, he should venture to ask him to dinner. Would I meet him ? I did meet him, and we had a very agreeable repast ; but I am sorry to say that a very short time afterwards I received a black-bordered card con- veying the sad tidings of the death of poor Mrs. MRS. BRANAGIIAN'S DEATH 253 Branaghan. She had suddenly exchanged the narrow Httle home of a suffering body for the limitless and unknown. Her brittle life, with all its aches and ecstasies, was shivered within a month. However, although I never again saw her kind face, her memory is very fragrant to me. I had so long lived in a region of conventionality and artifice, that when I was brought face to face mth simple cordiality and kindliness I did not at first recognise them. How much pleasanter and happier and wiser our petty world would be if there were more people like Mrs. Branaghan ! Two Suburban Graves Five years ago, for the first time in my life, and on a mournful occasion too — the funeral of Mr. G. H. Lewes — I found myself in Highgate Cemetery. I was alone, so for lack of better occupation I fell to talk with the custodian of the ground, a civil fellow. He spoke with pardonable complacency of the many distinguished people who had been buried within its precincts ; amongst others, of that good and illus- trious man, Michael Faraday, the blacksmith's son, the bookbinder's apprentice, the humble-minded 254 MY CONFIDENCES seeker after truth, the greatest experimentaHst the world has yet seen. ' And then,' said he, ' we have another that used to be a deal talked about. You've heard, I suppose, of Tom Sayers, the fightin' man ? ' This interested me. I had heard of Tom, and before I left the ground I found my way to his last resting-place. It was not difficult to identify ; for, although the inscription was almost effaced by time and weather, and the imagery was fast mouldering away, the grave was recognisable by a rather coarsely chiselled bas-relief which claimed to be the portrait of Tom himself, and by the sculptured effigy of his favourite mastiff. Lion. I should have liked, there and then, to have sent for a monumental sculptor and had the inscription recut ; but the custodian told me this was impos- sible. Litigation as to the possession of the grave was in progress, and while that went on the stones could not be interfered with. Li fact, a battle-royal was at that very moment raging over Fighting Tom's remains. I have no idea what kind of an animal Thomas Sayers may have really been in familiar and pacific life, but I had seen enough of him to recognise a remarkable simplicity and steadfastness, and the sight of those weather-worn effigies carried my thoughts back to a memorable spring morning some twenty years ago, and to a merry ' mill ' in a TOM SAYERS 255 Hampshire meadow, near a stream, not half a mile from Farnborough railway station. In imagination I am again at the London Bridge terminus,^ with a ' there and back ' ticket in my pocket. The hour is about four in the morning. There is a motley crowd, a huge gathering. There are butchers from Newgate Market ; fish-porters from Billingsgate, bringing their vernacular with them ; there are pugilists and poets, statesmen and pubhcans, dandies, men of letters, and even divines, elbowing each other in the semi-darkness. We have taken our seats. There is consider- able delay, but at last a bell rings, there is a snort, and then the monster train glides slowly out of the dimly hghted shed. Once beyond the station we quicken up. Away we tear in a gale of our own crea- tion — a Faust flight on the devil's mantle, over the roofs of the houses, through market-gardens ; and, leaving the steepled city behind us, we are soon hissing and snorting through the quiet country ; then before very long we find ourselves in a willow- fringed and sunny little field. For several months I had been confined to London pavement and the dead timber of the official desk. How well I remember the strange delightfulness of the green trees, the fresh grass, cool beneath my feet, and the gracious April air as ' In those days the station for Farnborough. 256 MY CONFIDENCES it played upon my face ! A lark is soaring and sing- ing far above our heads, rejoicing in his glorious privacy of light ; yokels and costermongers are clambering over fences and leaping dykes. And there, the observed of all observers, is the veteran Tom Oliver, superintending the erection of a twenty- four-foot arena. Sayers was the first to make his appearance in the ring ; but when his opponent, Heenan, threw his hat within the ropes, followed it, and stripped, there was a murmur of admiration. He was at once recognised as the most magnificent athlete that had ever been seen in such a place. He was five inches taller than Sayers — who, strictly speaking, was only a middle-weight — some two or three stone heavier, and (no small matter) he was eight years younger ; while his length of reach was remarkable for even so tall a man. Then, shall I ever forget the look of perfect self-possession and calm courage, mingled with curiosity, with which Sayers faced, gazed up, and smiled at, his terrible antagonist ? He had never set eyes on him before. Having lost the toss, he was obliged to accept the lower ground. But there he stood, his enormous shoulders shining in the sun, in his well-known and faultless attitude, tapping the ground lightly with his left foot, his arms well down, his head thrown back, ready for a THE FIGTIT BETWEEN SAYERS AND IIEEXAN 257 shoot or a jump, and a smile of confidence on his open but not classical countenance. Still — and no wonder — there was a pretty general opinion among outsiders, expressed in the flowery but forcible vernacular of the ' fancy,' that the match was ' a horse to a hen ' — that ' Heenan would knock Sayers into a cocked hat in ten minutes ; ' for how was Sayers to get at him ? I could not but feel the force of this opinion, and that Bob Brettle's observation was an apposite one : ' Well, Tom may beat him, but may I, etc., if he can eat him ! ' However, as it turned out, Sayers had no difficulty in getting over Heenan's guard, for he punished him frightfully.^ I recollect my strange tremor as the men stood up, advanced, shook hands, and took up their positions. The fight began about half-past seven, and finished soon after ten. I am not going to describe it. Has it not been already described in the racy cohnnns of our revered old chronicler, ' Bell's Life ' ? We have had enough of the ' rib- benders ' and 'pile-drivers.' I will say, however, that never in the annals of the ring were courage, science, ' He was more remarkable as a fighter than as a sparrcr. I liavo seen boxers quicker than Sayers. Nat Lanj^liam and Ned Donally were quicker, and so was Charley IJuller; but in force of hitting', cither with right or left, and in his extraordinary skill of timing his man, he had no equal. Like Entellus, he defended himself by the movement of his body. 258 MY CONFIDENCES temper, judgment, and staying qualities combined and displayed in such a marvellous measure as by Tom Sayers on this memorable day. He fulfilled to the uttermost Livy's facere etpati fortiter. At the beginning of the encounter Heenan wa's both out- generalled and out-fought ; but as early as the fourth round Sayers had his right arm completely disabled, and from that time he defended himself and attacked his gigantic adversary with only his left. The battle ended in a disgraceful scene of riot and blackguardism, especially among the backers of Sayers, who, as soon as they saw that their money was in extreme peril, broke into the ring. It ended by the umpire wisely deciding that it was a draw. Volenti iion fit injuria may be barbarous Latin, but it is sound sense. A boxing-match is a voluntary exhibition of pluck and endurance ; there is no malice ; and it proves to the uttermost the stuff of which a man is made. There was something in this great fight which the whole nation recognised, for it appealed to a very universal sympathy. It affected all classes, in a way that boys and men always will be affected when they hear of the exploits of a Peterborough or a Grenville. It was magnetic — and why should it not continue to move us ? Though, when I recall this battle, and Heenan's face, out of which all that was human MICHAEL FARADAY 2-59 had been pommelled, I cry, ' Heaven forbid that the prize-ring should ever be revived in all its hideous and loathsome degradation ! ' So long as manly sentiments and sheer English pluck are valued, so long shall the name of Thomas Sayers, the Polydeuces of our country, be held in honour. Dear reader, one of these days make a pilgrim- age to Highgate, climb its steep ascent, and enter the rueful-looking, the lonely burial-ground. The custodian will be pleased to see you ; he will greet you as he did me, and pilot you to the green rest- ing-place of Michael Faraday, of whom a distin- guished man of science well said, ' He w^as too good a man for me to estimate him, and he was too great a philosopher for me to understand him thoroughly.' Michael Faraday had the true spirit of a philosopher and a Christian. He w^as, indeed, one of England's worthiest sons, so it will do you no harm to muse awhile beside his grave. Then, if by chance you should come upon another grave — a monument of mouldering stones, a forlorn liic jacet (it will not be far to seek ; y(ju will surely recognise it), you may at once pass on. You need not stay ; but at least have a kindly thought for the plucky Englishman who lies buried there. The grass on Tom's grave is also very green ; and 260 MY CONFIDENCES you will be as like to see the lark soaring, and to hear him rejoicing at heaven's gate, from the one grave as from the other. Alas, poor Tom ! Like most of his calling, he died a young man. I happened to meet him on Hampstead Heath shortly after the battle, and not very long before his death. He was walking alone where John Keats had once liked to walk, in A melodious plot Of beeehen green and shadows numberless. We saluted as we passed, and I had the honour of grasping his hand — that fist which had so often administered his terrible blow, 'the auctioneer.' Heenan died much about the same time as Sayers. There is a spice of romance in the story of the gallant Benicia Boy. He was the husband of Ada Menken, a handsome actress with dark blue eyes — glorious eyes. She was the ' Infelicia ' whose love poems Mr. Dickens introduced to the reading public in 1868. I remember seeing Ada at Astley's Amphitheatre in ' Mazeppa ; ' and, from what I have heard, I am inclined to think that, like some other splendid women, she may have been a handful as well as an armful. UNATTENDED FEMALES 261 Nine Minutes and a Half The fashion of women walking about unattended is a feature of the present day, and I hope it is a vsign of that higher civihsation which is nothing more than the progressive development of our faculties. This license has made prodigious strides during the last forty years. I can recall when Belgravian virgins were first permitted to pay their Belgravian visits alone ; and Sydney Smith insisted, in consequence, that — at least in that Arcadian quarter — all the women were brave and all the men were virtuous. Let us be thankful that in these latter days an audience would recognise very little point in such a scene as that in Vanbrugh's ' Eelapse ' where, on the arrival of Tom Fashion at his house, the Knight bawls out, ' Let loose the watchdog, and lock up Miss Hoyden.' ^ Years ago, as a young man, travelling by rail- way I occasionally had an opposite neighbour in the shape of a young lady ; and if I chanced to address her, she would look scared — perhaps sidle ' According to the printed copies of The Belapse and A Trip to Scarborough, this is not strictly correct ; but I have read somewhere that Mr. Gatty, who impersonated the knight, so gave it with applause. 2G2 MY CONFIDENCES away to the other end of the seat, and feign to look out of the window. It is different now. As an elderly gentleman, I find that if I now hazard a remark mider precisely similar circumstances, my young lady jumps up from her comfortably padded corner, comes and seats herself beside me, and makes herself very agreeable for the remainder of the journey. All this she does — and yet, am I altogether satisfied ? I have given a slight outline of some years of my life, and with this preamble I now venture to give you a more detailed account of nine minutes and a half of it. Not so very long ago I took a train at Three Bridges to go to Eowfant ; and, perhaps because at the moment I was especially under the influence of my beneficent daimon, I contented myself with a third-class ticket. There were no elbow-rests in the carriage, but, as it turned out, there was something a good deal better — there was a young lady. This maiden did not look distinguished, but she had the greatest of natural attractions — she had youth ! However, it seemed to me that, except for her little kitten face, she hadn't very much else to boast of. She wore, perched on the top of her head, a self-asserting straw hat, trimmed with light-blue ribbon, and round her neck was a double row of rather aggressive MISS POMONA'S TRANSPARENT FACE 263 light-blue glass beads, a trumpery ornament that must have but meagrely ministered to her vanity. She looked as if she might be the daughter of a small shopkeeper in a small country town ; and so, as it turned out, she was. When I entered the carriage this young lady was reading a letter, and, without peeping over her shoulder, I could have almost told what it was all about, for her countenance betrayed every passing emotion : it expressed lively satisfaction and sor- rowful concern ; it w^as pleased, indignant, senti- mental, and tender by turns. It was delightful to watch her. I never saw a more transparent face. Her changing feelings were faithfull}^ reflected as in a mirror. The train started and the engine snorted. My companion had dropped her railway ticket — it was lying at her feet — so I picked it up and ceremoniously presented it to her. It w^as then, for the first time, that she seemed to be aware of my existence. She thanked me, but with a bashful gravity. Not dis- couraged by this, I hazarded a remark or two about the weather. These were acknowledged in mono- syllabic fashion. But we were more in sympathy when I spoke of the country ; for then all at once she woke up, she l)ecame conuiumicative — the words begiiu to tumble out of her little mouth. She told me of her home, of her parents. She hud 2G4 MY CONFIDENCES four brothers and sisters — only four ; she wished she had a dozen ! She told me her christian name. What could her godfather and godmother be thinking of ? It was ' Pomona ' ! — and it was ' too hidjus.' She enlightened me as to which was her favourite name, though she and Fanny Privett didn't ' a bit agree about names.' ^ She even asked me which was my favourite colour. I should state that all this was done with an appealing, an infantine simplicity, but with a mixture of frank- ness and bashfulness difficult to conceive of. Miss Pomona further informed me that quite lately, while climbing a stile, she had sprained her ankle. Upon this I assumed my most paternal air. I said that her companion could hardly have been sufficiently attentive at the stiles, for, if he had been so, she would have been spared that sorrow. This at once set her off ; she became confi- dential, extremely so. She bridled — she had not climbed that stile with a 'young man.' Her young man — or rather the young man, one of the many who just then appeared to be making life a burden to her, and who, I suspected, was the writer of the letter — was not what she altogether cared for. She rather disliked him than otherwise ; she was not * She quoted this lady as if I knew all about her. I presume she was her bosom friend, such a one as was Miss Anna Howe to Clarissa. MISS POMONA'S FASCINATING ^L\NNER 2G5 quite sure she should have anything more to say- to him. He was a ' tall, dark, military young man, of old family.' He was Irish. Fanny Privett always said it was much better to have nothing to say to Irishmen. What did I think ? She described their last interview ; she described it gravely, minutely. And she was tender, almost tearful, as she did so, for it appeared that she had been cool and sarcastic ; and even now she slightly projected her pretty under lip and jerked her head about at the recollection of each telling point of their conversation. She was irresistible when she did that. It was this mixture of contrasting feel- ings that made her so fascinating ; and it was evident that she had more than a sneaking kind- ness for her young Milesian — that she was proud of him : of his tallness, of his darkness, also of his ancient lineage. ' J'aime encore a retrouver mon coeur.' I was satisfied to be vanquished by this damsel. Her childlike candour, her sprightly simplicity, and her naive self-betrayal captivated me, as did also the many-coloured flowers of half-conscious coquetry that blossomed in her prattle. Like to my Dear Lady Disdain, there was little of the melancholy quality in Pomona. She had been born in a merry hour. If she was incomplete, it seemed an incom- pleteness that was well worthy of being completed, 266 MY CONFIDENCES and I thought to myself, What a nice Httle wife you would make to that lucky young trooper ! Heureux qui niettra la cocarde Au bonnet de Mimi Pinson. As thus I meditated — for by this time I had become very much attached to her — the engine began to slacken its speed, and in an instant came the sobering reflection that there is a parting at the root of all our joys. We had arrived at Bowfant Station. I placed her little satchel and umbrella by her side. Her eyes met mine, and fell, and again rose with a glance of trustful goodwill. All the lively flutter of the last few minutes was at an end. We seemed to have known each other for I don't know how many ye^rs ; we were serious, we were good friends. There was a brief silence, a sudden hand- shaking, and then an everlasting Farewell ! Each generation of children begins the history of the world anew ; those of to-day are the wives and mothers of to-morrow. What has become of this young, this interesting, this confiding little com- panion of mine, my dear friend during a journey that had occupied nine minutes and a half ? Ghost of Dick Steele, shades of Charles Dickens and Charles Lamb ! these few lines are but the dry bones out of which either of you could have fashioned a very pretty essay. MY CAB ACCIDENT 20' TiiK Story of a Postage-stami' When Lionel Tennyson was first plighted to Eleanor, he lived at 3 St. James's Street. One afternoon I hud occasion to write to him. I stamped my letter, intending to have it posted. However, something unexpected decided that I must go to the Travellers' Club, so I sent for a four- wheeler, meaning to drop my letter at his lodgings on my way to Pall Mall, and thus to save a penny. As I rattled up St. James's Street it was rain- ing. It was so dark, and rained so hard, that I could hardly distinguish the shops, and I fancied that we were passing No. 3 ; so I clapped down the glass, thrust my head out into the storm, and bawled to the driver to pull up. I shouted frantically, as is my custom ; but cabby took no notice of me. I shouted again — we were close to the kerb ; and this time I opened wide the door, to be prepared to spring out the instant he stopped, as is also my invariable custom. I was in a state of extreme irritation ; but this was quenched by the cab suddenly striking against a stone post, whicli in one instant whipped the cab-door of! its hinges and hurled it into the gutter. Upon this the cab stopped, and after a 268 MY CONFIDENCES struggle with my watch and chain, which had caught in something or other, I floundered help- lessly out into the lashing rain. The driver was already waiting for me on the pavement — a weather-beaten old pilot of the cause- way with fog in his throat. He said nothing, but he stooped and picked the door out of the swollen gutter, and placed it carefully, I might say tenderly, against the seat which I had that moment vacated. He did this as if he had been in the habit of doing it every day of his life. Then he turned to me. And it was then that I discovered that we had only just reached No. 3. So you see I was in the wrong in every respect. We faced each other; and as it seemed necessary that some one should say some- thing, I ventured the not very original remark, ' This is a bad look-out.' ' Yes, it is,' replied Jarvey, deliberately ; then he took off his hat with both hands, so that he might arrive at a cool-headed opinion as to the whole affair ; then he scratched his head. But he did not seem inclined to enlarge on the idea, so I could not help pointing out, in an aggrieved tone, that if he had only obeyed my directions, and had stopped when I told him, the accident would not have happened. ' Ah ! ' said the dripping cabby, ' I read you as one o' them gents as be werry fond of argufying ; now, if you wants to argufy ' — shaking the rain off the brim of TILE EXTENT OF THE DAMAGE 269 his hat, and planting- himself against the guilty post — ' I'll argufy with you as long as you likes.' Then he added that he did not know how much it wouldn't cost to repair his cab — ' Not my conwey- ance, you know : my proprietor's ' — for, as he pointed out with a ruthless perspicacity, the door had not been simply wrenched off its hinges, but a portion of the framework had been torn away with it. It further appeared — and this made matters worse— that he had only just come on the rank, and must be paid for his time, for he could do nothing more that night ; and, to use his own words, he'd 'just like to see the colour of my money.' By this time an almost preternatural calmness had come over me, and, thanks to the rain and the excitement, what may be called a damp resignation. I gave the man my address and ten shillings, and, like Pope Pius the Sixth in assez mauvais etat (I was almost wet through), \\ith my watch in my hand — for it had fallen out of my pocket on to the pavement — I took another cab home. A day or two afterwards I received the estimate for repairs, preposterous, and couched in brutally peremptory terms ; then close upon it there came a second letter, illiterate and insolent, threatening to ' County Court ' me if I did not instantly pay up. This was humiliating, and it revealed a seamy side of life, a glimpse of something very unsavoury. 270 MY COXFIDENCES The proprietor of the cab treated me with complete distrust. He had at once made up his mind that I was a scamp, thus showing the sort of people with whom he was in the habit of doing business. The affair altogether cost me five or six pounds. One of them was for the mending of my watch. My hat was damaged, and my temper ! — and, after all, I had spoiled the postage-stamp in tr3dng to get it off Lionel's letter. I do not bear that cabman any ill-will. Some time afterwards I came across him at the door of a public-house. He had been assuaging the asperities of existence by gratifying his natural taste for beer. He looked rather shabby, and had a shirt which, under more auspicious circumstances, might have been white. I saw no cab. He was shod in wooden clogs, and his ankles were enveloped in haybands, so I presume he had left ' the rank ' and turned waterman. He may have come down in the world, but there was contentment in his old face. Evi- dently he was a superior man, a man of few wants (he who wants least is most like the gods, who want nothing), and seemed to view his altered con- dition with a philosophy that Zeno himself might have envied. Peace be with him ! A PATAGONIAN BREAKFAST 271 A Charity Breakfast I am rarely asked out to breakfast, but when the bidding comes I am not sorry to accept. It is now some three or four years since I received a very cordially worded invitation from the Pata- gonian Church Extension Society to take that meal with them, and as it was summer-time I did not object to the primitive hour of half-past eight. The repast was spread in a very large room. Numbers of men in black coats and white ties (cleric and servitor) were hovering about, and with them was Sir Bonaray Veroles, who had been advertised to take the chair. I knew Sir Bonamy. There w^ere huge metal tea and coffee pots, capacious cups and saucers, and plates of ham and tongue, flanked by thick toast and hot rolls. These refreshments repeated themselves at regular inter- vals all down the tables, looking homely but inviting ; for, what with my walk and the early rising, I felt uncommonly hungry. I was directed to a seat beside a clerical gentle- man of colour, tropical and strange, but not espe- cially Patagonian in build. People were talking in all parts of the room, but when silence had boon obtained there came a murmur from the further 272 MY CONFIDENCES end. This turned out to be a far-away benediction,^ quickly to be followed by the renewed clatter of conversation and crockery. The teapots were being pushed about briskly and jovially, and while I was helping myself to tongue and toast, thereby committing myself to the breakfast, a busybody of a fellow in a white tie, waiter or cleric, came bustling up, and with osten- tatious assurance slapped down a blank cheque, a lead pencil, and the eulogy of the charity by my plate, looking significantly at me and my substantial slice of tongue as he did so. It was then, and not till then, that I apprehended the whole force of the affair — why I had been invited, and to what I had rendered myself liable. It was a snare, a pitfall. I understood it as well as if the clerical exotic at my elbow had held a cannibal knife at my throat. A great revulsion of feeling at once overtook me. I was wounded, I was indignant at this flagrant breach of hospitality ; ventre affame, a hungry man is an angry man. I should have liked to know what the Patagonians and their Church Extension were to me. But how was I to save myself ? The eyes of Sir Bonamy and of everybody else in the room were fixed upon me — or seemed so. But save myself I would, and it struck me there ^ ' Then, breaking their chats off, Say Grace with their hats off.' — John Gay. I EXTRICATE MYSELF FROM A DIFFICULTY 273 was only one way of doing so, and that that was to fly ! I resolved, but I hesitated — I lingered on ray unfullilled resolve. However, knowing that time was everything, and procrastination would be fatal, and mustering up all my courage, I slowly and with great apparent difficulty raised myself from my chair. I bent myself nearly double, my right hand pressed just below the spot where my waistcoat ends. Every eye seemed to be upon me ; but I got clear of my chair, and staggered away between the narrow tables to the door. By worse luck I had to pass Sir Bonamy, and as I caught his cold, inquiring gaze fixed upon me I made a rueful face. However, by that time I was close to the principal entrance, and, once there, I leaped into a cab and drove home, with no better escort than an uneasy conscience. Strange to say, I was so much affected by the dramatic force of my impersonation that I kept my hand where I had placed it till I reached my own door ! I arrived just in time for a much better repast than that from which I had severed myself. Anatomists insist that the heart is very near the stomach, and singularly dependent upon it. Whether or no, this was my first and last charity breakfast, and it only shows how necessary it is for a man to be on his guard in London. It also shows how innocent I was. I may add that next morning, T 274 MY CONFIDENCES impelled by promptings of a weak compunction, I sent a guinea to the Patagonians, and in due course received a long list of the society's benefactors, in which my name (quite wrongly spelt, and there- fore unrecognisable) duly figured. Altogether it was an unfortunate affair. The Koyal Academy Banquet It is a distinction to be invited. I used to be acquainted with Mr. W. E. Frost, the accomplished and unassuming Academician. As a j^oungster I had often seen his pictures exhibited — undraped nymphs engaged in doing- nothing in particular ; compromises between Stot- hard and Etty, but really not much like either. As nymphs they were perfectly well-conducted young- persons, their nudity being one of their attractions : Indiiitur, formosa est : exuitur, Ipsa forma est. As Erost got into years he lost vogue, grew exceedingly deaf, and exhibited only fitfully. How- ever, he solaced an enforced leisure, which practi- cally was a solitude, by hunting up old prints ; and he showed his excellent taste by making an almost complete collection of book-plates after Stothard — I ATTEND AX ACADEMY DINNER 275 that admirable Stothard ! It was these that had encouraged me to seek his acquaintance. We met several times, and he gave me many valuable hints ; for which, in spite of his extreme hardness of hear- ing, I succeeded in making him aware that I was grateful. A year or two after my first meeting with Frost I received a card to dine at the annual banquet of the Eoyal Academy on May 3, 1873. As Sir Francis Grant, the president, was my distant con- nection, I thought I might be indebted to him for the honour, and joyfully accepted the invita- tion. When the day and hour arrived I found, a little to my surprise, that my name was between a knife and fork on Frost's dexter hand. Our chairs were in a corner near the door, as far from the President as could well be. There is no doubt that Frost was exceedingly deaf; but still, for the sake of his own great ob- ligingness and the incomparable Thomas Stothard, I was satisfied to be where I found myself — between Frost and a gap — though now and then I looked wistfully (a humble foible) at my friends and acquaintances gathered around Frank Grant. Many months after this dinner I fell in with Quintin Carver, the Academician. Among other matters he spoke of Frost as being seriously out of T 2 276 MY CONFIDENCES health, and asked me if I had seen him lately. He went on to say that perhaps it would interest me to know that, at one of the Eoyal Academy meetings, the diffident, deaf, and, to all practical intents and purposes, dumb Frost had got on his legs and proposed that I should be invited to the next dinner ; and, said Carver, ' you will be gratified to hear that there was not a single dissentient voice; his motion was carried nem. con.'' Carver is a candid fellow, and he showed by his voice and manner that he thought this an extraordinary cir- cumstance — extraordinary that Frost, a very retir- ing man, should have proposed me or anybody else, but more extraordinary still that his motion in my favour should have been so unanimously carried. When I heard Carver say this, I remembered how dull and silent I had been at dinner, how little attention I had paid the good Frost ; and I thought to myself. Poor painter ! but for you I should, never have assisted at that banquet. At least let me hope you were aware that I did not know to whom I was indebted for my invitation. The next day I called on Frost,^ but he was ill. A few days afterwards I again called, and he was ^ On these visits to Frost I would sometimes pass 7 Buckingham Street — the house with a tablet to the memory of John Flaxman, wlio had once lived and worked there. My first sight of that tablet had been a surprise and a pleasure. It seemed to give sunshine to an otherwise shady place. W. E. FROST 277 worse ; and then he died. So I was never able to make my peace with my conscience by thanking him. Whenever I pass through Fitzroy Street I look up at a window of No. 46, and the shadow of an unpleasant thought oppresses me. Now was not Frost a kind fellow ? I only wish that he could have known that I thought so, and that I was really pleased to sit by him at dinner, and to talk about Stothard. I like his memory none the worse that he never told me how it all came about. I have a long letter from Frost, dated January 1876, in which he gives reasons for his retirement as an active Koyal Academician — ill-health and ill- fortune. I fill up a place which may be better supplied When I have made it empty is the burden of it ; it is written under great de- pression of spirit. I trust that his last days were not embittered by poverty ; that, at any rate, he had enough for the exigencies of his self-imposed obscurity. In 1885 I was again invited to the dinner ; but Sir Curtis Lampson had died hardly three weeks before, so I declined. I think that good fellow Leighton may have proposed me this second time, and I hope there were not so very many dissentient 278 MY CONFIDENCES voices ; but I shall know all about that when next I see Academician Carver. Teavelling Fifty Years agone In the good old coaching days there was an idea that our stage-coachmen were reputable in propor- tion to the number of miles they drove us, and there was something in it ; certainly our interest in them, and I hope theirs in us, was usually in- creased by the length of the time that we continued in company. This remark is a j^rojoos of what I shall say later on. Are the ' Bull and Mouth ' (Boulogne harbour), the ' Spread Eagle,' the ' Swan with Two Necks ' (nicks), and ' Green Man and Still,' yet in existence ? In Greenwich Hospital days, when I went back to school I was obliged to journey up to one or other of these queer places of entertainment to meet the mail, and at a very early hour. On looking back, it would seem that these mornings were almost in- variably misty and raw, and sometimes nearly pitch- dark. I often felt cold and squeamish, and some- times, for what seemed hours, had nothing to do but grope about the deserted innyard, where one or two deserted coaches were standing and a STAGE-COACHMEN 279 'helper' might now and then pass with a horn lantern. Feeble lights the while would flicker and disappear in the ghostly galleries above. Very occasionally a tinkhng wagon, fresh from the comitry, and perhaps covered with snow, came rmnbling in. At last — and it was a long-deferred at last — the morning began to break, the house woke up, and I was able to distinguish all which till then had been dim and uncertain and mysterious. I have a recollection of many expeditions made as long ago as when George, or Billy the Fourth, was King, made no matter whither— to Brundusium or to Birmingham ; of the humours of the road, and the conveyances and inns. I have more than once travelled in that commodious vehicle which had a round sort of basket behind the body, and comfort- ably accommodated six full-sized passengers. What an agreeable and edifying companion was the stage-coachman ! How complete his winter cos- tume, how sufiicing; how garish his summer! — a wonderful coat, hat, cravat, and bright flowers in his buttonhole. So decorated, he tooled along his four bloods with glancing harness and ring-snafiies, their hoofs clattering merrily along the road, and entertained the occupant of the box-seat — a throne to which I very seldom aspired — with appropriate talk of Sir ' Vincent ' Cotton, Dick Brackenbur\', and many another hero and highflier. Let me 280 MY CONFIDENCES recall his tone of superiority when, in hovering fashion, he condescended to the politics of the day. I can remember many coachmen of that time, but I can remember only one observation, exactly as it was made, by any one of them. We were on our way to Clare, and were in the suburbs of London, when a child trotted out into the road, right in front of the horses, and was nearly run over. The coach- man was equal to the emergency, superbly equal to it ; he pulled up in time, and then turned coolly to his ' box-seat ' with this pithy and laconic remark : ' They does it a purpose ! ' This was all he said, and this I have never forgotten. Separated as it is from the being who uttered it and the occasion that prompted it, it may not appear striking, but I know we passengers were much impressed by it. How- ever, although he was the hero of my fancy, then — even then I had a lurking impression that he was not an altogether educated man, like my father, but how interesting ! The guards often wore scarlet coats, and were on curiously genial terms with everybody, male and female, along the road — that is, with everybody w^orth being on such terms with. There was a delivery of parcels going on, and a receiving of them — some of a confidential character. Part of their duty was releasing the skid and rehanging it. I remember I used to long for 3-et one flourish more IN'CIDENTS OF TRAVEL 281 of gallant good-bye from his cheery key-bugle, or ' yard of tin,' which was always consigned to a funnel-shaped wicker sheath when we were well started for over the hills and far away. I remember the old yellow post-chaises, their musty perfume and their many pockets ; the white, fluffy, beaver-hatted little postboys, their legs en- cased in worn white cords and mahogany tops, their elbows well turned out, and the gait which is peculiar to their calling ; the halt for changing horses, and the cheery bustle. A bell rang, and 'First turn-out' was called. Then would follow the interesting speculation as to the number on the approaching milestone, or the colour of the next boy's jacket. It was interesting, as the post-chaise drew up at the door of the roomy and comfortable hostel where we were to dine or sleep, to see Boniface and his better half smilingly awaiting us — Us in imrticii- lar ! — waiter and chamber-lasses grouped behind them. The landlady advances to the carriage- window with a cordial, with a self-respecting, ' Will you please to alight ? ' I remember that the landlord, who announced dinner, sometimes entered with the first dish, and placed it on the table, bowing as he retired. Why, it all seems as if it were but yester- day ! now it is ^nne for ever. This is how the genial Prior described it in 1723 : 282 MY CONFIDENCES ' Come here, my sweet landlady ! How do you do ? Where's Sisley so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue ? And where is the widow that lived here below ? And the ostler that sang about eight years ago ? And where is your sister, so mild and so dear. Whose voice to her maids like a trumpet was clear ? ' ' By my troth,' she replies, ' you grow younger, I think. And pray, sir, what wine does the gentleman di'ink '? But now, let me die, sir, or live upon trust. If I know to which question to answer you first. For things since I saw you most strangely have varied- The ostler is hanged, and the widow is married ; And as to my sister, so mild and so dear, She has lain in the churchyard full many a year.' There is just a something in Hogarth's Country Innyard that reminds me of it all. I have a remembrance of the Thames below Woolwich, and of certain queer old bankside ale- houses, the resort of smugglers and, we were assured and convinced, of pirates ; also of a pair of below- bridge watermen, who now and again pulled me and one or two others, in a clinker-built wherry, or rather skiff, with a buff bow and flared rowlocks, to and fro between Greenwich Hospital, Kedriffe, and London Bridge, that being the only means of public conveyance excepting the three-horsed coach. We used to skim along in mid stream if the tide w^as favourable, but hugged the shore when it was adverse. The Pool required careful navigation. I have often shot the most critical arch of old London Bridge. THE OMNIBUS AND ITS TASSENGERS 283 We knew a good deal about our two watermen and their domestic concerns. We had been acquainted ever since they had been out of their time. They had an interesting way of deahng with the letter v : they sometimes used it as though it were a w. At that time the ' Venus ' was an important river steamer; they always called her the ' Wenus,' and referred to her as a ' wessel.' The man who pulled stroke had come in second for Doggett's coat and badge. In winter he worked as a pilot, and in rough weather wore a fantail or sou'wester. Here I return to the thought which prompted the opening paragraph of this reminiscence. Last week I got into an omnibus at Liverpool Street railway station, and had not long been seated before I cheerfully observed to the conductor that the fare all the w^ay to Charing Cross was only a penny ; that I had never done the entire journey before, but that I was going to do it to-day ; and that I had thought I should make a good thing out of him ! His reply was not gratifying : ' That's nothin'; why, I've an old bloke as goes it every day;' and it was delivered in so callous and languid a manner that it set me thinking out the moral of the situation. It was merely this. In the eyes of that conductor there was nothing remarkable about me; I luas an (Ad hlol-c who represented a very 284 MY CONFIDENCES hardly earned penny, and that only. Yes, suppose every one of the thousands who entered that omnibus had given the man as much extra trouble as I had done by my unnecessary remark, why — his life would have been a burden to him. How slender was our interest in each other ! What on earth could he possibly care about his passengers ! I should be curious to know the extent to which the London and General Omnibus Company had profited by my patronage. I should have thought that my extra weight, the pausing to pick me up, the getting quit of me, the effort of getting under w^ay again, and all the wear and tear, must have deteriorated that 'bus and those two horses to the extent of much more than a penny. I ought not to have made the remark. I might as well have asked a ticket collector on the Under- ground Eailway, say at Baker Street station, for his views on bimetallism or the doctrine of free will. I have had the same sort of experience at the enormous Paris and London hotels. It is there that you are known by a number (which you your- self with diiS&culty remember), and by that number only ; and it is there that the bill you have run up — an important item to you — would hardly defray the cost of the caravanserai toothpicks for twelve hours. The inhabitants of the United Kingdom are now better fed, better housed, better dressed, better TIME'S OBLITERATIONS 285 educated, and better mannered than they were when I was a youth ; but the increase of wealth, the increase of the population, the huge inflation in all directions, the spirit of the age, are overflowing and swamping everything, and conspire to entirely obliterate the individual, as well as those humble associations and homely incidents which used to sweeten our somewhat contracted and sleepy daily life. They are pleasant to look back upon, but, like the country innyard as depicted by Hogarth, they are gone, and gone for ever ! On a Coloured Caricature by James GiLLRAY 1893. When George the Third was king there was a scurrility, a ferocity in the work of our political and other caricaturists which it is now difiicult to understand. The good Gillray himself was not the most urbane artist of his generation. In spite of this I often turn, and always with renewed pleasure, to a homely little coloured print which hangs in my dressing-room. It is by Gillray. He introduces us to five human beings : an army offlcer, two old gentlemen, and two ladies, one aged, and the other quite young. They are seated at a 286 MY CONFIDENCES very small round table, in a room the furniture of which is curiously scanty. One of the old gentle- men, whom I make out to be the host, for he is seated in the elbow-chair with a decanter before him, is telling an anecdote. Opposite to him is the young- lady. She has a glass of wine in her fair hand, and on her left is the not altogether youthful soldier, whose attention is mainly directed to her, though, like herself, he is listening to the story. On the soldier's left is the old lady ; and opposite to both is a clergyman (probably her husband) in a well- powdered wig, and with an exquisite grin on his venerable profile. These two are also listening to the story. The whole party, with the exception of the young lady, are hugely enjoying what their genial host is confiding to them — they are revelling in it. But it is easy to see that she is not altogether at her ease : she is bashful ; she looks as if she does not quite know what may not be coming next. Her military neighbour, who is also her adorer, is in raptures with the story, but he watches her furtively, evidently being afraid of wounding her susceptibilities by a too delighted and too open appreciation. Such is the subject of my little old print, and this is its title : ' A DECENT STOEY.' Examine this little work of art, and you will see GILLRAY'S CARICATURE 287 how entirely the artist has depended on the humanity of his characters : he has not taken refuge in elaborate upholstery or a la mode toilets to hide the poverty of a jest. The piece depends on its Hogarthian quality. I am very fond of it. And in this I am not singular, for my housemaids gaze at it, leaning on their early brooms, and they giggle as they gaze. It amuses my children. Oliver laughs aloud, and cries, ' What is the story about, papa ? ' My excellent and dear old sister, seventy-four years old July 3 next, and just come back from the Antipodes, is in ecstasies over it, and she goes so far as to wish she could have heard the story. Now, what does all this enjoyment mean ? Surel}^ there are seasons when even the mirth that resembles the crackling of thorns under a pot may be salutary. I ask the question because I have been told by superior people that my ' Decent Story ' is not a * nice ' thing to hang up. P. says he would like to turn it with its face to the wall. Q. (a lady- moralist), to whom I had said it was worth its weight in gold, advises me by all means to sell it. I am a rusty old poet, so, by way of trying to satisfy everybody, I have written under the title three abortive but well-intentioned lines, and they run thus : In a roomy old house that I wot of tliere's one room Where merry folk meet, and they call it the/H/j-room — This story he's telling is' Grouse in the gwn-room.' 288 MY CONFIDENCES Is the pleasure that I and mine experience in this print within the hmits of becoming mirth ? Is it a harmless pleasure, or has the fiend anything to say to it ? Where is the ghost of old Gillray ? I wish we could ask him something about it. He would be certain to know. If the Divine Euler of the universe permitted the fiend to incite the gifted Gillray (Heaven bless him !) to invent this naive little conversation-piece — an invention worthy of Honore Daumier — I do not see why, after all, there may not be a beneficent intention at the root of the matter. Silvio's Complaint This is a tentative essay — an attempt at an attempt. I call it tentative because I do not know how far the feelings which impel me to write it can be understood by even a very small minority of mankind. It may be that my pen is swayed by a unique idiosyncrasy. Anyhow, I crave your indulgence and will state my position. I am prosperously married. I have a rich, young, and affectionate helpmate. She has excel- 1 AM NOT SATISFIED 289 lent abilities, and, being sincerely religious, it is not necessary for me to say she has irreproachable principles. She is not a vegetarian ; she is not a Plymouth Sister ; she does not even wear the divided skirt. Indeed, she is just such a woman as the poet was thinking of when he exclaimed, 'A wife is the peculiar gift of Heaven.' On the other hand, I am poor, and old, and testy, and no longer comely to look upon. As regards my own virtues, you will be the more able to gauge them when you have read these few pages. Marcus Aurelius was a better man than I am ; but somehow I have a much better wife. After this preamble you may be surprised to learn that I am not satisfied — that I want less than I have got, and yet, Heaven be praised ! that I still want something. I want a possible ' she,' and I want to be let alone. There are times when solitude would be a paradise. Where is the man who really cares for the caressing voice of the adoring one if he has a grain of cinder in his eye ? It is for this reason that I am yearning for a creature who would be willing to be my devoted friend ; content to yield me everything, and to expect nothing ; and who would set herself to fulfil the duty of making me happy in my own way. My legitimate help- u 290 MY CONFIDENCES mate expresses solicitude at seasons when I do not care for solicitude being expressed. For instance, when I am going out for the day, her parting injunctions invariably are — she has always been a timid creature — ' Now, mind how you get in and out of trains, and pray take care of mad dogs and thunderstorms.' To speak plainly, I am in search of a self-deny- ing creature — an animal who will talk and be lively when it pleases me, and be satisfied to be silent and subdued if I so desire it. I want a companion who will rejoice to be w^ith me, but will remain out of the room, and cheerfully too, when — from what shall I call it ? — when, from a nervous, excitable organisation, I may have just kicked her out of it. Such a being could make herself attractive in a thousand different ways. She could do so by shomng an interest in all that concerns me — a regard for my comforts, especially my small comforts. She should lend a greedy ear when I dilate — as I fain would occasionally dilate — on my fancies, my caprices, and my foibles. She should not seldom express astonishment at the amount of knowledge I have accumulated, at the consideration in which I am held ; and if she praises me mth an air as if she cannot possibly help praising me, she may do so to my face. Hitherto my natural inclination IN SEARCH OF A REAL COMPANION 291 has been to efface, I now wish to assert myself. The behaviour I describe would soon embolden me to brag of my achievements. I never brag now. I want a good listener. I have conversed with women who, the while that I did so, regarded me with ecstasy, and yet, a moment afterwards, I found that they had not the remotest idea of what I had been saying to them ! The woman I seek must be a really good listener. Then there should be some- thing timid and tentative in her bearing and move- ments. I shall be pleased if she furtively watches me. She should especially do so, and with solicitude and concern, when she sees me moody or self- absorbed. I shall be flattered if she chooses those dishes which she may have observed that I prefer, or takes but little food when I am disinclined to eat. I have long felt the want of a real companion. I shall need it the more as I grow old, and as the world drops away from me.^ How I shall value a long-suffering soul like the person I am attempting to portray ! I should become exceedingly attached ' Oh. my crutch ! Is it not spring when the cnckoo passes through the air, when the foam sparkles on the sea? The flowers, are they not shining ? The young corn, is it not springing ? Ah, my cnitch ! The young maidens no longer love me. Ah, my crutch ! The sight of thy handle makes me wroth. Llywarch Hen, Bard of Argocd. u 2 292 MY CONFIDENCES to lier ; and I do not despair of finding such a being. However, I am not a conceited jackass — se7iem verecundum esse decet, so I moderate my pretensions. I do not the least insist that this companion of mine should be rich. I do not expect her to have any great affluence of charms, much less that grata 2?rotervitas which is irresistible to both young and old. I can hardly hope that one who would regard me as I have described would be very youthful ; indeed, I have lately experienced a sharp lesson in this respect. I had selected quite a young lady, not pretty, but interesting, whom I hoped to educate for the position. Not very long after our corre- spondence began I discovered that she showed my letters to her mother. I speak with sincerity, and acknowledge that I may have to be content with a ' half- worn ' woman — nee bella, nee piiella. However, there is one thing wiiich is absolutely necessary. This precious soul, whoever and wherever she may be, must not only be devoted to me, but she must be really a vassal to my poetry. It must move her to tender thoughts, and occasionally to even emotional transport. This necessity is an anxious consideration ; and it is embarrassing, because there are very few people indeed who have been deeply affected by my verse. Hitherto I have not been spoilt in that respect. CHARACTERISTICS OF MY POSSIBLE ' SHE ' 293 It is possible that the companion I am in search of will have had her disappointments, her trials. Likely enough she may have led a life of dependence, and therefore of prolonged self-denial. If so, she will probably be a grateful being. The friend I seek ought to be a very grateful being. No w^oman can be extremely attractive without some personal vanity. Let my possible ' she ' be vain to that degree. She need not be pretty, but I wish her to be interesting-looking. She may be weak, but she must not be stupid ; sensitive, but not exacting ; impulsive, but not too negligent ; and not opinionated, excepting in her opinion of me. It is also important that, if ever she should desire to improve the occasion, she should do so by example. She must never do it by precept — understand this ; and her religious opinions should be in complete harmony with my own. We ought to find mutual comfort and support in theological conversation and discussion. She must not be a prude ; and she should always know the day of the month. I am now sixty years old. I think I should prefer that this amiable friend did not live under my roof, for sometimes I should like to be quit of her altogether. However, she might abide in my immediate neighbourhood, perhaps with a (juerulous 294 MY CONFIDENCES grandmother. My dear wife will advise and help me in this matter. I am told that Felix Carroll, the lyric poet, who is threescore years and ten, has a consolation of the natm'e I describe ; indeed, that in his case there has been a succession of them. He finds it exhausting to be amiable every day to the same human being. A flower out of place is a weed — so his present adorer lives near at hand, with a fat valetudinarian aunt. She writes to him continually. There is a confiding softness and whispering charm in her punctual letters. She knows a good deal of Felix Carroll's poetry by heart ; she treasures his autograph ; she is sentimental or sportive over his spectacles and lampshade. She is tolerant when he is testy. She is devoted to his wife. She goes to him every day, sometimes twice, whether it be wet or fine, whether she be ill or well. She sits at his feet ; or, if he wills it, she ebbs noiselessly away. Felix Carroll's life is sheltered from disturbing episodes : wild roses fill his hedgerows, and fragrant woodbine clambers everywhere ; his woods are vocal with rooks and pairing birds ; the clamour of the great city comes mellowed from afar ; he can say, as another has said : Thoughts which at Hyde Park Corner I forgot Meet and rejoin me in the pensive grot. He finds Tusculan repose in a creeper-covered com- FELIX CARROLL'S TUSCULAX REPOSE 295 bination of rusticity and refinement. In summer he loafs, and invites his soul in shady walks, shadowy verandahs, cool alcoves, and a wealth of mignonette, jasmine, stephanotis. In winter he has a perfectly regulated temperature, cheerful fires, a complete system of hot-water piping, and, of course, the most modern appliances. With these and all the latest periodicals and papers, and, to crown all, with the radiant reflex of his companion's youth, his old age is lapped in simple luxury ; he is handsomely hedged about, lighted up, tucked in, and provided for. He secures comfort by being comfortable. Can any arrangement be more satisfactory ? I am not acquainted with the Chinese language, but I have read that it possesses a word which has three different meanings — at least, they seem differ- ent to me — a towel, a comb, and a woman ! What a language ! What a people ! I have heard it maintained that woman is a fair defect of Nature, and that she is at the core of all our troubles ; that she is a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desirable commodity, a domestic peril, a deadly fascination, and a painted ill. Cherchez la jemme ! It may be so. 1 suppose it always vnW be said to be so ; but I do not believe it. Such notions are shocking to me. Woman is a beautiful, romantic animal, to be adored and doated upon. I honour women, and have resolved that my happi- 296 MY CONFIDENCES ness shall be cradled in the smiles of a devoted woman. Montaigne had such a friend (Marie de Gour- nay) ; so had Y. Hugo in Juliette Drouet ; so had But need I run through the names of all the men illustrious in imaginative literature who have been so courted and consoled ? Biography is rich with them, and why, I say — why should I be left out ? What joy to wind along the cool retreat ; To stop and gaze on Delia as I go ; To mingle sweet discourse with homage sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know ! I hope the spirit of this paper will not be mis- understood. It is pure fun, and those who know me will recognise that the person most quizzed is myself. SOME BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES Mr. Thackeray I HAD a sincere regard for Thackeray. I well remember his strildng personality — striking to those who had the ability to recognise it : the look of the man, the latent power, and the occasional keen- ness of his remarks on men and their actions, as if he saw through and through them. Thackeray drew many unto him, for he had engaging as well as fine qualities. He was open-handed and kind- hearted. He had not an overweening opinion of his literary consequence, and he was generous as regarded the people whom the world chose to call his rivals. I made Thackeray's acquaintance at the British Embassy, Paris. Events are liable to get confused in the refracting medium of one's memory, but I think it was about 1852 or 1853. From that tiuie to the end uf his life we often found ourselves together, and wore always good frionds. 298 MY CONFIDE XCES Thackeray, though he was not so subtle a critic as some of the present day (1883), was an excellent judge of poetry, and when Tennyson's ' Grand- mother ' first appeared in ' Once a Week ' he was greatly struck by it. ' I wish I could have got that poem for my " Cornhill " — I would have paid 501. for it ; but I would have given 5001. to have been able to write it.' Nobody knew better than Thackeray that, though Mercury is a pleasant fellow, Apollo, to say the least of him, has the larger following. Still he was duly impressed with the difficulty of reach- ing excellence in writing even ligJit poetry ; he often spoke to me about it. Lady Blessington once sent him an Album print of a boy and girl fishing, with a request that he would make some verses for it. ' And,' said he, ' I liked the idea, and set about it at once. I was two entire days at it — was so occupied with it, so engrossed by it, that I did not shave during the whole time ! ' These lines may be found among his ballads, under the title of ' Piscator and Piscatrix.' I remember his words : 'It is easy enough to knock off that nonsense of " Policeman X.," but to be able to write really good occasional verse is a rare intellectual feat.' Now it appears to me that it would be indeed a triumph to wTite anything half so good as ' Policeman X.' What an admirable gift had Thackeray ! Who is so genial, tender, and humorous ? Why, the very THACKERAY AND CRUIKSIIAXK 299 negligence of his verse has its charm ! Read his Horatian ' Wait till you come to Forty Year.' Thackeray greatly admired George Cruikshank, but only in his quite early works. When Cruik- shank was engaged on the ' Onniibus ' he asked Thackeray to contribute. Thackeray sent him a fairly long contribution, I forget on what subject, and Cruikshank returned him a sovereign in full satisfaction. Thackeray laughed good-naturedly as he told me this, and added, ' You may suppose after that I did not trouble George with any more of my poems.' He once pointed out to me an illustration in the ' Comic Almanac ' — ' The Marriage Breakfast ; or, the Happiest Day of my Life ' — an old gentleman in barnacles, his arms folded, with difficulty keeping back his tears. This figure, something like the late Mr. John Forster, gave Thackeray infinite delight. He also much admired the work of John Leech. ' Leech is the sort of man who appears once in a century.' Thackeray had hardly any personal acquaint- ance with Hood. I think he only met him once, at a City feast. He told me that Hood was a ' pallid, thin, melancholy-looking man.' He did not care for a great deal that Hood wrote ; but just at the time when Thackeray's ' Roundabout Paper,' ' On a Joke by Thomas Hood,' appeared, he said to 300 MY CONFIDENCES me : ' What a vigorous fellow Hood is ; what a swdng there is in his verse ! ' I agreed with him, and then said something about Thackeray's own poetry. ' Yes,' he replied — ' yes, I have a sixpenny talent (or gift), and so have you ; ours is small-beer, but, you see, it is the right tap.' He said other things about my verses, both to me and behind my back, wiiich 1 am pleased to remember, but not pleased to repeat. I will now give a reminiscence of Thackeray which certainly, for my own sake, I mention wdth reluctance ; but I wish to give you a true idea of the man, and this will show you he was very sensitive. I happened to meet him as I was leav- ing the Travellers' Club. Even now I think I could point out the particular flagstone on which the dear fellow was standing, as he gazed down on me through his spectacles with that dreamy expression of his which his friends knew^ so well. He said : ' What do you think of the last number ? ' (Number 2 or 3 of ' The Newcomes '). He himself was evidently not quite satisfied with it. ' I like it immensely ' was my cordial rej oinder. A word or tw^o more passed respecting the illustrations, which had been sharply criticised, and just as we parted I was tactless idiot enough to add, ' But, my dear fellow, perhaps there may be some kind people w4io wall say that ^jou did the cuts and Doyle the letter- MEETINGS AGREEABLE AND DISAGREEABLE 301 press.' On this Thackeray's jaw dropped, and he exclaimed bitterly, ' Oh ! really, that's your opinion, is it ? ' I saw at once what a mistake I had made ; but I could only reply, ' I spoke in fun, pure fun ; you know perfectly well how much I admire your writings, and also Doyle's cuts.' But Thackeray would have none of it, and turned wrathfully away in the direction of Pimlico. However, his wrath, I presume, died away in the large and charitable air of the Green Park, for when I met him the day after he was as amiable as ever. The fact is, I had so exalted an opinion of Thackeray and of his writings that it seemed im- possible such a demi-god should care for aught any- body said; whereas, like Tennyson, he felt every- thing that everybody said. I remember another, a more agreeable meeting, in Pall Mall, close to Marlborough House. He was on his way to Kensington across the Green Park. He told me that I must not turn with him, as there were some rhymes trotting in his head, and he wanted to finish them. I quite understood the situation, and he continued his solitary walk. When we met a few days afterwards, he said : ' I finished those verses, and they are very nearly being very good. I call them Miss Katharine's Lantern ; I did them for Dickens's daughter.' He spoke with a lisp, as if his teeth were defec- 302 MY CONFIDENCES tive, and ended by, ' I am now on my way from the dentist.' You will remember that towards the end of that little poem he refers to his toothless condition. I admire Thackeray's style, and the pathetic quality in his writings ; in this he never faltered. I like his sardonic melancholy. Thackeray, in a passing mood, might quite well have said : ' Who breathes must suffer, and who thinks must mourn, and he alone is blest who ne'er was born.' He shows knowledge of human nature and much acquaintance with life — not a wide acquaint- ance, but complete within its limits. The ver- nacular of his Fokers and his Fred Bayhams is classical, and so is their slang. Some years ago I met a man somewhere — I forget where, or who he was — who told me that in past times he used to pay annual visits to Paris ; that he often looked into Galignani's reading-room (now defunct), and there was to be seen a very tall young man, with black hair and spectacles, who used to roder autour de la cJiamhre, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up to his ears, in a shivery, restless, uncomfortable sort of way. This young man occasionally would take up a paper, glance at it, and then fling it back on the table, over the heads of the readers. He often saw this man, who never addressed any one, and whom no one ever spoke to ; and my informant wondered, in THACKERAY'S E^'JOYME^'T OF SOCIETY 303 a languid sort of way, who the deuce he could be. One day he happened to enter Frascati's. The first person he saw there was the tall spectacled man, prowling about, standing behind the punters — observing, not playing. He did not seem to speak to any one. And now my informant became inte- rested to know who on earth the man could be. Some time after this, on a Sunday, he was w^alking in Hyde Park, and met his very tall spectacled hero, still alone, his black hair beginning to be grizzled. From time to time during the next six or eight years he encountered the same man in the Park and in the streets ; once or twice with a man even taller than himself — an amiable, hand- some, and complacent-looking giant ; and now my informant was seized with a consuming curiosity to know who, in Heaven's name, this person could possibly be. One afternoon, long afterwards, he chanced to be in King Street, Covent Garden, and as he passed the Garrick Club (the original house) his spectacled incognito, grown portly and almost white, came sedately forth. Here was an oppor- tunity. He saw him descend the pen-on and well away ; then in he slipped and says he to the porter : ' Can you kindly tell me who that very tall white- haired gentleman is who has just left the club ? ' When every one knows how a story will end, the 304 MY CONFIDENCES story is ended. It is not necessary, dear children,, that I should tell you what that porter said. You may gather from this little account that though at times and seasons Thackeray enjoyed society, and was always valued by it, he was not what is called a very social being. Tennyson in this respect is something like him. Some people thank God that they do not set store by the smaller refinements and civilisations of life. Let me tell them that they are thanking God for a very small mercy. Such boons gave Thackeray a keen satisfaction. He was a man of sensibility : he delighted in luxuriously furnished and well-lighted rooms, good music, excellent wines and cookery, exhilarating talk, gay and airy gossip,, pretty women and their toilettes, and refined and noble manners, le hon gout, le ris, Vaimable liberie. The amenities of life and the traditions stimulated his imagination. On the other hand, his writings show how he equally enjoyed Bohemianism, and how diverted he could be by those happy-go-lucky fellows of the Foker and Fred Bayham type. Thackeray expanded in the society of such people, and with them he was excellent company. But, if I am not much mistaken, the man Thackeray was melancholy — he had known tribulation, he had suffered. He was not a light-hearted wag or a THACKERAY'S HUMOUR 305 gay-natured rover, but a sorrowing man. He could make you a jest, or propound some jovial or outra- geous sentiment, and imply, ' Let us be festive,' but the jollity rarely came. However, I ought to say that though Thackeray was not cheerily, he was at times grotesquely, humorous. Indeed, he had a weakness for buffoonery. I have seen him pirouette, wave his arm majestically, and declaim in burlesque — an intentionally awkward imitation of the ridiculous manner that is sometimes met with in French opera. I remember calling in Palace Gardens, and, while talking with all gravity to Thackeray's daughters, I noticed that they seemed more than necessarily amused. On looking round, I discovered that their father had put on my hat, and, having picked my pocket of my handkerchief, was strutting about, flourishing it in the old Lord Cardigan style. As I was thin-faced, and he, as a hatter once remarked of Thomas Bruce, was 'a gent, as could carry a large body o' 'at,' you may suppose he looked sufliciently funny. Thackeray could be very amusing about the malice of kind and the perfidy of honest people ; but still, in everyday life, and in spite of his flair de cynique, he was naturally inclined to believe that gossip false which ought not to be true. One day I htippened to speak with admiration 306 MY CONFIDENCES of Sydney Smith, and Thackeray looked surprised, and said, 'Ah, Sydney! he was a poor creature, a very poor creature.' He said it twice, and I think he was about to give his reasons for holding so crush- ing an opinion, when some idiot came up, and, to my very great regret, carried him off. I hope the time may come and place be appointed when certain small mysteries connected with our sojourn here below may be made plain ; if so, I shall indeed be glad to know why Thackeray did not approve of the plucky, the buoyant, the inimitable Sydney Smith. During the last three or four years of Thacke- ray's life he suffered from bad health, depressing bad health. He lived with his daughters and his inti- mates, and almost entirely gave up general society — and he was a wise man to do so. My dear reader, whoever you are, think of this illustrious man with tenderness ; think of his upright nature, of his affec- tionate heart, his domestic affliction. These are enough — you need not trouble for his genius. Dear Thackeray ! his happiness and his comfort were fragile charges to be entrusted to any one. His dutiful and gifted daughters were their best guardians. Most of us have some sort of belief, some ideal as to the end and object of life. Thackeray was a good man. He had a strong sense of religion : he o A" GEORGE ELIOT'S PERSONAL APPEARANCE 30 recognised that the human soul requires such a sanctuary and would starve without it. It was Thackeray who spoke sorrowfully of his little Ethel Newcome as going prayerless to bed. I knew Thackeray for years, and had very many talks with him — and this is all I have to tell you about him. What a wonderful fellow was James Boswell ! George Eliot and Mr. G. H. Lewes Nature had disguised George Eliot's apparently stoical, yet really vehement and sensitive, spirit, and her soaring genius, in a homely and insignificant form. Her countenance was equine — she was rather like a horse ; and her head had been in- tended for a much longer body — she was not a tall woman. She wore her hair in not pleasing, out-of- fashion loops, coming down on either side of her face, so hiding her ears ; and her garments con- cealed her outline — they gave her a waist like a milestone. You will see her at her very best in the portrait by Sir Frederic Burton. To my mind George Eliot was a plain woman. She had a measured way of conversing ; re- strained, but impressive. When I happened to call she was nearly always seated in the chimney corner 308 MY CONFIDENCES on a low chair, and she bent forward when she spoke. As she often discussed abstract subjects, she might have been thought pedantic, especially as her language was sprinkled with a scientific terminology ; but I do not think she was a bit of a pedant. Then, though she had a very gentle voice and manner, there was, every now and then, just a suspicion of meek satire in her talk. Her sentences unwound themselves very neatly and completely, leaving the impression of past reflection and present readiness ; she spoke exceed- ingly well, but not with all the simplicity and verve, the happy abandon of certain practised women of the world ; however, it was in a way that was far more interesting. I have been told she was most agreeable en Ute-d-Ute ; that when surrounded by admirers she was apt to become oratorical — a different woman. She did not strike me as witty or markedly humorous ; she was too much in earnest : she spoke as if with a sense of responsi- bility, and one cannot be exactly captivating when one is doing that. Madame de Sable might have said of her, ' elle s'ecouta en parlant.' She was a good listener. I ought to say that during all the time I knew her, George Eliot appeared to be suffering from feeble health, and without doubt this affected her whole bearing. A CHAT WITH GEORGE ELIOT 309 When we first became acquainted we were told that she and Lewes had been married in Germany, and that they were reluctant to move out of their own immediate circle, or to enlarge it ; however, when I ventured to ask them to dine with me, to meet Arthur and Augusta Stanley, they came. The Stanleys appreciated the dinner ; they did not think Mr. Lewes attractive, but they were interested in her. I think they and I afterwards met both Mr. Lewes and George Eliot at Lord Mount-Temple's, and at Jowett's ; but these sub- sequent meetings did not deepen Arthur's first favourable impression, and then he was consider- ably taken aback when he found that Mrs. Lewes was in no way Mr. Lewes's wife. I saw George Eliot only two or three times after Lewes's death : on the first occasion she was shrouded with much weed, so I talked to her with bated breath, hardly venturing to initiate a subject ; however, as I was leaving the room, I chanced to say something about Mrs. Langtry, just then sail- ing with supreme dominion on the buoyant wings of her beauty ; upon this George Eliot pricked up her ears, and asked about her. I said that I had lately met Mrs. Langtry at Mrs. Millais's, and had had an amiable little letter from her about some verses which afterwards got into the World. On this George Eliot became more and much more 310 MY CONFIDENCES interested, and laughed, and asked me to repeat the lines. This was one of the few occasions on which I had seen George Eliot entirely alone ; it enabled me to know her better, and it made me feel sorry that she had not more sprightly and natural people about her — indeed, that she did not breathe a more healthy atmosphere ; for unless Du Maurier sang, or W. K. Clifford talked, or Vivier, the horn-blower, gave one of his impersonations, her reunions had somewhat of the solemnity of religious functions, with the religion cut out. Her intimates were mostly composed of her admirers, of scientific people, litUrateiirs, and the disciples of that gro- tesque sophist, Auguste Comte. Sir Charles Bowen, the distinguished judge, told me that he had known George Eliot during the last twelve or fifteen years of her life. He knew her very well, and often went to see her. Bowen thought her exceedingly agreeable, and Bowen is an excellent judge. She once confided to him a manuscript of considerable length, the skeleton of, or memoranda for, a novel, which had a legal denoument. Bowen read it carefully, and felt that it would not do, that it was too thin, and he wrote and told her so. She did not resent this frankly expressed opinion, for when next he saw her she referred to the manuscript, and said she had SIR CHARLES BO WEN ON GEORGE ELIOT 311 made up her mind not to use it, and I believe she never did. She told a friend of mine that, when she was arranging for a new novel, she first sketched in the characters, and then they gradually and naturally fell into certain positions in life and evolved the story. George Eliot had this questionable advan- tage over novelists like Bulwer and Miss Braddon : her stories, as stories, are not so artfully con- structed that the reader is apt to sacrifice appre- ciation of the beauty of the thoughts and style in eager pursuit of the agonising plot. At Keir, many years ago, I met Mrs. Norton,' afterwards Lady Stirling-Maxwell ; she told me that she had reviewed ' Adam Bede ' in the ' Edin- burgh Review,' and that she thought it the finest of George Eliot's novels. She especially spoke of the first volume. I agreed with her that, if the third volume - had been equal to the first, the work might take rank with the best by AValter Scott, which nearly always improve as they advance. George ' Mrs. Norton at the same time told me what now (1883) seems almost incredible: that she had seen Benjamin D'Israeli in St. James's Street in black velvet trousers, lace ruffles, and with high scarlet heele to his boots. He tried that sort of thing for a short time, found it was not a success, and discontinued it. Mrs. Norton mentioned this not as a proof of his curious ignorance and want of ta^te, but of his good sense. May not Mrs. Norton have exaggerated ? '-' Shakespeare even could not make the fifth act oi Julius Casamo interesting as the third. 312 MY CONFIDENCES Eliot has none of Scott's animal spirits, but, like Scott, her humour is the humour of truth, and not of exaggeration. George Eliot is most happy in describing the middle class. Mr. Lewes was very clever, acute and vivacious, with an essentially all-round intelligence ; a ready man, able to turn the talent that was in him to full and immediate account. There are special types, as there are different degrees, of ugliness ; there is the ugliness of Sir , who is so grotesquely featured that he looks as if he were walking about doing it for fun. On the other hand, there was the plainness of Mr. George Lewes, but that was of a less comic character, and yet he was credited with having been a Lothario, who could have boasted ' personne ne connait la puissance de ma belle laideur ' — it was suggested that George Eliot, or time, had tamed him — how- ever, anybody, judging by his appearance and manners, would have been justified in thinking that the number of his conquests might have been represented by a vanishing quantity. He had long- hair, and his dress was an unlovely compromise between morning and evening costume, combining the less pleasing points of both. His adverse critics said that he was literary among men of science, and scientific among literary men. It struck me that he had a reprehensible GEORGE HENRY LEWES 313 delight in ridiculing the dogmas of revealed reli- gion, which displeased me. I believe (a word that did not go for very much in his vocabulary) he was a good-tempered, and I dare say a benevolently in- clined, person, and nothing could have exceeded his devotion to George Eliot ; for he was ever on the alert to shield her from worries and annoyance, and keen to get her good terms from the publishers, but somehow it seemed an incongruous partnership. I did not find him very agreeable ; but he once made Tennyson and me laugh heartily by his description of a certain ' noble lord ' of his acquaint- ance, an effete and preposterous personage, going, under the guidance of Mulready, the well-known genre painter, to see a collection of pictures, and how the ' noble lord ' talked the whole time, never stopped, and yet never once committed himself to an opinion. Lewes had been an actor, and he imitated the voice and gesture.^ ' Noble Lord. ' Haw, yes, you've a great many pictures here, Mr. Mulready — a great many pictures. Now this picture — the Old Masters, you know {■mith his double eifctjlann hctweeji his finger and thumb). Let me see now, to whom shall we give this picture, eh ? ' Mr. Mulready. ' This, my lord, is by Cuj'p.' Noble Lord, ' Haw, yes, of course. Tins picture's by Cuyp. you know : and this, Mr. Mulready, what shall we say to this picture '? ' Mr. Mulready. ' This picture, my lord, is also by Cuyp.' Noble Lord. ' By Cuyp, eh ! Haw, yes, of course {ahvaya toith his eyeglass). This picture is also by Cuyp. The Old Masters, you know, and this. Mr. Mulready, j-ou've a great many pictures here ; to whom shall we give this picture ? an Old .Muster, ch ? " 314 MY CONFIDENCES Mr. Lewes had known Charlotte Bronte ; he admired her writings, but complained that she spoke of Catholics and the Catholic Church with acri- mony, reviling the incense-pots, and such like, which offended the little Comtist, who, in spite of his impieties, was by way of being contemptuously tolerant. I doubt, how^ever, if it was much more than a sceptical indifference ; for only touch him where he did believe — and sceptics are very credu- lous — wound his self-love, and he was all beak, claws, and bitterness. Lewes was considered very amusing in a sort of way, and it was understood that he had anything but deteriorated by his association with George Eliot. I once took Major LawTence Lockhart (John Gibson Lockhart 's nephew and the author of ' Fair to see '), to call on George Eliot. She was at- tracted by manly beauty, and Lockhart was very good-looking ; he was also a clever, rollicking writer — the sporting novel in the style of Surtees — a species indigenous to England, and he had con- siderable conversational powers ; but in appearance and bearing he was the typical horsey dragoon, the Mr. Mulready. ' Why, ciiriously enough, my lord, this is also by Cuyp.' Noble Lord. ' Indeed ! Haw, really now, this is remarkable {looMng about him, always with his eyeglass). This is also by Cuyp, you know. "Why, bless my soul, Mulready, we've a monstrous number of pictures by that fellow Cuyp,' &c., &c. MAJOR LOCKIIART AND GEORGE ELIOT 315 plunger. I at once introduced him to Lewes, who (and this was very generous on Lewes 's part) pre- sented him to his wife, and then, taking him aside almost immediately, began to talk about horses, the racehorse of the present day, and of a curious cir- cumstance that had been mentioned in the papers about laying the odds ; and then he (Lewes) passed on, and talked to somebody else. However, he soon returned to Lockhart, who evidently much inte- rested him. As inward love breeds outward talk, The hound some praise, and some the hawk, SO this time the subject was canine, from the Anubis of the Egyptians down to the last dog- show. All this surprised poor Lockhart. ' What the deuce did he mean by talking to me about his horses and dogs, and nothing else ? ' I did not care to tell him that I thought Lewes was entirely justified in supposing a warrior of his appearance and manner could not possibly think of anything else, but I ventured to say his doing so was a proof that he thought a good deal of him. Lockhart's amused and simple unconsciousness pleased me exceedingly.' ' Lockhart was a very a ; James Gibbs, 387 Birch, Dr., 13, 418 Blake. William. 164 Blanchard, Laman, 326 43^ MY CONFIDENCES Bland, Mrs., 126 Blessington, Lady, 298 Blomfield, Bishop, 11 ' Blue-stocking,' origin of the phrase, 14 Boswell (Capt. William Locker's sailor-servant), 74 n., 429 Boswell, James, 307 Boucher, Miss Eleanor Mary Elizabeth, letter to her mother, 62-66. See also Locker, Mrs. Edward Hawke Boucher, Miss M. A., 63 Boucher, Mrs., 97 Boucher, Rev. Jonathan, 36, 37 Bowen, Sir Charles (afterwards Lord), 310 Bowles, Miss, 133, 137 Bowles, Mr., 132, 133, 136 Brackenbury, Dick, 279 Braddon, Miss, 311 Bradley, Dean, 108, 347 Briggs, II. P., 84 Broderip, Mr., 49 Broglie, Due de, 156 Bronte, Charlotte, 314, 335 Brooke, Eajah, 123 Brookes, Mr., 382 Brookfield, W. H., 164 Brougham, Henry, 50 n. Brown, Commodore Charles, 16 Browning, Miss, 158 Browning, Mrs. E. B., 157, 158, 179 Browning, Mr. (father of Eobert Browning), 158 Browning, R., 157, 158, 181, 182, 352, 357 Bruce, Lady Augusta, 344. See also Stanley, Lady Augiasta Bruce, Lady Charlotte, 151 ; her marriage, 152. See also Locker, Lady Charlotte Bruyere, J. de la, 214 n. Bulier, Charles, 257 n. Burlington Fine Arts Club, origin of, 189, 190 Burns, Robert, 178, 186 Burrow, Sir John, 383 n. Burton, Robert, 63 w., 228 Burton, Sir Frederick, 307 ' Buy a broom ' girls, 127 Byng, Admiral, 424 Byron, Lord, 178, 183, 185, 838, 376-378 Calveeley, C. S., 181 Campbell, Colonel Niel, 24, 29, 31 Campbell, Thomas, 138, 139, 186 Canning, George, 124, 137 Canning, Rev. E., 38 n. Capet, M., 402 Carlyle, Mrs., 355, 356 Carlyle, Thomas, 123 n., 152, 181, 355 ; his powers of vituperation, 356 ; introduction to the Queen, 357 ; want of appreciation of poetry and fiction, 359 ; his lite- rary style, 359 ; letter from, 361 Carroll, Felix, 294 Carter, Mrs. Ehzabeth, 14 Castellani, A., 161, 187 Castiglione, Comtesse de, 156 Cato Street conspirators, execution of the, 60 Cayley, Mr. George, 152 ' Centiirion,' H.M.S., lines on the figm-e-head of, 79-81 Chabot, M., 41 Chalmers, Dr., 11, 68 Charity breakfast, a, 271 Chiswick fetes, the, 126 Chunee, Exeter Change Menagerie elephant, shooting of, 126 Clarendon, Lady, 327 Clarendon, Lord, 327, 379 Clark, Sir Andrew, 370 n. Coaching days, 278 Cobbett, W., 71 Cockburn, Chief Justice, 180 Cocking Mr., fatal parachute acci- dent to, 57, 58 Coke, Rev. Dr., 90 Coleridge, S. T., 150, 179, 186, 340 Collingwood, Lord, 15 Comte, Auguste, 310 Conflans, Marshal, 425 Cope, Sir John, 106 ' Cornhill Magazine,' 153, 175, 298 Corsini, Princess, 161 Costa, Sir Michael, 323, 367, 368 Cotton, Rev. Caleb, 61, 241 Cotton, Sir 'Vincent,' 279 INDEX Cousin, v., 156 Cowper, Sir George, 155 Cowper, ^^'illiam, 145, 178, 180, 199 n. Crawford, Stii-ling, 381 Croker, Crofton, 819 Croker, John Wilson, 9, 68, 74, 98 n., 128, 3G4, 383 n. Cross, Mr., 316 Cross, Mrs. See Eliot, George Cruikshank, George, 299 Cmnberlantl, Duke of, 172 Curio hunting, 186 ; characteristics of collectors, 188 Curzon, Mr. Robert, 217 Cust, Mr. Henry, 100, 103 Cust, Mr. Robert, 100 Cust, Hon. W., 128 Darxley, Earl of, 328 Darwin, Charles, 234 Dauniier, Honore, 288 Davison, execution of, 61 Dawson, ^latthew, 188 De Ville, Mr., 8 Defoe, Daniel, 168 Denison, Mr. (Speaker of the House of Commons), 379 Derby, Lord, 326 D'Haussonville, M. and Madame, 156 Dickens, Charles, 162, 284, 260; first meeting with, 318 ; at an Odd Fellows' club dinner, 319 ; as a public speaker, 320 ; in society, 320 ; and Dean Stanley, 823 ; his personalit}^ 324 ; as a story-teller, 324, 326 ; his opinion of tlie writings of Smollett, Fielding, and Jane Austin, 325 ; reminiscences of, 326 ; his sud- den death, 327 ; his funeral, 828; as a writer, 329 Dickens, Charles, junior, 327, 328 Disraeli, Benjamin, 165, 311, 335, 336 Disraeli, the elder, 165 Dobson, Dr., 90 Dobson, Mr. Austin. 180 Donally, Ned, 257 7i, Dore Gustave, 156 D'Orsay, Mr. Alfred, 140 Doyle, Richard, 301, 370 Drouot, General, 29, 82 Drummond, Mr. Henry, 898 Dryden, John, 170, 232 Du Maurier, Mr., 310 Dufferin, Lord, 217 Dumas, Alexander, 157 Dunfermline Abbey, monument to Lady Charlotte Locker in, 201, 202 Durnford, Bishop, 180 Edwardes, Mr., Dick, 152 Eglintoun, Lord, 382 n. Elgin, Elizabeth Coimtessof, 155, 157, 172-174 Elio, General, 30 Eliot, George, 106, 228, 352 ; her appearance and manner of con- versing, 307 ; meetings with, 309, 314, 317; and George Henry Lewes, 809, 316 ; her re anions, 810 ; and Sir Charles Bowen, 810 ; her method in novel writing, 311 ; ' Adam Bede,' 311 ; meeting of, with Major Lawrence Loekhart, 314 ; marriage with Mr. Cross, 816 ; her fimeral, 316 ; her dependent nature, 317 Ellesmere, Lord, 217 Ellison, Mr., 119 Elphiustone, Mountstuart, 68 Elwell, :\Ir,, 107, 108. 109 Elwin, Rev. Whitwell, Rector of Booton, 351 Erskine, Mr. Thoams, 152, 355 Exeter Change Menagerie, 126 Exmouth, Admiral Viscount, 28, 124, 388 n. Faraday, Dr., 284, 253, 259 Felbrig, 14 Felix, Captain Orlando, 83, 84, 85 Fehx, Rachel, 157 Ferdinand VII. of Spain, 30 Ferguson, Captain James, 419 Fielding, Henry, 325 Fitzgerald, Edward, 186 Fitzgibbon (Greenwich pen- sioner), 81 F F 434 MY CONFIDENCES Flanders, Tom (Greenwich pen- sioner), 81 Flaxman, John, 276 n. Fleming, Lady Catherine, 164 Fletcher, Mr. John, 134 Fonblanqiie, M., 165 Ford, Mr. Richard, 217 Foreman, Mr. and Mrs., 65, 66 Forster, Mr. John (biographer of Dickens), 162, 299, 328 Fortunv, Mariano, 160 Franks', Mr. (of the British Museum), 187, 190 ' Free-and-easys,' 397 n. Frogmore, visits to, 154 Froude, Mr. J. A., 165, 352, 381 Fry, Mrs. Ehzabeth, 85 Garnekin, Mr. (balloonist), 60 Garrick, David, 74 Garrick, Mrs. David, 74, 388 n. Garrucci, Padre, 159 Gaskell, Mrs., 161 Gatty, Mr., 201 w. George III., 84, 172 n. George IV., 74 Gibbs, Mr. H. Hucks, 217 Gibbs, Mr. James, 351 ; his ac- count of himself, 387 ; personal api^earance of, 389 ; his parents, 389 ; his sixty volmne illustrated folio Bible, 390 ; character of, 392, 404 ; his distinguished patrons, 393 ; the ' snake col- lection,' 394 ; his meeting with and marriage to Mary Hillier, 395-398 ; his second wife (Anne Bennett), her death and fimeral, 398-402; a holiday with, in France, 402 Gibson, Mr. John, 160 Gillray, James, a coloured carica- ture by, 285-288 Gladstone, W. E., 159, 161, 348, 358, 359, 370 n. Goethe, 209 Goldsmith, Oliver, 186 Gore, Mrs., 334 Grace, Mr. W. G., 382 Graham, Sir James, 145, 146 Granville, Lord, 155, 379 Grassot, M., 157 Gray, Thomas, 177 Gray of Gray, Lord and Lady, 152 'Green Man and Still,' the, 278 Greenwich Fair, 83 Greenwich Park, 58, 83 Greenwich Hospital, 2, 7 ; Captain William Locker Lieutenant- Governor of, 17 ; visits of Wil- liam IV. and Queen Adelaide to, 22, 79 ; Edward Hawke Locker appointed Civil Commissioner of, 37 ; he founds the Royal Naval Gallery, 37 ; his apartments, 71 et seq. ; Charles Dickens at a charity bazaar in the Painted Hall, ;318 Grote, Mr. George, 357 Grove, Sir George, 108 Guizot, M., 156 Guthrie, Mr., 63 Haddington, Lord, 134-137, 145 Hall, Mr., 393, 394, 395 HaUam, Mr., 68, 119, 234, Halle, Sir Charles, 347 Hallingbury Church, memorial window to Lady Charlotte Locker in, 201 Hals, Franz, 165, 166 Hamilton, Diichess of, 152 Hamilton, Dul^e of, 152, 217, 378 Hamilton, Lady Constance, 327 Hamilton, Ladj' Emma, letter to, from Lord Nelson, 21 Hamilton, Lady Mary, 327 Hamilton, Lord Nisbet, 327 Hamley, Sir Edward, 104, 321, 323, 370 Harene, Mr., 125 n. Harley, Mr., 333 Harris, Mr. and Mrs., 143, 144 Hawke, Lord, 15, 18, 424, 425 Hawtrey, Dr., 180 Hay^vard, Abraham, 165 ; his position in the literary world, 363 ; his friendship with King- lake, 364, 370 ; as a diner-out, 366 ; and the Atheneum Club,. 367 ; his last illness, 369 Hazael, George, 382 INDEX 435 Heenan, his fij,'ht with Tom Sayers, 254-258 ; his death, 2G0 Heine, Heinrich, 157 Helps, Sir Arthur, 327 Herbert, Sidney, 321, 387 Hertford, Lord, 52 Hewhtt, Mr., 20 n. Higgins, Mr. (' Big ' Higgins), 217 Highgate Cemetery, a visit to, 253 HiUier, Mary, 388," 395-398. See also Gibbs, James Hobbes (sentry at Greenwich Hospital), 78 Hogarth, 282, 285 Hood, Tom, 179, 299, 300 Hook, Theodore, 98 n., 368 Hope, Mr. Henry, 319 Horseman, Mr., 49 Hosmer, Miss, 100 Houghton, Lord, 166, 217, 321 Howe, Lord, 84 Hugo, Victor, 15G, 296 Hunt, Leigh, visits to, at his home at Hammersmith, 337-340 ; his poetry, 341 Huxley, Professor, 164 Inos, execution of, 60 Irving, Eev. Edward, 125 James, G. P. R., 101, 334 Jerduke, M., 41 Jersey, Lady, 375 Jervis, Sir John. See Vincent, Lord Johnson, Dr., 150, 417 Jonson, P-en, .329 Jordan, Mrs., 164 Jowett, Professor B., 152, 309 Keats, Jonx, 179, 260, 337, 343, 344 Keats, Sir Richard, 22, 23 Kent, Duchess of, 154, 155 Kentfield, Mr., 382 Kin^lake, A., 1C4, 333, 3G4, 308, 370 Kingsley, Charles, 164 Kingsmill, Mr., 19 Kirkup, liaron Seymour, 163, 164 Knight, Mr. Charles, 22, 321, 421 Kock, Paul de, 156 Kuller, Baron, 29 Lamartine, a. de, 155 Lamartine, Madame, 156 Lamb, Charles, 76 n., 186, 340, 859, 401, 409 n. Lampson, Miss Hannah Jane, 202 ; marriage to Mr. Frederick Locker, 202. Sec also Locker, Mrs. Hannah Jane Lampson, Mr. Norman, 387 Lampson, Sir Curtis Miranda, 202, 277, 385-387 Landor, W. S., 161, 162, 164 Lanfrey, M., 156 Lang, Mr. Andrew, 179 Langham, Nat, 257 n. Leconfield, Lord, 103 ' Lectures on the Bible,' E. H. Locker's, 7 n. Leech, John, 299 Leighton, Sir F. (afterwards Lord), 277 Lesseps, M. de, 156 Lewes, George Henry, 114 n., 166 ; and George Eliot, 309, 316 ; his character and ajipearance, 312 ; his opinion of Charlotte Bronte, 314 ; introduction to Major Lawrence Lockhart, 314 ; his funeral, 310 Lillywhite, 125 Lind, Jenny, 156, 166 Linton, John, 113 Liszt, Franz, 160 Llanos, ^I. and Madame de, 343 Locker, Mr. Algernon. 3 Locker, Mr. Arthur, 202 Locker, Miss Bertha, tragic death of, GO Locker, Mr. Charles Edward, 12 Locker, Lady Charlotte : the Queen's regard for, 155 ; her illness and death. 199, 200; memorial window to, in Hailing- 436 MY CONFIDENCES bury Church, 201 ; Imes on her monument in Dunfermhne Abbev, 202; other references, 349, ^71 Locker, Miss Dorothy, 413 Locker, Mr. Edward^^ 3, 38 n., 98, 100, 114, 118 Locker, Mr, Edward Hawke, 2; personal appearance and cha- racter, 8-11, 42, 44, 50 ; tour in Spain, 23 ; his pubhc career, 23 ; interview with Napoleon at Elba, 24-85, 124 ; appointed Civil Commissioner of Greenwich Hospital, 37 ; founds the Royal Naval Gallery, 37 ; his bio- graphical history of the Navy, 37 ; his death, 38 ; inscription to, in Dean's Cloisters, Windsor Castle, 38 n. ; anecdotes of, 40, 63-57 ; at the execution of the Cato Street conspirators, GO ; makes a balloon ascent, 60, 62 ; Bishop Stanley's opinion of, 69 ; his apartments at Greenwich Hospital, 71 et seq. ; lines by, on the tigure-head of the ' Cen- turion,' 79-81; other references to, 83, 99, 107, 109, 119, 121, 186, 383 «., 419, 421 Locker, Mrs. Edward Hawke, 2, 36, 39 ; personal appearance, 40 ; her early life, 41 ; religious views, 42, 51, 52 ; her character, 44, 50, 53 ; anecdote of, 53 ; illness and death, 66 ; Bishop Stanley's estimate of, 70 ; references to, 99, 109, 119 Locker, Miss Eleanor, 346, 355, 357, 358, 408 n. Locker, Miss Elizabeth, 38, 39, 419 Locker, Miss Ellen, 3, 38 n., 55, 70, 87, 88, 90, 98, 123, 166 n. Locker, Mr. Frederick : birth and childhood, 2-11 ; his family, 12 et seq. ; father and mother, 39 et seq. ; poem on a reverend cousin, 48 ; recollections of Greenwich Hospital, 71-91 ; youthful love episodes, 92, 111 ; schooldays, schools, and school- fellows, 97-119 ; clerk at a colonial broker's, 120 ; tour on the Continent, 123 ; clerk at Somerset House, 130 ; fellow- clerks, 131-134 ; transferred to the Admiralty, 134 ; rhyming epistle to the Earl of Hadding- ton, 136 ; Admiralty chief clerks, 137 ; responsibilities and duties at the Admiralty, 145 ; meeting with and marriage to Lady Charlotte Bruce, 151-153 ; the wedding tour, 153 ; purchase of the lease of 19 Chester Street, 153 ; publication of ' London Lyrics,' 153 ; contributions to the ' Cornhill,' 153 ; visits to Frogmore, 154 ; bidden to Windsor, 155 ; annual visits to Paris, 155; distinguished per- sonages met on the Continent, 156, 161-164 ; intimacy with Mr. and Mrs. Browning, 157 ; winters at Rome, 158 ; warden of the Episcopal Church outside the Porta del Popolo, 160 ; meeting with W. S. Landor, 161 ; visits to Dante Rossetti, 167 ; elected director of the Heart and Hand Insurance- Company, 168 ; misadventure with his mother-in-law. Lady Elgin, 172 ; his poetic mstinct : a confession, 174 ; curio hunt- mg, 186 ; a craze for Pahssy ware, 190 ; collecting old pic- tures and books, 195 ; fate of an old, old volume, 197 ; ilhiess and death of Lady Charlotte, 199 ; lines composed for her monument, 201 ; marriage to the daughter of Sir Curtis and Lady Lampson, 202 ; short sketches by : story of a Shake- speare foho of 1623, 203 ; ' The Philobiblon,' 216 ; ' Mr. Doo,' 222 ; ' The Barbarians,' 228 ; ' My Guardian Angel,' 242 ; ' Mrs. Branaghan,' 247 ; ' Two Suburban Graves,' 253 ; ' Nine Minutes and a Half,' 261 ; ' The Story of a Postage-stamp,' 267 ; INDEX o I 'A Charity Breakfast,' 271; ' The Eoyal Acatleuiy Banquet,' 274 ; on a coloxired caricature by James Gilh-ay, 285 ; ' Silvio's Complaint,' 288 ; biographical sketches : W. M. Thackeray, 297; George Eliot and G. H. Lewes, 307 ; Charles Dickens, 318 ; Anthony TroUope, 331 ; Leigh Hunt, 337 ; Arthur Stan- ley, 344 ; Carlyle, 355 ; Abraham Hayward and Kinglake, 363 ; Lady William Russell, 371 ; G. J. Whyte- Melville, 379 ; Sir Curtis Miranda Lampson, 385 ; James Gibbs, 387 ; the farewell chapter, 407 Locker, Mr. Godfrey, 413 Locker, Mrs. Hannah Jane, 385, 413 Locker, Mr. John, 8n., 12, 13, 40, 417, 418 ; letter to, from Lord Nelson, 21 Locker, Mi-. John, Deputy Judge- Advocate, Malta, 419 Locker, Mrs. John, 13, 419 Locker, Miss Maud, 413 Locker, Mr. Oliver, 413 Locker, Mr. Stephen, 12, 417 Locker, Captain AVilliam, 12, 15- 23 ; appointed Lieutenant- Governor of Greenwich Hospi- tal, 17 ; letters to, from Sir John Jervis and Lord Nelson, 18 20 ; short biography of, 418 ; account of, by his son, Edward Hawke Locker, 421 ; death of his wife, 421 ; simplicity of his character, 423 ; his naval career, 423 ; his domestic life, 420 Locker, IMrs. ^Villiam, 10, 20; death of, 421 Locker, Captain William, junior, 62, 419 Lockhart, John Gibson, 37, 68, 104, 314 Lockhart, Major Lawrence, 314, 315 Lodge, Mr. (Norroy King of Arms), 57 Lodge, ]\Irs., 57 Lomcnio, I'rofessor, 150 ' London Lvrics,' 153. 175 LongfeUow," H. W., 321 Longman, Mr., 139 Lovaine, Lady (afterwards Duchess of Northumberland), 393 Luca, Signer di, 160 Lushington, Dr., 165 Luttrell, :Mr. Henry, 98 n., 379 Lyon, Captain George F., 383 n. Lyons, Lord, 147 ' Lyra Elegantianim,' 166 Lytton, Lord, 139, 311, 321 I\Iacaulay, Lord, 324 McDonald, Mr. 194 Macgregor, Sir Jolm, 380 n. Macintosh, Sir James, 68, 379 Mackenzie, Mr., 333 Macleod, Rev. Norman. 152 Malcolm, Mr. John, 187 Malibran, Maria, 125 Mallett, I\Ir. 13 Mandeville, Mr. Alfred, 140 Mario de Candia, 393 Martineau, Rev. Dr. James, 164 n. Massimo, Prince, 161 Maturin, Rev. R. C, 183 n. Maurice, Rev. D. F., 152 Melbourne, Lady, 377 Melbourne, Lord, 155, 379 Melvill, Rev. Mr., 11 ' ^lemoirs of Naval Commanders ' (E. H. Locker's). 22 Mendizabal, Mr., 114 «. Menken, Ada, 260, 383 Morimee, Prosper, 156 Michele, Don. Sec Sermoneta Mignet, M., 156 Milbanke, Miss, 377 Millais, Sir J. E., 165 Milman, Dean, 68, 166, 217 I\Iilne, Admiral Sir David, 148 Milnes, ^Ir. Richard, 351 Milton, John, 177, 183 Minto, Lord, 130 • Mr. Doo,' 222 ' Mr. Ilildcbrand Buggins,' fancy sketch of a virtuoso, 217 221 ' ^Irs. Branaglian,' 247 Mitchell, Mr. William, IST, 196 n. 438 MY CONFIDENCES Mohl, M. and Madame, 156 Montague, Mrs., 14 Montague, Sir William, 74 Montaigne, 225 n., 296, 336 Montalembert, Count, 156 Montrose, Duchess of, 381 Moore, Thomas, 180, 339, 368, 379 More, Hannah, 15 Motley, J. L., 166, 321, 322 Mount-Temple, Lord, 309 Muh-eady, W., 313 Murat, Prince, 28, 31 Murray, Mr. John, 376 Musset, L. C. A. de, 157, 185 ' My Guardian Angel,' a true story, 242 Napier, General, 147 Napoleon I., interview of Edward Hawke Locker with, at Elba, 24-35, 123, 124 Napoleon, Princess Paiiline, 28 Nelson, Earl (the present), 19 n. Nelson, Lord, 15, 18, 39, 124, 135, 419, 425, 426 ; letters of, to Cap- tain William Locker, 19 ; to Mr. John Locker, 21 ; to Emma, Lady Hamilton, 21 Newcastle, Duke of, 217, 368 ' Nine Minuter and a Half,' a rail- way episode, 261 Northcote, Mr. J., 164 n, Norton, Mrs., 311, 335 Oliphant, Mr. L., 165 Oliphant. Mrs., 333 Oliver, Tom, 256 Omnibus, the first (Shillibeer's), 127 Orford, Lady, 164 Osborne, Mr. Kalph, 164 Overbeck, Mr. Frederick, 160 Owen, Professor, 164 Paganini, 125 Paine, Tom., 50 n. Pahnerston, Lord, 155 Pamphilj, Prince Doria, 161 Park, Mr. (afterwards Judge Park), 64 Parker, Mr. (afterwards Sir Wil- liam), 18 Parker, Mrs., 18 Parry, Admiral William, 15, 20«., 419 Parry, Miss Lucy, 15-17, 419. See also Locker, Mrs. William 'Patchwork,' 114, 172, 228 w., 366 n. Pawsey, Mrs., 87, 88 Payne, George, 380, 383 Peel, Captain William, 135 Peel, Sir Robert, 68, 135 Pellegrini, 383 Pellew, Sir Edward, 419 Perrault, Monsieur Charles, 98 Persia, the Shah of, 236 ' Philobiblon,' the, 216 ; members of the, 217 Poe, E., 185 Pole, Sir Charles, 74 n. Pope, 177, 329 Porto Bello, capture of, 16 Post chaises and postboys, 281 Postage-stamp, story of a, 267 Powis, Lord, 218 Praed, W. M., 180, 181 Prevost-Paradol, M., 156 Prior, Matthew, 180, 281 Prize fight between Tom Sayers and Heenan, 254-258 Prudhoe, Lord, 74, 83, 84, 85 Ralli, Mr. P., 370 n. Ravel, M., 157 Rawdon, Miss Elizabeth, 371, 377. See Russell, Lady William Rawlinson, Henry, 368 Reade, Charles, 334 Renan, 156 Richmond, Mr. George, 344 Ristori, jMadame, 156 Roberts, John, 382 Robinson, Mr. (of the Kensington Museum), 187 Rochefoucauld, Due de la, 156 Rogers, Mr., 98 «., 324, 325, 393 Rosa, Signer, 160 Rospigliosi, Princess, 161 INDEX 439 Eossetti, Dante. 166, 167 Kosslyn, Lord, 351, 372 n. Eothschikls, the, 188 Rous, Admiral, 381 n. Eoutledge, :\Ir., 321 ' Roval Academy Banquet, The,' 274 Euffe, Mr. Hem-y, 217, 218, 219 Ruskin, John, 338, 352 Russell, Hon. Arthur, 373, 376 Russell, Hon. Hastings, 373 Russell, Hon. Odo, 373 Russell, Lord and Lady Arthur, 327, 349 Russell, Lord John, 23, 376 Russell, Lady William, 155 ; meet- ing with in Rome, 371 ; knocked down and her hip dislocated, 372 ; return of, to London, 372 ; her influence in society, 373 ; her recollections of Byron, 375 Russell, Lord William, 374 Rutherford, Lord, 152 Sable, Madame de, 309 Sainte-Beuve, M., 156 Saint-Hilaire, Barthelemy, 156 St. Vincent, Lord, 15 ; letter of, to Captain William Locker, 18 Salvini, Tommasso, 166 San Carlos, Duke of, 30 Sand, George, 157 Sayers, Tom, grave of, 254, 259 ; his fight with Heenan, 254-258 ; 382 Scheffer, Arv, 156 Scott, Sir Walter, 37, 68, 207, 311, 312, 336, 379 Se(iui, Madame, 126 Sermoneta, Duca di, 100 Severn. Mr. Joseph, 337; his cheerful disposition, 342 ; British Consul at Rome, 342, 343 Sevignc', Madame de, 409 n. Shakespeare, 206, 207, 210, 311 n. Shakespeare folio of 1623, story of a, 203 ; prices obtained for, 204 Shellov, 177, 179, 182, 185 Shirley, Mr. Evelyn, 217 ' Silvio's Complaint,' a tentative essay, 288 ' Small House at Allington,' manuscript of, presented to F. Locker by Anthony Trollope, 332 Smith, Albert, 140 Smith, ^Ir. Horatio, 133 Smith, Sydney, 261, 306, 379 Smollett, Tobias, 124. 325,330, 336 ' Society,' a sketch, 235 Southev, Robert. 68, 162, 180, 185 Spedding, ]\Ir., 164 Spencer, Herbert, 165 Spenser, 177 ' Spread Eagle,' the, 278 Stael, Madame de, 110, 374 Stanfield, Clarkson, 318 Stanhopes, the, 323 Stanley, Arthur, Dean of West- minster, 68, 69, 164, 202, 217, 252, 309, 322, 323, 320, 328; character of, 344, 351 ; his poetical insight, 346 ; his posi- tion as Dean of Westminster, 347 ; and Mr. Gladstone, 348 ; a visit to Hastings with, 349 Stanley, Ladv Augusta, 68, 69, 252, 309, 323, 349, 353-355, 358 Stanley', Edward. Bishop of Nor- ! wich, 68-71, 344 I Stephens, Robert, 418 Stephenson, G., 234 Sterling of Kier, 152 Sterne, Laurence, 186, 336 Stillingfleet, Dr., 417 StillingHeet, Mr. Beniamin, 13-15, 419 Stillingfleet, Miss Elizabeth. See- Locker, Mrs. John Stirling, Mr. Anthonj', 114 Stirling, Mr. John. 114 ti. Stirlmg, Mr. William, 351 Stirling-Maxwell, ^^Ir.. 217, 311 Story, Mr. W, W., 160 ' Story of a Postat,'o-stamp,' 267 Stothard, 274, 275 Strzelecki, 323, 368 Stuart, Mr. Gilbert Charles, paint- ing of Captain William Locker by, 74 71. Stuart, Prince Charles, 427 Stubbs, Mr, ('Ginger') and Mrs. 382 71. 440 MY CONFIDEXCES Sncklins;, John, 181 Siimner, Bishop, 11, 49, 100 Sumner brothers, sons of Bishop Sumner, 100, 103 Swift, Dean, 180 Taglioni, 181 Talbot, Mrs., 14 Templer, Mr. John, 123 Tennant, Mr., 119 Tennyson, 4 n., 162, 177, 178, 189, 202, 827, 852, 355, 358, 359, 404 Thackeray, Miss, 166, 202 Thackeray, W. M., 36, 175, 180 ; his personahty and character, 297; first meetuag with, 297; his ' Piscator and Piscatrix ' and ' Pohceman X,' 298 ; his appre- ciation of poetry, 298 ; and George CriiOishank, 299 ; his opinion of Hood's writings, 299 ; ' The Newcomes,' 800 ; reminis- cences of, 300 ; his Kterary style, 802 ; in society, 304 ; his humour, 305 ; and Sydney Smith, 306 ; his last years, 306 ; referred to, 880, 834, 335, 336 w., 393 Thames steamboats, two of the earliest, 127 Thames wherries, 282 Tharon, Vicomte de, 217 n. ' The Barbarians,' a sketch, 228 ' The Jester's Moral,' 100 Thiers, M., 156, 188 ThirlwaU, Bishop, 827 Thistlewood, Artlrir, execution of, 61 ThurteU-Weare murder, the, 128 Tilton, Mr. T. E., 160 Tocqueville, M. de, 156 ' Tom Hood's Comic Annual,' 111 Torrington, Mr., 370 -*-^ Toiu'geneff, 156 Towers, Captain, 24, 29, 32 Travelling fifty years ago, 278 TroUope, Anthony : his boisterous and abrupt manner, 881 ; hatred of shams, 332 ; as a writer, 883 his estimation of other novel- ists, 835 ' Two Subm-ban Graves,' a visit to Highgate Cemetery, 253 Twogood, Mr. Matthew, 172 n. Tyndall, Professor, 164 Tyrawley, Lord, 424 Usher, Captain (afterwards Ad- miral Sir Thomas), 24, 27, 29 Vauxhall Gardens, 126 Vernon, Admiral, 16 Vestris, Madame, 128 Victoria, Queen, and Lady Char- lotte Locker, 155 ; presentation of Carlyle to, 357 Villemain, A. F., 156 Vivier, Mr., 810 Voltaire, 50 n. Walpole, Mr. Spencer Horatio, 321 Wanostrochi, Mr., 59 Ward, Dr., 417 Ward, Mr, Dudley, 379 Washington, General George, 36 Watteau, A., 180, 181 Waylett, I\Irs., 128 Webb, Captam, 382 Webb, Joe (Somerset House messenger), 131, 132 Wellington, Duke of, 23, 374 White, Blanco (Doblado), 68 "S^Hiyte-Melville, Major G. J. : death in the hunting-field, 379, 385 ; short notice of, 379 ; his social qualities, 380 ; preference of, for sporting society, 882 Wilberforce, Bishop, 217 WiUiam IV., 22, 79, 142 Windham, Mr. George, 100, 103 Windsor Castle, inscription to E. H. Locker in Dean's Cloisters, 58 n. WoUstonecraft, :Mary, 238 Wood, Sir Charles, 145-149 Wordsworth, 162, 177, 178, 234 Wright, Thompson, 63 S2}oltiswoode a- Co. 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