OF A MEMOIR OF CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG, TRAGEDIAN, WITH EXTRACTS FROM HIS SON'S JOURNAL BY JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG, A.M., RECTOR OF II.MIKGTOX. SECOND EDITION. WITH PORTRAITS AXD SKETCHES. . ; . : ". . .': .'. I AM AFRAID TO THINK OF WHAT 1 'VK DONE. LOOK ON'T AGAIN ... I DARE NOT.'"' Macbeth. 3f onbon nnb Jtcfo gorh ; MACMILLAN AND CO. 1871. PEEFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. I HAVE been unaffectedly surprised and gratified by the reception this book has met with at the hands both of the Press and the Public. Tolerant as my critics have been of my negligences and ignorances, none of them can be more conscious of them than I am myself. It did not need their forbearance to quicken my own sense of the meagreness of the Biographical Sketch of Charles Young, which is in truth, a mere skeleton, devoid alike of marrow and of muscle. It was deficiency of material for a " Life " which in- duced me to adopt the more appropriate title of a " Memoir " thereby simply recording such personal traits or family facts connected with my subject as dwelt on my "Memory." Still, I am persuaded it had been far better if I had included my recollections of him among those of his contemporaries. But the truth is it was only under the shelter of his name that I should ever have presumed to publish anything of my own. Entirely to alter the plan of the book now, would be something like a literary fraud ; so I must e'en be content to leave it as it is. It was long before I could be persuaded to undertake a task for which I felt myself unfit : and the kind friends to whose judgment I deferred must, I think, on reading these pages, have perceived that I wa^ justified in my scruples. The truth is, my father was known to have been thrown so much with many of the foremost 229619 IV PUKFArK To Till-; SIV<>NI> i;i>ITI'N. men of his age, that it was assumed that he would have much to tell of his intercourse with them, and have left many letters behind him which would help to illustrate their characters. But the letters he received, unless they* referred to business, or were the production of those he specially regarded, he made it a rule to destroy : while the letters he wrote, though playful in spirit, were generally slight in substance, and wanting in attraction for those indifferent to him. His days, professional, as well as pri- vate, flowed on in a very even tenour, and were entirely devoid of sensational incident. It was not because he was a great reader, or an original thinker but because of the moral purity of his nature, the amiability of his disposition and the captivation of his social qualities, that he was admitted so readily to the inner circles of the most gifted and exclusive of the aristocracy. It would have been easy to have swelled his biography to more imposing proportions, if I had copied critiques on his acting from contemporary hands ; but who, in these days, would care to read them ? In this edition I have corrected crudities of expression, rectified palpable errors, pruned superfluous excrescences, and added a few more recollections. I have been, my- self, offended by the abruptness with which some stories of interest are succeeded by others of comparative in- significance ; but I do not see how that could be helped : for, as the sunshine of to-day is often followed by the clouds of the morrow, or as the tears of one hour often terminate in the laughter of the next, so must the ever- shifting scenes of a journal necesarily partake of the same alternations. PREFACE. IT has not been in obedience to any filial impulse of my own, but rather in compliance with the suggestion of others, that I have made a feeble effort to revive some traces, wellnigh obliterated, of one who held no mean place in public estimation as a tragedian, and, by the unobtrusive simplicity and moral purity of his private life, won golden opinions of all sorts of men. Could I have divined, in youth, that the task I have undertaken in old age would ever have devolved on me, I should have studied to acquaint myself with passages in my family history now involved in obscurity; and have treasured up documents which, from mistaken delicacy to others, I have destroyed, and which might have shed light on my father's character. While oscillating between acquiescence in the kind council of my friends, or rejection of it, it was suggested that, to the scanty memoir of my father, I might, by extracts from my own journals, add reminiscences of some of his contemporaries, and thus expand the dimensions of my book to the size of an ordinary octavo volume. As its quality is very light, I have the more reason to hope it may be very easy of digestion. As it is meant only for a vacant hour, I flatter myself it may serve as re- laxation to minds oppressed by sterner labours. If excep- tion be taken to its poverty of style, I may urge, in its defence, that it is unambitious in its aim, propounds no a 2 vi PREI theories, indulges in no speculations, and pivtmds to little originality. As in the case of tableaux vivants, an antiquated frame is made to enclose living representations of authors. actors, statesmen, and poets, who have had their day and passed away : so the name of one so insignificant as myself would never have been prefixed to this publication save as a sort of framework on which to hang sketches of a few and but a few of those men of mark whom 1 have happened to encounter in the* touch-and-go intercourse of ordinary society. Certain stories will be found to crop up to the surface of these pages, about which I would fain say a word or two. Except in instances in which I speak of occurrences as having happened to myself, or of my own knowledge, I will not vouch for the truth of one of them. I have only repeated what I have been told by others ; and will not even pledge myself to have done that faithfully ; for my memory, never very strong, has been greatly impaired by time, and by the effects of a long and serious illness, which has long enfeebled me, and now incapacitates me from much mental exertion. Few persons of matter-of-fact temperament know how difficult it is for the imaginative, however truthful in intention, to adhere rigidly to bald literality of narration. Any impartial and dispassionate observer, who has ever seen the experiment of Kussian scandal, and witnessed the ludicrous discrepancies of statement which occur between t .velve people of unimpeachable veracity, who, even if dis- posed, could have no possible inducement to exaggerate, \\ill admit that there is nothing so little to be relied on as verbal accuracy in the case of a tale which has passed through many mouths. I fancy I can illustrate, if I cannot explain, these mysterious results by analogy. PREFACE. vi i I will imagine a spring of water bubbling up on some mountain's brow, and discharging its waters down different sides, and under different conditions, according to the inclination and quality of the ground. Various strata meet and intersect each other : in one direction, the tiny stream trickles away, a silvery thread, between horizontal rid ires of rocky ground ; in another, it penetrates by its specific gravity through beds of sand or lighter earth ; in another, it is arrested in its course by beds of impervious clay. Here runlets, scarcely perceptible, unite their forces and form one lively brook there, from an aperture riven in the very mountain's heart, gushes forth an impe- tuous torrent, which rapidly expands into a brawling river. Now, though all these waters shall have sprung from one common source, and shall primarily have been iden- tical in their component elements, yet some, in fretting their way through one kind of soil, shall have imbibed saline particles, tainting it with a peculiar flavour ; while others, turbid from earthy or animal matter contracted in their course, by a process of subterranean filtration shall have been subsequently purified. Now, I conceive that if speculative chemists were planted at the various outlets of this spring, for the purpose of collecting and analyzing its waters, they would probably describe them as totally distinct. And I fancy (I write as a fool, and not as a man of science) that the selfsame story, permeating the brains of the phlegmatic and the sanguine, the credulous and the sceptical, the fanciful and the stolid being more or less coloured and flavoured by the temperament and mental constitution of each would be, at last, so changed as hardly to be recognized. I now consign what I have written to the hands of the printer, the discretion of the publisher, and the tender mercies of the critic. viii ri:i:r If any one be disturbed to find a clergyman treating of mundane subjects instead of higher ones, let the writer, at least, plead in extenuation of his fault, that he has not, in anything he has told, wilfully violated the law of Christian charity, or set down aught in malice. If those who know him to have it in his power to retail far more than he has revealed, shall blame him for much needless reticence in some instances, let them call to mind that, if he had further abused his opportunities, he would have violated the sanctities of domestic life and then they will forgive him his omissions. " Cum relego scripsisse pudet : quia plurima cerno Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna lini." CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Charles Young's birth Thomas Young As a surgeon and a man . . Dr. and Mrs. Miiller Charles Young in Denmark Letters from royal family of Den- mark Edmund Kean, a boy Mrs. Young and sons quit their home George Young Winslow Young .. .. Charles Young's debut Miss Grimani PAGE . 1 . t&. . 2 . 3 . t&. PAGB Gaspar Grimani .. .. ..10 Grimani and the brigands .. 11 Grimani escapes to England .. 13 Grimani offered a cardinal's hat . . ib. Grimani elopes with a nun .. 14 Grimani's child kidnapped . . ib. Grimani marries Mile. Wagner .. 15 Mrs. Grimani and two fops . . ib. Mrs. Grimani and the Prince of Wales 16 Julia Grimani with Earl and Countess of Suffolk .. ..18 Julia Grimani has three offers . . i&. CHAPTER II. Julia Grimani's debut .. ..19 Julia Grimani at the Haymarket 20 Charles Young married to Julia Grimani . . . . . . . . i&. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Young go to Manchester .. .. ..21 Mrs. Charles Young dies . . . . 22 Young's child entrusted to Miss Forbes . ..23 George Colman Colman negociates with Charles Young .. Charles Young's appearance in London .. Critique on Young's Hamlet Letters from Colman to Young .. Letter from Walter Scott 23 24 25 ib. js 35 ' Chuny ' at Covent Garden lioviva'l of Julius Caesar ' -.utlk-utive of character Theodore Hook .. Letters from Lady Dacre.. Mile. Duchesnois .. Acri'lcnt to Young rs from Lady Dacre . . CHAPTER III. . . 36 ' Young and Kean act together . . 53 < 'omparison between Young and Kean t&. Kean's tricks . . . . . . 57 Hamlet's direction to the players 58 Passion vented and suppressed .. 59 Shylock 60 X COM. .NTS. IV. f PAGE Letter from Talma .. .. 01 Letter from Sir John Conroy .. ( \ Young as Sir Pertinax Macsyco- Young's farewell phant .. .. ,. " .. 62 Receipts at Young's benefit il>. C. Kemble as Cassio .. .. (>:> Characteristic traits of Young . 76 Rienzi ib. Letter from La, ly .. 82 Popular estimate of author and Letter of Charles Young 85 actor .. .. .. ..64 Death of Charles Young 86 Letters from Miss Mitford .. 60 CHAPTER V. THE JOURNAL. Author's birth 87 Visit to Godesberg 115 Author's school-davs .. .. ib. Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Visit to Abbotsford . . . . 90 daughter 117 Walter Scott 91 Madame de Stael 121 Ordinary life at Abbotsford . . 92 Coleridge's impromptu .. 122 Lines by Lady Dacre .. .. 94 Wordsworth at Haarlem Effect of circumstances on the Wordsworth at the letee 123 poet 95 Wordsworth and the little girl . . 124 Dinner at J. G. Lockhart's . . 96 Heidelberg ib. Tom Moore and James Hogg . . 97 Dr. Hiihle L25 Doctor Gillespie 98 Theodore Hook improvises 127 St. Andrews .. t'6. James Welch's Story 128 George IV.'s visit to Edinburgh 99 Story of Daft Sawney 131 George IV. and Sir Walter Scott 100 William Cobbett i;v_' Old laird at Holyrood . . . . 103 Jack Banister . Sketch of Dr. Chalmers . . . . ib. Sir Thomas Lawrence ib. Dr. Haldane 106 Ordained priest .. 133 Weare's murder . . . . ..Ill Duke of York's kindness . . t'6. Appointed to Hampton Court Palace .. ... ib Pedder's Story 112 Constable, R.A Dr. Lloyd, Bishop of Oxford .. 114 The Miss Porters l. l> '4 Sir Charles Bagot .. .. ib. Colonel and Mrs. Schenck \ CHAPTER VJ. The private of the 9th Lancers .. 136 The three brothers Seymour .. 146 The feeee of William IV. .. ib. Horace Seymour at Waterloo .. 147 Party at General Moore's .. 138 j Sketch of J. W. Croker.. 151 Dinner at Sir George Scott's . . ib. Cumberland, Croker, and the Paganini .. .. .. .. ib. '' Smiths 154 Cartwright's dinner .. .. 139 My marriage 156 Dinner with Mr. Jesse .. .. 140 Mile. Mars ib. Dinner with Croker .. ..141 Nervous phenomenon ib. Dinner with Lord George Seymour t'6. James Legge Willis, Ksq. Mrs. Boehm 14:.' Mrs. R. W and the bull . 1.-.7 Scene in Hampton Court Palace Nervous sensibility ib. ChajM-l 14:, CONTENTS. XI CHAPTER VII. PAGE Dr. B 's story .. .. 161 Right Hon. H. Pierrepont .. 165 PAGE His story of the Duke of Wellington 166 The Duke and the Bagman .. 168 CHAPTER VIII. Letter from Charles Mathews, Mathews and Rev. Mr. Rose 187 Sen 173 Mathews and Salisbury Plain . . 189 Mathews * At Home ' at An Gipsy integrity .. 193 dover . . . 174 Letter from Mathews .. 194 The ' Light Salisbury ' coach . ib. Mathews' sensitiveness .. 196 Three village oddities .. . 176 Mathews and his gardener 197 Mimimcry and imitation . 178 Mathews and Lord Ranelagh 198 Duke of Richmond and Mathews 179 Mathews' man and C. Kemble . ib. Mathews' peculiarities .. .. 180 Mathews at Windsor 199 Mathews and the mustard-pot .. 182 George IV. on Curran .. 200 Mathews and the gamins of Lon- Curran's eloquence 201 don .. .. .. .. 183 The Surman mystery ib. Mathews' inability to lose any- Bequest to Mr. Cartwright 205 thing 184 Conjecture about Surman 206 Mathews and his left-hand glove 185 Mathews at Ormsby Gore's 207 Mathews at Amport .. .. 186 Mathews and Judge Parke 208 CHAPTER IX. Swinf . .. . .. 209 German butler .. 216 Lord William Paulet . ..210 Awkward mistake ib. Lady Pollen . . . . . ib. Description of our squire ft Mi>> Penruddock . .. ib. The colonel and the punch 221 Mascjuerier's anecdote . ..211 Bob Bonner _._' Baston living . . . ib. Dr. John Willis 223 Baston village 212 The Chancellor and Dr. Willis .. ib. Baston squire .. .. .. 213 The Regent and Dr. Willis 226 Horse-chaunting .. .. ib. George III. and Dr. Willis 228 Impromptu by Sir W. Meadows 215 Driving over a ghost 2J9 Impromptu by Jekyll ?.' .. 216 CHAPTER X. \VilliamLockeofNorbury .. 232 His absence of mind Kev. W. Lisle Bowles .. .. 6. Tom Moore 238 His nervousness 233 Painful scene with him .. 243 His visit to the Bishop of Bath Discussion on spontaneity and Wells .. ..234 Xll CHAPTE1! XI. PAGE Parish statistics 244 Attempted murder . . . . 245 Shackell, the detective .. .. -J4-; Du Potet 247 Dr. Ashburner . . . . . . t'6. Beckford ib. Beck ford and Lord Chatham . . 248 Beckford's ' Vathek ' .. .. ib. Beckford at Lord George Gordon riots 249 Beckford's interview with George the Third ib. Beckford at Venice . . . . 250 Beckford at Rome . . . . 251 Beckford in St. Peter's . . . . t'6. Beckford at Naples .. ..252 Beckford marries . . . . t'6. Beckford's wife dies . . . . t'6. Beckford goes to Cintra . . t6. PAGE Beckford builds there .. .. 252 Beckford and Marialva .. .. 253 Beckford and Prince of Brazils . . 254 Beckford in Paris at Revolution *&. Beckford and the lion . . . . t'6. I Beckford receives Lord Nelson . . 255 i Beckford's fete t'6. I Reflections on Beckford . . . . 259 I Adventure on the Apennines .. 261 ' Droll adventure near Florence . . 262 , Ascent of the St. Gothard . . 264 ; Descent of the St. Gothard . . 267 i Romano Colonna . . . . . . 268 j George Maskelyne . . . . 269 I Last moments of a culprit . . 270 j Specimens of foreign advertise- ments 271 A Scotch shepherd's prayer . . 272 Letter from a French peer . . 273 CHAPTER XII. Dauntsey House . . . . . . 274 Murder there in 1500 . . . . 275 Death of J. H .. ..278 Chaplain-General .. .. 279 Letter from a parish clerk to his rector 280 Exhuming a skeleton .. ..281 Mistake from deafness .. ..283 Opening of a parish organ . . t&. Old Jeffries 284 Conversations with him .. 285 Parish clerks as an institution . . 288 My own parish clerk . . . . 29Q The first stage coach .. .. 294 " Oh ! my prophetic soul ! " . . 295 Utility of chess 296 The first train .. ib. CHAPTER XIII. Hintoniana .. .. .. 297 A serene end 300 Warner's projectile .. .. t'6. Parting rings fand mourning rings 302 Singular recovery of a loss . . 303 Miss Penruddock and parrot . . t'6. Alexis Didier and Colonel Gur- wood 304 Captain Forbes and his wounds . . 305 Sir Henry Webster and Waterloo 306 Duchess of Richmond's ball . . 307 Louis XVIII and Rothschild .. 309 Visit from a wet-nurse .. .. 311 Lunch with Charles Dickens .. 312 Lord Jeffrey and Mrs. H. Siddons 313 Dickens and Earl Derby . . . . 314 The Rev. Edward Irving .. 315 The gift of tongues .. .. 318 CONTENTS. Xlll CHAPTER XIV. PAGE Prince Louis Napoleon .. ..318 Atmospheric phenomenon .. 319 James Morier ( Haji Baba') . . 320 A royal anecdote .. ..321 Appalling accident .. .. ib. Ribbonism 322 German tale of romance . . 324 English tale of romance . . 328 Don Miguel 332 Story of a monkey . . . . ib. Italian tuition ,. 333 PAGE Scottish fete .. .. 333 Dinner at Stafford House ib. Sir Robert Peel's death . . 334 Dog stealing . . . . 335 D'Orsay and the dog-fancier ib. Letters from an Eton boy 33(3 Strange nocturnal audition ib. The Corsican Brothers 340 Louis and Charles Blanc 341 Abbot Laurence .. .. 342 Letter from Charles Dickens CHAPTER XV. Sir John Wilson and Sir William Napier 344 Chevalier Bunsen . . . . 346 Lord Fitzroy Somerset . . . . 347 Conversation with Lord Fitzroy Somerset 348 Conversation with Right Hon. J. Wilson 352 Louis Napoleon and England .. 353 Lord Fitzoy Somerset and Duke of Wellington 354 Lord Eglintoun and Louis Napo- leon ,. 358 Earl Grey's opinion of Wellington 358 Child at Duke's funeral 359 Spirit rapping .. ib. Boulogne.. .. 361 , Review at Satory 362 My valet de place 363 View from the Jura 365 Genoa .. .. 368 My valet de place 371 A beatification at St. Peter's 373 My valet de place 375 Mrs. Sartoris .. 376 Mrs. Kemble .. ib. CHAPTER XVI. Rome My valet de place again . Mons. U C His liberality Brigandism Kossuth .. Ferrara .. .. . Venice Lucid advertisements Strauss .. Sir Robert Peel and Canning Sir Robert Peel and George Fourth .. 376 Elegant letter writing .. 386 .. 377 The Baltic fleet .. .. 387 .. 378 John Wilson .. .. 388 . . ib. Wreck of the Ercolano.' ib. .. 380 Horace Smith and Mr. N 391 ib. Lady Eleanor Butler and M ss . 381 Ponsonby .. . i|,. 6. John Lockhart . . . ib. . 382 Dr. Routh and Lord Campbell 392 . 383 I Rev. J. W. Burgon . ib. . 384 The funeral coach . 393 the The widow's son . . . 395 . . 385 Irish horse dealing . 396 XIV CONTENTS. CHAPTER XVII. Romance in real life Fidelity of the elephant . . Count D'Orsay and Professor 411 Duke de Saldanha's reception . 16. Interview with the Pope . 41 2 Gibson the sculptor .. . 414 Death-bed forgiveness .. . 415 The lost snuff-box .. .416 Sir Robert Peel, Lord Talbot, FAGS 397 409 Lord Hatherton, and Arch- deacon Huxtable .. ..418 Tennyson in Oxford Theatre .. 42o Australian ghost story . . . . ib. Intelligent appreciation of drama 426 Wellington on Ney .. .. 427 Wellington fox-hunting . . . . 429 Henry M , Q.C. and Lord Chancellor W. Constable and Stanfield Anecdotes of Hicks Reform demonstration Cases of longevity CHAPTER XVIII. 430 431 436 438 Messina ghost story .. ..441 Personal adventure .. .. 445 Death of the Emperor Nicholas . . 451 CHAPTER XIX. Knebworth Drawing versus driving . . Sunday and Sunday schools 452 453 456 Baron A and Bishop of E 460 Murder foretold by a dream .. 461 Ad clerum CHAPTER XX. .. 463 J L'Envoye .. 467 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG AT FORTY CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG AS KING JOHN , MADAME MULLER, AUNT OF CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG AT NINE CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG six MONTHS BEFORE DEATH OLD JEFFRIES MY PARISH CLERK Frontispiece. Vignette. page 2 86 284 i 290 Note to Page 10, ON THE GRIMANI FAMILY. For ^References to the Grimani family, vide : Guicciardini Historia d'ltalia, liv. x. Lunig Codex Italise Diplomaticus, t. ii., pars 11, sectio vi., p. 30. Eecueil des Lettres de Louis XII., t. iv., p. 26. Daru Histoire de Venise, t. iv. ; liv. xxv., p. 3. Petri Bembi Historic Venetse, lib. v. et vi. Nicolo Doglioni Historia Veneziana, liv. xviii. Paolo Sarpe Historia Veneziana, particolare delle cose passate tra'l sommo Pontefice Paolo V. e la Serenissima Republica di Venezia, lib. i. Dam Histoire de Venise, t. iv., liv. xxviii., pp. 151, 201. Le Cardinal d'Ossar Correspondance et Lettre au Roi du 20 Dec., 1597. Manuscrit de la Bibliotheque Mazarinae. Morosini Historia Veneziana, lib. xvii. De Fresne Carraye Correspondance manuscrite de la Bibliotheque Impe'riale, fond Dupuy. No. 271. Cicogna Storia di Venezia. Daru Historic de Venise, t. v., liv. xxxv., pp. 182-200. EXTRACT FROM MORERI (Dictionnaire). Grimani Famille de Venise, a e'te fe'conde en grands homines. ANTOIXE GRIMANI Pere de Dominique Grimani Cardinal, fut re'tabli dans la charge de Procurateur de St. Marc, apres avoir e'te' destitue pour s'etre laisse vaincu par les Turcs. II fut me'me elu Doge apres Leonardo Loredano, 1'an 1521 mourut 2 mois apres, age' de 90 ans. MARINO GRIMANI Neveu du Cardinal, fut coadjuteur du Patriarchal d'Aquilee Tan 1517, et fut fait lui-meme Cardinal par le Pape Clement VII. Tan 1527. II fut employe' en diverses le'gations, et mourut a Orviette, 1546. MARCO GRIMANI, son Pere, avait e'te fait coadjuteur d'Aquile'e 1'an 1529, et mourut 1'an 1545. Le Cardinal ce'da ensuite le Patriarchat a Jean Grimani, qui mourut 1592. Un autre MARINO GRIMANI fut Doge 1'an 1595, et mourut 1'an 1610. d XVI NOTE ON THE GRIMANI 1 AM1LV. ANTONIO UKIMAXI T:\cque do Toricello bring in 'the boy.' On his entry ho was taken by the hand, patted on the head, and requested to favour the company with a specimen of his histrionic ability. With a self-possession marvellous in one so young he stood knitted his brow, hunched up one shoulder-blade, and, with sardonic grin and husky voice, spouted forth Glo'ster's opening soliloquy in Richard III. He then recited selections from some of our minor British poets, grave and gay ; danced a hornpipe ; sang songs, both comic and pathetic ; and, for fully an hour, displayed such versatility, as to elicit vociferous applause from his auditory, and substantial evidence of its sin- cerity by a shower of crown pieces and shillings a napkin having been opened and spread upon the floor for their recep- tion, The accumulated treasures having been poured into the gaping pockets of the lad's trowsers, with a smile of gratified vanity and grateful acknowledgment, he withdrew, rejoined his tatterdemalion friend in the hall, and left the house rejoicing. The door was no sooner closed than every one present desired to know the name of the youthful prodigy who had so astonished them. The host replied, that * This was not the first time he had had him to amuse his friends : that he knew nothing of the lad's history or antecedents; but that his name was Edmund Kcun : ::nd that that of the woman who seemed to have the charge of him, and was his supposititious mother, was Carey.' Charles Young and his two brothers were always so reluctant to allude to their early days, in consequence of the pain with which the retrospect was fraught, that I studiously abstained from asking for details, which, if given, could but have reoj old sores, never altogether healed. The result is, that much which I should now be glad to know, and which must have happened in the eventful years between their boy- and manhood is dark to me. Enough, however, transpired from time to time, from indirect sources, to convince me that the wedded life of the wife, and the youth of the sons of Thomas Young, were rendered all but insupportable by the brutal tyranny of their natural protector, yet most unnatural parent. The most trivial error of judgment, or the slightest failure of memory on the part Hona, WM visited by tin- father with punishment us eondign UK if the venial faults of childhood had been the deliberate sins of matarer years. The mere shadow of a remonstrance from the mother produced a volcanic eruption of fiery exasperation from the fcthcr that was overwhelming. At last, when the measure I.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. < of his cruelty had nearly reached its height, it was consummated by the audacious avowal of his intention to depose the rightful mistress of his house in favour of the illicit mistress, of his affec- tions. Up to the moment of that crowning wrong his sons had exercised incomparable self-control : thenceforward they would listen to no terms of compromise ; but raw and inexperienced as they were the youngest a stripling hardly out of his teens fully conscious of the hardships and penury the assertion of their independence would entail on their mother and themselves without one sixpence with which to meet the stern exigencies of daily life, yet brave in the conscious rectitude of filial motive, they withdrew their outraged mother from her own roof-tree the self-same hour in which her husband's leman set foot upon its threshold. At a loss to know whither to turn for shelter, they repaired for counsel and assistance to their mother's sister, a maiden lady of retiring habits and restricted means, who lived in a small house of her own. In the sympathy of this good Christian lady her nephews felt assured they might confide, though their faith in her power to help them in their difficulties was but feeble. Their misgiving, however, was not justified by the event ; for, by the exercise of feminine ingenuity, masculine energy, and sisterly generosity, she not only contrived to house the homeless fugitives, but, by the purchase of an annuity with her few thousands, so to enlarge her income as to support her nephews till they were in a condition to support themselves. From that moment the blessing of Providence attended their steps through life. All three brothers had realized a com- petence before they were fifty years of age. George rose rapidly in his profession, and soon earned enough to bo able to receive his brother Winslow as his inmate, and to induce his aunt to keep house for him. As Charles had undertaken to support his mother, George was enabled to devote himself heart and mind to his aunt, and thus to requite her for her goodness. I never heard him allude to her in his old ago without the profoundest emotion and veneration. If I were writing in the year 1825, instead of in the year 1870, 1 should not need to say that George Young occupied a very high position among his professional brethren. I havo often been told that no man, except Copeland, ever attained to such practice as a^ London surgeon, who had never walked tho English hospitals. His education had been chiefly under the celebrated Boycr in Paris. Had they been now alive, I am warranted iii saying, that such men as Sir Astley Cooper, Sir S CHARLES MA [CiiAP. \\ 'i Ilium Knigbton, Dr. Gooch, Benjamin Travers, Abcrnetliy, ibington, and Hudson of Birmingham, would have l>:.rnr Mthusiastic testimony to his accomplishments as a surgeon. When ho was but forty-five years of age his health was so impaired by overwork that, though in the very meridian of his reputation, and in the receipt of 8000/. a year, ho felt compelled to relinquish the prospect of higher distinction, and the wealth apparently within his grasp, and retire on a fortune of G0,000/. I mention this in no boastful spirit, though it was not an insig- nificant sum to have realized at f rty-five ; but that I may enjoy the proud satisfaction of telling what, hod he been alive, 1 should not have dared to name, viz., that while his establishment, which was modest and in harmony with his unpretending disposition, \ras that of a gentleman, yet so simple were his tastes, so few his wants, and so well administered his expenditure, that, with an income of 25001. a year, his united personal and household expenses never exceeded 400/., while his benefactions to friends, and his charities to the poor, averaged 2000/. per annum. I have lately read the memoirs of a man I knew very well, Crabbc Robinson. I see ho mentions in thorn an anecdote of my which gives some slight insight into his nobility of soul. Vol. iii.. p. 148: *I spent a couple of hours with Mr. Georgo Young. I took courage to relate to him an anecdote about him- self. Nearly forty years ago I happened to be in a Hackney stage-coach with Young. A stranger came in. It was opposite Lackington's. On a sudden the stranger struck Young a violent blow in the face. Young coolly put his head out of the window and told the coachman to let him out. Not a word passed between Young and the stranger. But the former, having alighted, said, in a calm voice shut the door, "Ladies and Gentlemen, that is my lather." Y.un^ recollected the inci- dent perfectly, but not that I was present.'* Vide Crabbc i .son again: * Sept., 1850. 3 ian informed me of the death of one of the most esteemed of my friends (. n . He was one of the very best talkers I ever met with. His good sense and judgment we re admirable. Without imagina- tion or lively abilities, his judgment was j ; t t. I enjoyed his company, and have sustained an irr -parable loss.' slow, the youngest of the three sons, was taken as clerk in- the house of a West India merchant, where, through his ability, assiduity, and the nice sense of honour he showed in certain At the time whro thin utrikin/ ., furred, which* have h.-ar.l my grandni< imuoti knew mv coach WM purely an aocid I] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 9 very complicated transactions, he was quickly made partner, and ultimately became principal. Before be was fifty years of age be also bad retired witb a bandsome competence. Cbarles was received as clerk, without premium, in the opulent house of Loughnan & Co. But, having no aptitude for the desk, and finding his remuneration inadequate to bis own maintenance, as well as that of his mother, it did not require much persuasion to induce him to relinquish the ledger in favour of the buskin. Before hazarding his reputation on the metro- politan boards, he wisely determined to undergo that apprentice- ship to the technicalities of the histrionic art with which no intuition can dispense, which familiarizes the actor with the tread of the boards, gives him self-possession in the presence of numbers, and teaches him not merely how to make his exits and entrances with ease, but even how to use his hands and arms without constraint. So long as his success was problematical, ho thought it prudent to make his first appearance under a feigned name. Accordingly he made his debut on the Liverpool boards, as Mr. Green, in the character of Douglas, in the year 1798. His success having been unequivocally pronounced by the local critics, he resumed his proper appellation in 1799, and accepted an engagement to ' lead ' in Manchester. In 1800, in 1801, in 1802, and in 1803, he was playing with uninterrupted favour at Liverpool, Manchester, and Glasgow. For the latter parts of 1802 and 1803 he played frequently also in Edinburgh, where he was made much of by the society of the town and neighbourhood. Lockhart, in his Life of Walter Scott, says,, in p. 265 of the second volume : ' Scott had, from his boyish days, a great love for theatrical representation ; and so soon as- circumstances enabled him to practise extended hospitality, the chief actors of his time, whenever they happened to be in Scotland, were among the most acceptable of his guests. Mr. Charles Young was, I believe, the first of them of whom he saw much. As early as 1803 I find him writing of that gentleman to the Marchioness of Abercorn as a valuable addition to the society of Edinburgh ; and, down to the end of Scott's life, Mr. Young was never in the North without visiting him.' In the early part of the year 1804, the playgoers of the metropolis were thrown into considerable excitement by the appearance at the Haymarket of a young lady a Miss Grimani whose personal beauty and dramatic genius gave -promise of great things. It was hopeless for the managers of Drury Lane to expect that in her they had found a rival to Mrs. Siddons, in those lofty and dignified parts which that mighty actress had 10 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. made unapproachably her own, and which will always be identi- fied with her name the Constances and Hermiones aud Lady Macbeths and Queen Catherines; but such men as .Ilirhunl Brinsley Sheridan and George Colman were, perhaps, not un- warranted in predicting that, in parts calling for grace and archness, tenderness, passion and pathos, such as Rosalind, Juliet, Imogene, Desdemona, and Beatrice, Miss Grimani would have distanced all competitors of her generation, had she not been early cut off in her career. Unfortunately for the pockets of the Haymarket managers, and for the establishment of her fame, she had only offered herself to public notice a few weeks previously to the closing of the season. The inevitable result was, that there was neither time nor opportunity for testing the range of her powers. In the only two characters in which she appeared, viz. Juliet and Lady Teazle, she made, in the parlance of the Green Room, ' a decided hit/ For the former part, her fresh youth, the buoyancy of her spirit, her great beauty, and her ardent Italian temperament, especially fitted her ; while she was no less qualified to excel in the latter by her natural vivacity, ease, and familiarity with high life. The report of her success travelled like wild-fire through tbc provinces, and offers of engagement poured in upon her from all the chief towns in England. George Colman tried hard to secure her for the next season; but she declined in consequence of more tempting offers held out to her from one of the two great theatres. The motives which induced Miss Grimani to abandon the privacy of home life for the publicity of the 4 boards ' can only be appreciated by familiarity with the history of her parents as well as of herself. There is so much that is romantic in the lives of all three, that I make no apology for introducing a brief sketch of them here. Julia Ann Grimani was the elder daughter of Caspar, the second son of the Marquis Grimani, a member of one of the very noblest and proudest houses in Venice : one which, though it cannot boast of the historic celebrity of the Dandolos and Foscaris and Falieros, surpasses them all in antiquity, and can boast of having the blood of five Doges in its veins. He was born in the Palazzo Grimani, which Sir William Tite declared, in the House of Commons was the finest specimen of Paladian architecture that ho knew.* It has been better known, perhaps, hia History of the Modem Styles of Architecture, says, vol. iii. p. 27 : ' The Grimani Palace embraces all the elegance of classical art with the most pcrfirt appropriatenett to the purposes of a modem palace.' And again : There is nothing of a palatial character out of I.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 11 till recently, by English travellers as the Austrian General Post Office, situate on the Grand Canal. He had two uncles who were both cardinals. Besides the palace in the Grand Canal, the Palazzo Grimani at San Toma, and the Palazzo Grimani at S. Maria Formosa, were also the property of his father. They have fallen into sad decay, yet were their owners considered as among the highest of the Venetian aristocracy up to the year 1818, as the following lines, from a letter of W. Stewart Rose to Lord Byron, imply : 1 Byron, while you make gay what circle fits ye, Bandy Venetian slang with the Benzone, Or play at company with the Albrizzi, The self-pleased pedant and patrician crone, Grimanis, Mocenigos, Balbis, Eizzi, Compassionate our cruel case, alone,' &c. The first portrait, a very large one, in the first room in the Palazzo Ducale (f. e. if the pictures hang as they did when last I saw them in 1853), by Tintoretto, is a splendid one of Marino Grimani, who was Doge in 1595 ; and there is, in the same room, another of Antonio Grimani, who was Doge in 1521 ; and in the Gran Consiglio there are three other portraits of three other Doges Grimani. Gaspar Grimani was handsome in person, polished in manner, and an accomplished swordsman. In those days duelling was in vogue, and on several occasions his skill in fence was put to the proof. He always managed, after a few passes, to disarm his antagonist, when he would pick up his sword and politely present it to its owner. His skill and courtesy combined pre- vented any of his encounters proving deadly. He was also a man of singular ability and erudition, and took no mean rank as a classical scholar. He was master of seven modern languages ; and a proficient in mathematics and astronomy. On the latter science he wrote a work in several volumes, though he was never able to publish it. His eldest brother being heir to the title and estates, his parents dedicated Gaspar to the service of the Roman Catholic Church, without at all consulting his feelings in the matter. While in minor orders and before he had been made a priest, a curious adventure befell him, which exercised a marked influence over his future life. He was riding alone, on an un- frequented road, in the neighbourhood of a large dense forest. Venice, created, either in Italy or on this side of the Alps, so beautiful as the fagades of this and the Vandramini, the Cornaro, and other palaces of this city.' 12 CHARLES MAYNK. YOUNG. On abruptly turning a corner ho saw a sight which would have made many put spurs to thoir horse's sides, and galloped oti'; but Grimani was made of different metal. He beheld the figure of a man prostrate, wounded, bleeding to death, and surroundetl by a group of angry brigands, whose captain he had been, but whom they had risen against and murdered. The moment the unhappy wretch, whose life was ebbing fast, descried Gaspar Grimani, and saw by his religious garb that he was in holy orders, he called to him and implored him, for the love of God,, to come to him and * confess ' him. One of the men, seeing him about to dismount from his horse with the purpose of doing so, peremptorily bade him 'halt;' swearing if he moved another yard, he would put a bullet through him. Gaspar gently re- monstrated with him, but in vain. Once more the fast-expiring man piteously appealed to the young stranger, as he valued his own soul, to come and save his. A man of impulse, and heed- less of consequences, Grimani sprang from his horse, rushed up to the miscreant who had menaced him, wrenched his pistol from out his belt, and kneeling by the wounded sufferer, sup- ported him with one arm, while with the other he presented the pistol at the group around him, and with loud and resolute voice commanded them to ' stand back.' Impressed by his fear- lessness, and awed by his manner, they instinctively obeyed him, and retired to a considerable distance while the dying man made his confession. Grimani, after having prayed with him and given him absolution, received him in his arms a corpse. The band drew near. Grimani rose as they did so, and, without evincing the slightest particle of fear, at once returned the pistol to its owner, while he stood calmly with folded arms, awaiting his fate. To his surprise, the brigand who had -nod to shoot him approached him reverently and thus addressed him : * Per Bacco ! you are the bravest man we ever saw ! We admire you ! We like you ! We arc astonished at your courage! We have a proposition to make to you. If you will stay with us and be our captain, we will gladly serve under you ; and we will soon help to put more money in your pocket than you will ever earn as a priest.' Grimani smiled, thanked for the honour they had done him in making the offer, t, and rodo away without receiving the slightest station at their hands. 'I'll, report of this strange casualty soon spread through tho neighbourhood, and eventually readied the ears of the more prominent ecclesiastics, by whom he was severely reprimanded 1.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 13 on two counts : first, for having, as a minister of peace, dared to arm himself with an offensive weapon ; secondly, for having presumed to absolve a sinner before he had been priested. He told them that, if he had erred, he had done so from blind instinct, and from the dictates of humanity, and craved their forgiveness. The harshness of those he appealed to wounded him pro- foundly, and he owned in after years to his wife, that from that hour his faith in the Church's teaching was sapped and under- mined. He began then to think, that for a sinner such as he to profess to pardon sins, whether in or out of orders, was flat blasphemy, and an arrogant assumption of a power which be- longed to the Most High alone. The more he reflected on his own sins of omission and commission, and on the dissolute lives of many of the order to which he had aspired, the more dis- satisfied he become with himself, with them, and with their principles. At last he determined that, rather than continue in a vocation which would constrain him to do violence to his own convictions, he would fly from his native country and abjure the faith into which he had been baptized. After contending with many difficulties, encountering many months' delay, and adopting many disguises, he at last effected his escape to England. About this very time Gaspar's elder brother died ; and, as Caspar himself had not been ordained priest, the family honours tind estates would necessarily have devolved on him, had not his apostasy and misconduct so enraged Pope Pius VI. that he excommunicated him and confiscated his property. Subse- quently, however, while still a celibate, he received an autograph letter from the Pope (which letter is now in the possession of one of the family), proioising to restore him to his title and estates, and, in addition, to give him a cardinal's hat, if lie would but recant his errors, repent him of his sins, and return in a loyal spirit to the bosom of Mother Church. When he read the letter, he threw it aside contemptuously, and said to one who was by his side ' A cardinal's hat. t< i - sooth ! Why, if they could only entangle me by such a promise, they would shut me up within four stono walls, and never let mo out ! Much good the cardinal's hat would do mo then ! No! I prefer a crust eaten in the free air of England to a >f;ill( I ox in Italy, or to the most dazzling overture his Holiness could make me.' On reaching London, the first door at which he presented himself was Lansdowne House, whose lord he had known inti- 14 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. matcly in It-Jy, and who received him under his roof with all nliality he hod expected. Until the day of his death, he continued one of his best and staunchest friends. After two or throe years' residence in London, he once more revisited the continent. There he fell in love with a nun, whom he persuaded to leave her convent, break her vows, and marry him. By her he had two children. The elder, William, I remember, when I was a boy of twelve, meeting at Blackheath, in the year 1818, at Viscountess Percival's.* Over the fate of the younger there still hangs an insoluble mystery. When she was but ten mouths old her nurse became acquainted with a young man who pro- fessed himself her suitor, and promised her marriage. Ono morning, when she was out walking with the baby in her arms, this man joined her, and, after the usual interchange of soft nothings, pointing to some gaudy bauble in a shop window, begged her to go in and buy it for him, as he did not like as a man, to be seen asking for such an effeminate article. ' I will hold the child,' said he, ' till you come back.' She executed her commission, and, on returning from the shop to the spot where she had left her * follower,' found both him and the baby gone. A rigorous search was instituted all over Paris. Handsome rewards were offered, and every device an expert police could hit upon was had recourse to, but to no purpose ; neither lover nor child was ever again heard of. After the lapse of several weeks of agonizing suspense, Grimani received an anonymous letter, couched in the following terms : * It will be useless for you to seek for your child ! She is safe! but she is where you can never find her. She has been taken from you in mercy, as an atonement to the Blessed Virgin for her parent's broken vows.' Whether a righteous retribution or not, this was a fearful blow to the father and mother. Their distress was pitiable; still, despite the dark warning of the letter, they clung tena- ciously to hope with all the energy of despair. For three or four years they visited the most frequented as well as the most secluded spots ; in short, wherever there wore religious houses * In my first edition I stated that I was nine, and that tlio year was 1815: but reference to an inscription in a book given me and inscribed ly Lady Percival, proves me to bav. 1,< .-n mi^taki-n. Again. 1 find Viscountess PtMtvalwMnoi the Minister's widow, but tin- \\id- ot Percival, A - ion ftffc-rwurdH Warn. tl,< Karl of Egmit Lady Percival partially brought up lielina (Jrinmni. Lady in Waiting to Queen Caroline, and her abler Mn. Hornby, th. m<,th. r ,rsir Kdmuml Grimani Hornby, the two daughters of the above William. I.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 15 to be found, in quest of their kidnapped child ; but their efforts were futile. The poor mother never recovered her peace of mind ; she drooped, fell into decline, and died. Her husband mourned his loss for years, and, shortly after her death, returned to England, which ever after he regarded as his home. When he had attained to the ripe age of fifty-two, he found himself once more in the toils of Hymen, having been capti- vated by the remarkable beauty of a Mile. Wagner. Her father had been a German gentleman of high position, her mother a Loromandi, a Spanish lady of noble birth. If I may believo the reports of many who knew her in her prime, and if I may infer her youthful attractions from my recollection of her in the winter of her days, she must have been a person of transcendent loveliness. Her features at eighty were still exquisitely chiselled ; her skin had the texture of ivory ; her complexion the tint of a delicate peach. Her figure and mien, on the other hand, were truly majestic. Two anecdotes of her are treasured up by her descendants with no small pride, and justifiably so ; for they are not only tributes to her beauty, but evidences of her moral excellence, ready wit, and presence of mind. When only nineteen, she was walking round one of the squares in the immediate vicinity of her residence, in company with a friend much older than herself, when the ladies became painfully conscious that they were followed by two fops, who took good care that thebf admiration of the younger one should reach her ears. Piqued at her in- difference alike to their proximity and their remarks, they pushed rudely by at an accelerated pace, and soon after turned backed again so as to meet her face to face. As they drew near she heard one of them, in animated dispute with his companion, say, 'She is, I tell you!' and the other, 'She is notl' Tho first speaker drew up directly in front of her, put up his glass, and then pronounced his verdict : * She is painted, by God I ' She stopped, haughtily scanned him from head to foot, and with a face aflame with indignation, retorted on him, ' Yes, Sir ! I am painted (then pointing solemnly to heaven) by God ! ' The young men, not altogether destitute of good feeling, were; awed by the severity of her reproof ; and, blushing for their effrontery, took off their hats, retiring from the scene, it is to be hoped, sadder and wiser men. Again. When Gaspar Grimani had determined to settle in this country, and had well-nigh exhausted his finances, he ac- 10 CHAKLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CiiAi>, ccptcd tho appointment of Professor of Mathematics at Eton College. He lived in a small but pretty bouse within a short distance of the town of Windsor. George III., who knew his story, his noble birth, his errors, -and his misfortunes, conceived sufficient liking for him to offer him unrestricted access at all times to his library in the Castle a privilege of which he was not slow to avail himself. In tho mean time, the great beauty of his young wife had attracted tho notice of different members of the Royal household ; who having spoken of it to the young Prince of Wales, he determined to judge for himself how far she merited her reputation ! Ac- cordingly one day, when she was sitting alone in her drawing- room reading, the door was flung open, and a gentleman, un- announced, was ushered in by the footman. He smiled and bowed, and approached her in a somewhat familiar and patro- nizing manner, saying, as he seated himself, ' Is Mons. Grimani at home?' She bowed slightly, and told him he was not. 'When do you suppose he is likely to be back?' 'I cannot say, Sir.' Her manner was studiedly cold and reserved; for though he flattered himself, from that very circumstance, that lie could not have been recognised, she knew perfectly well tho person as well as character of the unscrupulous libertine she had to deal with. Rather disconcerted by her silence, he walked up and down the room without saying a word. He was probably concocting his plans of operation. After a turn or two he took up a light chair, planted it by the side of Mrs. Grimani, and sat down upon it. As he did so, she rose. He requested her to bo seated. * No, Sir ; I prefer to stand ! ' After a few shallow com- mentaries on her house, grounds, and neighbourhood, ho broke forth abruptly into fulsome encomiums on her beauty. Sho disdained to utter a word. At first, he was staggered at her sta- 110 serenity, and then exclaimed, * Fame has done you but Kcant justice, after all. You certainly are a most bewitching ::., in spite of your chilling looks! You arc trying to make yourself look as disagreeable as you can; but you can't d. You must forgive mo if I avow my wonder thut so lovely a creature could sacrifice herself to such an old fellow as Grimani. May I beg you to tell me frankly why you marri. i him?' She replied, with undisguised hauteur, Tor the best of all reasons, because I loved him.' He burst out laughing, repeating her words in a tone of derision, 'Loved him! Impossible! Love an old fellow like that, when you might have the handsomest of our young nobles at your feet ! Non- I.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 17 sense ! You cannot love liiin ! ' ' Recollect, Sir,' she rejoined, in tremulous accents, ' You are speaking to a wife of her husband ! ' Again he laughed contemptuously and said ' Well ; if he is your husband, he must be a born fool to leave BO young and captivating a wife out of his sight, and in such a lonely place as this too ! ' ' No, Sir : he is no fool. He knows me well, and trusts me ! ' The Prince sprang from his chair, and said ' That is all very fine, my fair one ! but supposing an impudent young spark, such as I am, caught you thus in his arms ' (he snatched at both. her hands, and tried to draw her towards him) 'you would not be afraid, would you?' She rivetted the glance of a basilisk upon him as she said 'Afraid! and of you ! Arc you aware that I am half a Spaniard, and always carry my best friend with me in my bosom?' He started,' and as he did so, she wrenched her hand from his grasp, thrust it within the folds of her dress, and held it there, as if site clutched a dagger; and then slowly, and with clenched teeth, asked him 'if he would like to see her bosom friend?' He recoiled from her precipitately, exclaiming in tones of un- mistakable alarm, ' Oh dear ! No ! No ! ' She then flew to the bell, and pulled it violently. In one second the door opened, and the servant, who knew the Prince, who had had his sus- picions of the object of the royal visit, and had been standing outside the door, that he might be at hand if he were wanted, was told 'to show the gentleman out of doors.' The Prince bowed awkwardly, and hastily beat a retreat. As he did so, he thrust a guinea in the servant's hand, and with it a ready- written letter which he had brought with him for his mistress, in case of accidents. The faithful creature took the letter and the money, and threw them both into the street, shouting after him, ' I know you, Sir, and scorn you and your money too.' When Madame Grimani told her husband what had happened in his absence, he became seriously alarmed ; and hearing that for two successive nights a carriage-and-four had been seen waiting in the adjacent lane, he thought it prudent to fling up his appointment at Eton, and to take his wife and child to Paris. There they lived five years; their seclusion cheered by the birth of a daughter, to whom they gave the names of Julia Ann. When she was about three years old they left France and removed to Bath, where Mr. Grimani, like many other noble refugees in those days, had recourse to tuition as a means of livelihood. From an early age until the day of his death, he bestowed consummate care on the education of his daughter ; so o 18 rHAKI.i:s MAYNK YOl'.Vi. [CiiAP. that, before she was sixteen, she spoke and wrote with equal facility English, French, and Italian. Whether she was equally familiar with Spanish I cannot say ; although it IB not unreasonable to conjecture, that, with her aptitude for language, she must have acquired her mother's tongue. She had a very fine contralto voice, and was an average musician. She was named Julia after Lady Suffolk, the ante-penultimate Countess of that title. There had been great intimacy for many years between the Earl and Mr. Grimani ; and the kindness of the noble lord and his countess, and their protection of Julia, was as unintermitting as it was parental. They loved her as their own child, and treated her as such ; and the affection which existed between their daughter, Lady Catherine, and their young protegee was that of tenderly attached sisters. How long she lived with her noble friends, at Charlton and in Harley Street (their town house), I know not; but I believe it to have been for a year or two. When she was, as far as I can make out, between eighteen and twenty, she received three offers of marriage. The first was from no less a person than the Earl of Moira, subsequently Marquis of Hastings. His proposal was seconded by the influence of the Earl of Suffolk himself. But although he did everything in his power to induce her to accept him, she humbly declined the distinc- tion, for the simple reason that she did not value rank, for its own take, and, much as she admired the man, yet did not love him. The second was from a Count Zenobia, of whom I find Madame D'Arblay makes mention in her Memoirs (vol. ii. ]>. 116). He was an ambassador to this country from some foreign court. She refused his hand more than once. In pressing his suit he held out, as an inducement to her to yield to his solicitations, a promise, that, through his influence with Napoleon Buonaparte, lie would get her family reinstated in their property and honours. Finding her still proof against both his importunity and bribe, he penned her a most impas- sioned letter, accompanied by a casket of magnificent diamonds, which she immediately and indignantly returned. To the third offer I feel some scruple in alluding ; and yet, considering it was made nearly seventy years ago, I should hope it will not offend his family t< read of it, if they never knew it before. It was made by Viscount Andover, the eldest son of her best friends and benefactors, Lord and Lady Suffolk, the former of whom was afterwards shot by the accidental discharge of hi* own fowling-piece. In this instance there was every quality to enlist her love and respect. Principle alone prevented II.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 19 her from accepting him. She considered that such a union, though it would not have been opposed by his family, could hardly be desired by them, and that her compliance with his wishes would bo an ungrateful return for the extraordinary kindness she had received from his parents; and therefore she gratefully and regretfully declined what she considered to have been the greatest honour ever conferred upon her. CHAPTER II. AFTER her father's death, which withdrew from her family their mainstay, she felt called upon to exert herself in their behalf, and prop up the dilapidated fortunes of her house. She had no sooner formed her purpose, than she declared her intention of going on the stage to Lord and Lady Suffolk. They were vehe- mently opposed to the idea. They told her that by such a step she would lose the prestige attaching to her birth ; that she would be thrown into associations uncongenial with her habits of life, and would probably be exposed not only to temptation, but to the jealousy and calumny of her own sex, who would dislike her for her personal attractiveness and envy her for her superior position in society. Readily disposed as she was to bow to their wishes, her soul revolted from the thought of con- tinuing to eat the bread of idleness, while her mother, her brothers, and her little sister were struggling on in comparative indigence : and therefore, deaf to all remonstrance, she made her first essay on the boards at Bath, in the play of The Grecian Daughter, and by the combined force of talent, grace, and beauty, achieved a triumphant success. Bath, at that time, was the most fashionable resort in England, and good society there was so concentrated, and available on such easy terms, that gentlemen of the highest station, not less on social than on economical grounds, preferred removing their whole establishments there for the winter to going to Weymouth, Brighton, or any of the other watering-places. One of the most faithful devotees of Bath was the late esti- mable Duchess of York, who, to mark her appreciation of Miss Grimani's motives in exchanging the tranquillity of home for tho turmoil of the stage, lost no opportunity of befriending her. I may be permitted to mention, as an instance of the estimation in which she was held in Bath, that as soon as her first benefit was advertised, a deputation of influential residents waited on o 2 CHARLES MAYNE YOUN'i. [CiiAf, tho manager of the theatre with a request that ho would allow the whole pit and orchestra to be converted into stalls, that her receipts might bo tho larger. Tho sum netted in consequence private presents included was 500Z. When, in 1804, she was deemed ripe for a London audience, she made her debut at tho Haymarket theatre, in the charact i of Juliet, with extraordinary eclat. Unfortunately she had but limited opportunity of exhibiting tho range of her talent, in- asmuch as a very few weeks after her first appearance tho theatre closed, and she was obliged to fulfil her previous engage- ments in the provinces. It would be ungrateful in her son not to mention here, that so watchful were Lord and Lady Suffolk over their young charge, that, in her engagements at the theatre, both in going there and returning thence, she always had the use of their carriage, the protection of a confidential man servant, and the attendance of her own maid. It was in the month of October, 1804, that Charles Young, who had been engaged to fill all the first parts at the Liverpool Theatre, was informed that the lady who was to have undisputed choice of tho first female parts was Miss Grimani, whose reputa- tion had already preceded her advent. Young no sooner saw her than he felt his future destiny entwined with hers. They became mutually attached to each other by community of sentiment, similarity of circumstance, and identity of motive. Neither had embraced their profession from choice, but from necessity ; both were supporting their relatives by their exertions, and thrown into daily intimacy by their vocation; both were personally well favoured he playing the hero's parts and she the heroine's. No wonder, then, that their love scenes should have seemed, rather tho unpremeditated effusions of nature than the studied ; lations of art. No wonder that 4 The love whose view was muffled still, Should, without eyes, gee pathways to his will.' or, that, under the mask of impersonation, the words thatburnr;! MOO'S lips, and ' the thoughts that breathed' from Juliet's,. should have been but tho echo of their own hearts' voice. Suffice it to say, that they had not long been engaged by Messrs. Lewis ami Knight, to play the lovers' parts in public, before they entered into a permanent engagement to play the I parts in private, at St. Ann's Church, Liverpool, on the Oth of < would have taken place I t!i- lily's anxiety, to sec her mother previously e.-lib- JL] CHARLES MAYNE YOUSG. 21 lishcd with her eldest son, and her younger brother and sister placed at school.* Shortly after their honeymoon, the newly-married pair, although they received many lucrative offers from other towns, preferred to accept one for a t \velvemonth at Manchester. As an audience, the people of that town have always enjoyed, in common with Edinburgh and Bath, the credit of great acumen in their appreciation of histrionic talent, so much so indeed, that any aspirant to metropolitan fame, on going up to London with the stamp of their imprimatur on him, was sure of favourable reception. This consideration, combined with the liberal terms offered them, the large discretion allowed them in the choice of pieces, and the selectness of the corps dramatiquc, swayed them materially in their decision. Their life in Manchester was one of unchequered bliss : not a cloud once dimmed their horizon for fourteen months. The flattering notice of the great county families, as well as the cordial kind- ness of the leading manufacturers the consciousness of public favour, and the prospect of appearing together in London, shed -such sunshine on their daily path, that they were wont, them- selves, to say, with prophetic misgiving, This is all too bright to last.' On the days when their services were not required at the theatre, they were in the habit of recreating themselves by making short excursions in the country, remaining hours in the open air, and passing the night at any roadside inn which caught their fancy. Few, unaware of the high pressure of theatrical life, and the restlessness it engenders, can dream of the invigorating and healthy reaction which takes place on ex- changing the mcphitic odours of carburetted hydrogen for the pure air of heaven, and the discordant sounds of applause or disapproval for the harmonious notes of the blackbird and the thrush. It was on one of the happy occasions alluded to, that, while driving through the then small village of Prestwich, attracted by the quietude of the spot, they agreed to put up their horse and buggy at some neighbouring stables, and take an * This brother died a few years ago, and left a widow and a lovely daughter behind him, whom, I ivgivt t .-ay, I do not know. The sitter married the late Rev. Jnmes Smith, a nmn well known and universally reflected. In the County of Derry especially he was very highly thought of. He possessed remarkable gifts as an extempore preacher, and in godly simplicity and sincerity of heart was second to none. Ho has left .sons and a daughter behind him (who inherit both his talents and his virtues) to console his admirable widow for her htavy loss. 22 CHAliLtS MAYNE YOUNG. V;IAI>. hour's stroll through tho meadows, terminating their walk by an inspection of the village church. Although the country in the vicinity was not particularly beautiful, yet, contrasted tho murky smoke and busy din of the great hive of industr; had left behind them, the mere verdure of the fields, and tho sense of peace around, had a soothing effect upon their nervous systems. While Young was lazily loitering in the churchyard, and looking at the dates and ages on the tombstones, his wife stood still, musing with rivetted gaze on a solitary weeping birch, that stood nearly in the centre of the churchyard. There is, perhaps, no tree so graceful, so full of sentiment, so tremu- lously feminine, as the birch. One can fancy it pensively drooping its tresses over some little grassy mound, as if in pity for its tiny tenant. The husband, seeing his wife mute and absorbed, asked her what she was looking at, and of what she was thinking. ' I was thinking that I should like to exact a favour ol you a conditional one/ * What is it, darling ? ' 'You know I am hoping soon to be a mother!' (a pause). * If it should be God's will I die in giving life to my babe, promise me, Charles, you will lay me beneath that sweet tree.' Distressed to find her thoughts running in such a disni:il channel, he gently chid her, and begged her to banish such morbid apprehensions from her mind. Alas ! the shadow of the coming event must have passed over her spirit at that time ; for a few brief weeks saw her lying in the very cemetery she had lately visited, and under the tree oi her own choice. After giving birth to the writer of this crude Memoir, she was attacked with puerperal fever, fell a victim to it, and died on the 17th of July, 1806. At her funeral, the respect entertained for her virtues was shown by the closing of the shutters of every shop window on the route along which her remains were conveyed to their resting place. At this critical period of his life, Charles Young was really in a pitiable condition ; for, just as he had begun for the first time to taste the sweets of sympathy, and was picturing to himself joys enhanced and anxieties diminished by participation in intelligent and responsive partner, she was taken him : his hopes were nipped in the very bud, his projects overthrown, and a novel duty was laid upon him for which by II.] CIIAKLF.S MAYNn YOUNG. 23 nature lie was ill-qualified, and to which the claims of his art rendered him incompetent. Every one who knew his cir- cumstances clearly saw, that a child, with none but hireling hands to tend it, must operate at least as a clog on his free agency, if not an almost insuperable barrier to his profes- sional advancement. To extricate him from the horns of this dilemma, two generous ladies, animated by the love they bore my mother's memory, volunteered the charge of her infant till it should be old enough for school. The first to make this generous proposition was the Lady Catherine Howard, the gentle daughter of the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, and my mother's dearest friend. There was no one of whose suavity of disposition and stability of principle my father had learned to think more highly. But, bewildered as he was by the conflict- ing suggestions of inclination on the one hand, and of duty on the other, he still was sufficiently master of himself to perceive that the disparity of station between the inheritors of 'the blood of all the Howards ' and his child, would render inti- mate association between them undesirable for both ; while the greater the familiarity of intercourse permitted, the greater would be the risk of his boy's imbibing ideas, tastes, habits, and possibly prejudices, ill-suited to him. To the care, therefore, of one, to whom these objections did not apply the daughter of a widowed father, Captain Forbes, K.N. was the little superfluous incumbrance consigned. And never was trust more faithfully discharged. This young lady's circle of acquaintance was circumscribed ; but she was so self- sufficing, shy, and silent, that she did not seek to enlarge it. Her whole thoughts were divided between duty to her father and the child consigned to her guardianship. The few * friends she had, and their adoption tried, she grappled to her soul with hooks of steel.' Though she did not die till I was fifteen, I saw but little of her after six ; and yet, child as I was, the memory of her goodness to me will never die. A protracted life of dutiful devotion could never have requited her for tho six first years of maternal love she lavished upon me. It was in the year 1806, on the 17th of October, exactly three months after his wife's decease, that Charles Young, unable to remain in the town so intimately associated with his bitter bereavement, entered into negotiation with George Colman for an engagement at tho Haymarket theatre, of which the great wit and playwright was the popular manager. Some of the present generation may never, even, have heard 'J 1 CHAULKS MAYNE YOUNG. [CiiAP. his name; therefore I will venture to insert an extract from Byron's life, which will show his estimate of him : 'I have met George Colman occasionally, and thought him extremely pleasant and convivial. Sheridan's humour, or rather wit, was always saturnine, and sometimes savage. He never laughed (at least that I saw and I watched him), but Colman did. If I had to choose, and could not have both at a time, I should say, "Let me begin the evening with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman : Sheridan for dinner, Colman for supper ; Sheridan for claret or port, but Colman for everything from the madeira and champagne at dinner, the claret, with a layer of port between the glasses, up to the punch of the night, and down to the grog or gin-and-water at daybreak." All these have I threaded with both. Sheridan was a Grenadier COMPANY of Life-Guards : Colman was a whole REGIMENT of Light In- fantry, to bo sure but still a regiment.* It was at this period that this gifted man began to corre- spond with Charles Young. October 17, 1806. ' Mr DEAR SIR. I could not give you my ultimatum previous to a general meeting with my partners ; and I waited till the day before yesterday the return of one of them from the country. . You have been misinformed in respect to Mr. Elliston's original engagement with me ; and again I assure you that 20/. per week and a benefit much exceeds any bargain formed within my memory between a manager of the Haymarkct theatre and a per- former coming to try his fortune on the London boards. I cannot help differing with you in your mode of calculation upon relin- quishments. We should not now bo negociating if we had not both a very confident expectation of your success ; and, in case of your success, surely, instead of wanting engagements at the conclusion of the Haymarket season, offers would increase upon you. The London stamp would give you a double currency, and would operate diametrically opposite to your line of reasoning, upon giving up five-and-twenty weeks for thirteen. But I am detailing my own individual opinions, when I ought simply to y many to be among his most enthusiastic applauders. 26 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. would not, on any account, consent cither to write my cursory remarks on his performance of Hamlet, or to suffer them to bo communicated to him. But I believe he deserves to hear what persons well-disposed towards him consider truth ; because nature and education have combined, as you tell me, to enable him to profit by it. I am, too, the more encouraged to send you my opinions, by the circumstance of their having received a sanction from a better and much more experienced judge than myself a friend who has Garrick's Hamlet by heart, and who assures me she has seen no actor in it since at all comparable to Mr. Young, whom she considers, in every point of view, superior in it to John Kemble. She added" If I knew Mr. Young I should counsel him studiously to avoid all imitation of that able, but artificial, actor ; and, if possible, to erase from his remem- brance his tones and gestures, as calculated only to impede his progress to the summit of perfection. ' So writhes the serpent round the bird of Jove, Hangs on her flight, restrains her tow'ring wing.' Let him," said she, " rather trust to his own great requisites to feeling, good sense, study and observation, for playing this very interesting, but certainly most difficult part that Shakspcare ever drew." ' As a proof how much experience and consequent judgment are necessary fitly to portray Hamlet, she tells me that Garriek, no longer young, oppressed too, as he was, with bag-wig and ruffles and a full suit of velvet, was more the young, the energetic, impulsive, interesting Prince, the last year of his playing the character than during any of the former ones his judgment having become matured. Now Mr. Young has no occasion to wait so long to bring his performance to perfection ; for, by collecting everything remembered of Garrick, he may obtain an anticipated experience. * Garrick, my informant tells me, never addressed himself tc the audience when speaking the soliloquy, but, with arms occasionally folded and thoughtful brow, appeared (as I pre- sume the author intended that ho should) to be uttering his thoughts aloud to himself, without regard either to the manner or the spectators. * We both think a little more tenderness in the closet scene, and in the last scene with Ophelia, would bo better. In both <>t these, genuine and secret affection should appear to be struggling; in the first with assumed severity, in the last with pretended II.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 27 distraction. It should wring his heart to repulse his mother's embrace. Even in the mechanical part of the scene with Ophelia the coming in and out his gesture should evince rather an agitated than a passionate perturbation. * All Mr. Young's bursts of irritability, when urged by those about him, were charmingly given ; but we thought that, in his delivery, he was: sometimes impassioned where it would have been better ho should have been only energetic. It is true these starts were always followed by the applauses of the house ; but Mr. Young is just the person who, we should expect, would not humour the taste of the misjudging, but rather try to form that of the unenlightened and inexperienced. 1 " Ah ! who would fardels bear?" " Give me the man that is not passion's slave!" "What a piece of work is man!" In these three instances we remember to have noted undue warmth. With Laertes, and once with Osric, or in the closet scene, I forget which, he used a Kemblean gesture one of those woeful convulsions which we admire in him as we should do a sheep with six legs, or any other sport of nature, for its novelty ; but of which we should by no means like to have a whole flock, or even to see a second time. * Were I to be as diffuse on the beauties of Mr. Young's acting as I have been on his defects, this already too-long scrawl would swell into a pamphlet. I cannot, however, take leave of the sub- ject without saying that, should Mr. Young do us the honour of making use of any of these remarks, we should never arrogate to ourselves any merit for the effect. ' To find fault is the very easiest thing in the world : to invite criticism, and to profit by it, the most unequivocal proof of a great mind. We heartily trust that Mr. Young will not undervalue himself so much as to take any other model than Nature to study her in men and in manners, and grasp the glorious distinction of reviving, in an ago of dramatic debase- ment, that true taste which, indeed, to be called forth, requires only to bo gratified ; and which, indeed, renders the stage a school for virtue and just judgment. * I am sorry not to have put what I have to say in smaller compass ; but if I am to methodize and correct, I must write it over again. I am, my dear Mr. T., yours in great haste, ' E. M. S. * P.S. If William takes any extract to Mr. Y., let him take tho whole. jS CHARLES MAYS;: V.TXG. It was singular enough that so many of our friends just round this spot should have been at the play the same night that we were, and should have been all equally delighted, and all equally impressed with the conviction that Mr. Young is a perfect gentleman.' A very cordial intimacy quickly sprang up between George Oolman and Charles Young, as may be guessed from the rapid transition from the ' Dear Sir * of his first letter to the * Dear Charles * of his second. That it should have been so is intel- ligible enough. In sentiment they had much in common ; and, at the time, they had also interests in common. Intellectually Col- man was greatly Young's superior ; but if Colman had superior wit. Young had equal humour. If Colman could be eloquent, Young could be a flattering listener. Jf Colman was convivial, Young was congenial. If Colman had been a generous and courteous supporter of Julia Grimani, Young had a grateful . and never forgot his obligations on that score. During his first London season, Young played not only Hamlet, but Don Felix, Osmond, Rolla, Penruddock, Petruchio, The Stranger, and Sir Edward Mortimer, in Colman's own play of The Iron CJiest. Colman and Kemble had had a bitter quarrel : Colman asserting that Kemblo had murdered his part ; lo declaring, in apology for his tamencss, that he was ill, and under the effects of opium when he played it. It is no wonder therefore that Colman should have declared Young's performance of the part to have been superior to Kemble's. I doubt if the verdict, given under such circumstances, will prove to the .- u of an impartial jury that the judgo gave righteous judgment. 1 October 10, 1807. * MY DEAR CHARLES. Almost every day since your letter d me (which I blush to own w;is on last Thursday se'n- night) my - c has been sorely troubled. Indeed, indeed, I intended to have answered you instantly; but, somehow or other, the devil a scrap of writing paper have I seen of late, Rave some round a Main tenon cutlet; and nothing like an ink has come in my way, except sundry bottles of black strop. pardon! i 'that's thrice); and thrice tlir , thousand times do I sue for par-Ion ! Verily I havo been led astray by th<: Fullmm-itcs, the Sudbnry-itcs, the Dibdin-ites, tcs, the Hill-itcH, the Muthcws-ites, the Hook-itcs, the 1-itca, and more ites than I can give you by items. 4 Alas ! what a tedious peregrination must you have suffered II.] CflARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 29> on your way to Bristol ! I can think of nothing more tristful or tiresome, except an evening's lete-a-tcte with upon my life, I was going to say Kcmble ; but there are so many names with which I could fill up that blank, that I leave it for you to pop in the name of any Christian bore of your acquaintance. Are you stout? Is Richard himself again? Write and say " Aye." 4 To tell you that I most heartily rejoice in the brilliancy of your debut among the Bristolians would be an unnecessary piece of commonplace independent of the pleasure I feel in any cir- cumstance which can gratify your just ambition, and tend to increase your reputation, and, by consequence, your ultimate profit. My own amour propre is highly tickled, for I have staked my mighty judgment on your head ; and lo ! it doth go forth that I have pronounced that your established supereminence will not only be shortly rejoiced in by your friends, but growl- ingly acknowledged by your enemies, if you have any and what man of merit such as yours was ever without them ? 4 My paper waxeth scant, so I must cut my nonsense accord- ing to my sheet. 4 Mary and the blue- eyed witch send their kindest affections to their Charlie, and will write to him very soon. Rot them, the jades ! they are greater delinquents than I am ; for they should have set their marks to this scrawl ; but the one is at Fulhain and the other at the foot of Harrow Hill ; and here am I scribbling lackadaisically in the confines of the co-erced, so that all these 44 God bless you's " (remember) I was commis- sioned to give you some days ago ! Little Tid sends his love largely ; so does Fred, who has a pair of shoes almost as thick as Pat Johnstone's ancles. Fawcett also desires me to give you his kindest remembrances ; and Mary, Bess, and I, intreat you to present our best regards to your excellent and amiable mother. Town is mortal dull ! Jones appeared last night very injudi- ciously, in my opinion, as to his choice of characters. I have had no account of him yet, save from the Morning Post, which labours to be favourable, and gives an eloge which, to the know- ing ones, must appear to be very tame. God bless you, my dear friend. Write soon, and believe me truly and affectionately yOU1 ' S ' 'GUOBGECOLMAN.' 4 December 10. 1807. 4 MY DEAR CHARLES. I plead guilty ! But to no more than one half of your accusation. Your Lancastrian letter, I allow, 30 CHAKLKS M. \YNi-: YOUNG. [CHAP. has, through my neglect, remained unanswered. Last Monday night came your epistle, to row one, from Edinburgh ; and tho next morning, Tuesday, came Fawcett, with a bundle of pocket- handkerchiefs, with your letter from Macclesfield in the folds. Ho had but just discovered it ; the bundle having been in his house for some time. * Now for this I will blow you up ! Was it not natural that he might not send me the parcel immediately ? and how was he to divine that there was a letter enfolded in the handkerchiefs ? Why, you confounded, queer, Tragedy King of Grief, do you think that we farcical fellows are always in as great a hurry to pull out our pocket-handkerchiefs, as you of the melting mood ? ' Well, be it as it may, whoever be the defaulter, whatever have been the delays, I am not even now going to answer your letters ; for that one, to which I have most to say, I have left with " Cerulean orbs" who promised me that she would write to you. ' So take this as an avant-courier to a most full, particular, dry, jog-trot, businesslike detail, which I will positively send you next week. * On a few matters, however, I will touch at once. I write to Dame Glover to-day. I find by the papers she is at Manchester. Whatever Jones may prove, as a rising, or even useful man, in future, time will show. He may get up. He is at this moment, however, completely down, down, down, Derry, down. Cooko's delinquency operates strongly, in respect to you, with Father Harris and Son. They lament much that you arc not with them this season. Henry asks, if it be even now too late. I have told him that, I think you are nailed by engagement after engagement till next winter. No matter for Cumberland : Fawcett and I are planning great things for you to m figure in next summer. Much of this in my next : but mum 1 Alas ! I am still halting in the first act of my comedy. ' It gives me pleasure to find the Sawnies so ecstatick on your appearance among them. Much as I rejoice in your successes, I am not at all surprised at them. * Surely one of the two women, whom you abuse so, must Lavo written to you, or I have dreamed that one of them told me so. If they have not why, then, with all my heart, hang them both ! * Luckily (hem 1) they are neither of them at my elbow to ascertain tho fact. You see I am scribbling with every symptom of haste; so take my love, and those of others, with compli- II.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 31 ments, enquiries, good wishes, &c., &c., all in the lump. Next week I shall have at you in downright earnest, and then, if my tediousness do not cure you of complaining, you must be insa- tiable. Your brother George eats his mutton with me on Monday. God bless you, my dear Charles. 4 Yours most truly and affectionately, ' GEORGE COLMAN.' 'February 24, 1808. 1 Zounds ! my dear Charles ! You rail and swear worse than Thersites. But I deserve it. I could have talked you twenty long letters, in a week, over a bottle ; but, dipping in the port, as a man proceeds, is so much less operose than dipping into the ink ; 'tis clean, another-guess kind of a thing. ' May this be put into your hands on the top of Calton Hill, a north-easterly wind blowing the intensest frost that ever cut the bare breech of a Scotchman ! May the Caledonian air, at the moment you receive it, stagnate all your angry passions ! or, should a creeping resentment, still, sluggishly, circulate within you, may icicles block up your chops, and un-ihaw-cihle for ever be the fatal words " Oh ! what, you can write at last, and be d -d to you ! " ' Praise, I am told, follows you everywhere, and with the praise (not empty in your pursuit) the solid pudding ! I heard last night that there was 500Z. in the house, on your benefit among the penniless Pats. Plutus send it be true, and that the whole receipt be snug in your pocket, without the deduction of a. " tirteen." ' There came to my door (some twice or thrice, when I was absent) a gentleman, who said he was from Scotland, and came from you. He would not leave his name nor his business even in writing ; and so he departed from town without my seeing him. "Was this the walking gentleman you spoke of ? But no matter : I am now in treaty with two walkers ; and, between them, I think I shall well supply the absence of Chapman and Carles. Putnam of Drury Lane, and Thompson of Covent Garden, are the heroes in speculation. Jane Glover and I could not agree upon terms, and she is off. Now don't bite your lips. We shall do, I hope, tolerably well. I have engaged a Mrs. Bellamy (formerly Miss Grist), wife of Bellamy the singer, who promises to do anything and everything. I have seen her and like her appearance, and I hear from various professional connoisseurs a very good account of her. She has 32 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CiiAi-. been the heroine of her husband's theatre in Belfast and its chapel-of-ease. Now for. a secret! Be "silent as the grave." I am hard at work (with Fawcett as coadjutor he brought mo the story) for the summer. But I proceed with fear and trembling ; for I dread an anticipation of my subject from Covent Garden. Harris, however, has positively promised me that he will not forestall me. Still am I apprehensive; for managers are faithless cattle. Let us hope for the best. The incidents of the piece are perhaps the most interesting ever stumbled on for a drama, and bid fair to carry us through the summer. I like all that I have done as yet , and there ought to be a character for your worship, which will hit very hard. If I bungle it, I deserve to be damned. But still (hinc illje lacrymfe !) there is a play on the subject presented, this moment, to Covent Garden. On the other side, there is Harris's promise to me. ' Much has passed on this matter in the managerial cabinet ; but the detail is too long to enter into now. More of it, perhaps, in my next ; and remember, mum ! mum ! mum ! Our agreement, if I mistake not, for next season runs thus : " The same terms as last summer, with the addition of 85Z. secured to you." If I be wrong, correct me ; if right, let this serve as a memorandum from me. Tell me, in your next, what character you have thought most eligible, as new, old, matter for you. As to your question relative to Lear, certainly : (in the instance you mention). Mr. Shakspeare in preference to Mr. Tatc, or Mr. Anybody! His dialogue may sometimes want curtailment ; an obsolete word may require altering ; some incidents, even, may need changing for modern times ; but, let us hold the language of the old buck of Avon sacred, wherever we can. ' I have nearly spun out my paper. I send you, enclosed, a few elegant lines from the same blue-eyed hag of Fulham. I, Molly Gibbs, Tiddy, Fawcett, Polly Wall, Frederic Menage, &c., &c., send you a lump of loves and good wishes. And forget not my and Mary's best and kindest remembrances to your good and handsome mother. God bless you. * Dear friend, I am affectionately and very truly yours, 'G. COLMAN.' 'April 22, 1808. ' MY DEAR CIIABLES. I am up to that part which is con- tained in my small clothes, behind, in business. Pray, pray, pray (three times over) make no country engagements, till you: II.] CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. 33 Lear from me. I only wait for Jones of Dublin, and Harris, to conclude what I have on the anvil for you liable of course to your sanction. In a very few days, I trust, I shall be able to write fully. God bless you ! Summer approaches ! Huzza ! though I have much fog to go through before we meet. I am labouring now like a dray-horse, and have removed all obstacles to the work you wot of. Ever yours. In haste, 'GEORGE COLMAN.' 'May 18, 1808. 1 MY DEAR CHARLES. Although your letter reached me the day before yesterday, pressing for an answer by return of post, this is literally the first moment I have been able to fix down and say what followeth. Your three weeks' hot water that you complain of was not of my boiling ; for, till Sunday last, I had not ascertained matters sufficiently to write a plump proposition. Harris and Jones wanted to have you between them. But they clashed about the time at which they could spare you to each other. Jones wanted you till deep in January ; and Harris wanted you towards the end of November. Here, after much pro-ing and con-ing, matters broke off just before Passion Week , when I begged the parties to settle, as to times and seasons, between themselves ; and then to let me know their resolves, that I might send you my decisive offer. From that time to this they have settled nothing, and I have heard nothing further on the subject from Jones ; whereby, methinks, he cools : and they say he is again on with Sheridan, endeavouring to clear a way (through all the lumbering difficulties that clog the concern) into a share of Drury Lane. Considering, therefore, Jones as out of the question, the business is simplified into an offer from Covent Garden. * Harris thinks that a little interval between the close of the Haymarket shop and your first appearance in the grand winter warehouse would be politick. I think so too. He proposes that you fill up your hours as pleases you best; either by sitting still in town, or playing in the country, till towards the end of November, at which period he wishes you to appear at Covent Garden, with all due honours ; beginning from that time on a regular engagement for three years, at the salary of 18/. per week a benefit each year, of course, being included ; which benefit, from your salary, will rank as one of the very earliest ones. My opinion is that you should certainly accept D CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [Cii.vi- this offer. I need not go over the considerations we have so- often before agitated. The old ground for and against your s tiling directly in London, we have trod together often. But, after having again and again considered the question, after the repeated conversations I have had with Harry Harris, after the fullest assurances given, that you will be treated with tho utmost candour and fairness, and with every attention to your fame of which assurances I have no doubt after all this, I say, close with a liberal offer. 4 If you hesitate, I have much more to say in the way of reasons for your accepting the terms proposed ; but which arc too minute to put into a letter. At all events therefore, pray. pray, do not make any country engagements, which can bind you (after we finish our Haymarket season) beyond tho latter part of November. 'Curiously enough, whilb I was scribbling the above, I received a note from Tom Sheridan, in which there is tbc following paragraph : " When does Young come to town ? 1 should hope that there will be now little difficulty in concluding our negotiation with him satisfactorily." To what negotiation Tom can allude, I can't conceive. My memory is very deficient if any proposition was ever made to you from Drury Lane. except that which came through Graham, and was concluded last summer, with sentiments on our part bordering somewhat on indignation. 'Drury Lane, for many reasons, is not an eligible spot for you ; particularly with the proposal now pending from the other house. I love and esteem Tom Sheridan heartily, and wish success to any scheme in which ho is interested ; but my cou- o cannot permit mo to disguise my opinion here. Druiy Lane closes on June 17 ; Covent Garden on Juno 23. Horribly Lite ! I shall open as soon as I can before they shut, probably nidi about tho mark of last year, which was on June 15 ; but, Kooner if I can. Therefore, bo with mo as early as you can, in the very beginning of next month. You are sick of Liverj<.< ! I dare say ! I long to see you ; for, wo have many things, on which to consult together, before wo start. I have engaged Dame St. Lcger for your Queens, Marguerites, &c., &c. I am too late to send into town to-day for a frank ; but, as you are bursting for particulars, I trust you will not grudge th<- expense of a double letter. I make this a downright, dry, letter of business. So no more ; but all our loves. God bless you ! II.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 35 I am working on, and shall be glad to give you a good account of myself. * Yours truly and affectionately, *GEOEGE COLMAN.' It was in the month of May in this year (1808), I conclude, from the following letter which now lies before me, that a project was started by certain prominent patrons of the drama for erecting a new theatre in Edinburgh, in which Charles Young's talents might have had a larger field ; but, from what cause I know not, it fell to the ground. ' May 15, 1808. ' DEAB YOUNG. I was aware, shortly after writing to you, that you had left town before my letter could have reached you. The outline of the plan for the theatre is, that, the patent is to be vested in the name of a few gentlemen for the benefit of the public, great inconvenience having occurred from its having been made out in the name of a manager, who was thereby enabled to entail his debts as a burden on the theatre during the whole length of the patent. The patentees are to exercise no other authority than by leasing the theatre from time to time, for such a rent as shall indemnify the proprietors of the house, and for such a length of years as shall be agreed upon. ' But all this matter is yet in embryo ; though I believe it will go forward in that train. Charles Kemble is looking towards it ; but I think not anxiously. I think it likely, William Erskine, Henry Mackenzie (" The Man of Feeling "), and, probably, I myself, may be among the patentees. If Mr& Siddons is disposed to exert herself, I have promised to support her son or nephew. But, entre nous, I don't think she will. 'You are now master of our views, and I should be very happy if you can spin anything out of them likely, as Falstaff says, " to do you good." ' I am, my dear Young, yours very truly, * WALTER SCOTT.' In 1808, the Haymarket theatre having been burnt nearly to the ground, and the company being transferred, ad interim, to the Opera House, Young continued to be one of them, and steadily and securely advanced in public estimation. The only new part in which he appeared, and in which, by-the-bye, he greatly added to his reputation, was that of Daran, in The Exile. I have no access to play-bills, or piles of newspapers, D 2 36 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. from which I can glean any reliable knowledge of iris engage- ments, metropolitan or provincial, during the years 1809 and 1810. But I have every reason to believe that he was at Covent Garden during both those years ; and my conviction that he was certainly there in 1810 is founded on a circumstance which I have heard him tell as having occurred at Covent Garden in that year. It is so interesting that I repeat it here. CHAPTER III. IN July 1810, the largest elephant ever seen in England was advertised as 'just arrived.' As soon as Henry Harris, the manager of Covent Garden theatre, heard of it he determined, if possible, to obtain it ; for it struck him that if it were to be introduced in the new pantomime of ' Harlequin Padmenaba,' which he was about to produce at great cost, it would add greatly to its attraction. Under this impression, and before the proprietor of Exeter Change had seen it, he purchased it for the sum of 900 guineas. Mrs. Henry Johnston was to ride it; and Miss Parker, the Columbine, was to play up to it. Young happened to be one morning at the box-office adjoining Covent Garden theatre, when his ears were assailed by a stran^- and unusual uproar within the walls. On asking one of the carpenters the cause of it, he was told 'it was something goin# wrong with the elephant : he could not exactly tell what.' I am not aware what may be the usage now-a-days ; but then, when- ever a new piece had been announced for presentation on a given night, and there was but scant time for its preparation, it rehearsal would take place after the night's regular performance was over, and the audience had been dismissed. One such there had been the night before my father's curiosity had been roused. As it had been arranged that Mrs. Henry Johnston, seated in a howdah on the elephant's back, should pass over bridge in the centre of a numerous group of followers, it \\ thought expedient that the unwieldy monster's tractability should be tested. On stepping up to the bridge, which was slight and t' i njiorary, the sagacious brute drew buck his forefeet and re- fuged to budge. It is well known as a fact in natural liisl that ; tnt, aware of its unusual bulk, will never trust its weight on any object which is unequal to its support. The sta;:- in;i:i:iL' r. s-M-iiinr J,,, xv n s ilntdy the uniinal resisted every attempt made to compel or induce it to go over the bridge in Question, proposed that they should stay proceedings till next day, when he might be in a bt'C r mood. It was during the lii.] CHAIILES MAYXE YOUSG. 37 repetition of the experiment that my father, having heard tho extraordinary sounds, determined to go upon the stage, and see if he could ascertain the cause of them. The first sight that met his eyes kindled his indignation. There stood the huge animal, with downcast eyes and napping ears, meekly submitting to blow after blow from a sharp iron goad, which his keeper was driving ferociously into the fleshy part of his neck at the root of the ear. The floor on which he stood was converted into a pool of blood. One of the proprietors, impatient at what he regarded as senseless obstinacy, kept urging tho driver to proceed to still severer extremities, when Charles Young, who was a great lover of animals, expostulated with him, wont up to the poor, patient sufferer, and patted and caressed him ; and when the driver was about to wield his instrument again with even still more vigour, he caught him by the wrist as in a vice, and stayed his hand from further violence. While an angry altercation was going on between Young and the man of colour, who was his driver, Captain Hay, of the ' Ashel,' who had brought over Chuny in his ship, and had petted him greatly on the voyage, came in, and begged to know what was the matter. Before a word of explanation could be given, the much- wronged creature spoke for himself; for, as soon as he perceived the entrance of his patron, he waddled up to him, and, with a look of gentle appeal, caught hold of his hand with his proboscis, plunged it into his bleeding wound, and then thrust it before his eyes. The gesture seemed to say, as plainly as if it had been enforced by speech, 'See how these cruel men treat Chuny. Can you approve of it?' The hearts of the hardest present were sensibly touched by what they saw ; and among them that of the gentleman who had been so energetic in promoting its' harsh treatment. It was under a far better impulse that he ran out into the street, purchased a few apples at a stall, and offered them to him. Chuny eyed him askance, took them, threw them beneath his feet, and, when he had crushed them to pulp, spurned them from him. Young, who had gone into Co vent Garden on the same errand as the gentleman who had preceded him, shortly after re-entered, and also held out to him some fruit, when, to the astonishment of the bystanders, the elephant ate every morsel, and, after he had done so, twined his trunk, with studied gentle- ness, around Young's waist ; marking by his action that, though he had resented a wrong, ho did not forget a kindness. It was in the year 1814 that Harris parted with Chuny to Cross, the proprietor of tho menagerie at Exeter Change. One of the purchaser's first acts, was to send Charles Young a life 38 CHAKLKS MAYNE YOUNG. ticket of admission to his exhibition ; and it was one of his innocent little vanities, when passing through the Strand with any friend, to drop in on Chuny, pay him a visit in his den, and show the intimate relations which existed between them. Some years after, when the elephant's theatrical career was run, and he was reduced to play the part of captive in one of the cages of Exeter Change, a thoughtless dandy, one day, amus himself by teazing him with the repeated offer of lettuces, ;i vegetable for which he was known to have an antipathy. At last, he presented him with an apple, but, at the moment of his taking it, drove a large pin into his trunk, and then sprang out of his reach. The keeper seeing that the poor creature was getting angry, warned the silly fellow off, lest he should be- come dangerous. With a contemptuous shrug of the shoulder, he trudged off to the other end of the gallery, and there dis- played his cruel ingenuity on other humbler beasts, till, after the absence of half-an-hour, he once more approached one of the cages opposite the elephant's. By this time he had forgotten his pranks with Chuny: but Chuny had not forgotten him. And as he was standing with his back towards him, he thrust his proboscis through the bars of his prison, twitched off the offender's hat, dragged it in to him, tore it to shreds, then threw it into the face of the gaping gaby, consummating his revenge with a loud guffaw of exultation. All present proclaimed their approbation of this act of retributive justice ; and the dis- comfited coxcomb had to retreat from the scene in confusion jump into a hackney coach, and betake himself to the nearest hatter's in quest of a new tile for his unroofed skull. The tragic end of poor Chuny must be within the recollection of many of my readers. From some cause unknown, he went mad ; and it took 152 shots, discharged by a detachment of the Guards, to dispatch him. But to return to our proper text. I find, from an article on Charles Young, in * Bcntley's Miscellany,' written, I am bound to say, in a kindly and conscientious vein, that in the year 1811 he played Hamlet, Othello, Lord Townley, Ford, Gustavus Vasa, Portius, Rhodcrick Dhu, and Falkland; besides acting Beverley and Macbeth several times with Mrs. Siddons during her brother's illness. In 1812, Eemblo revived and adapted, with a splendour, in those days unparalleled, the play of Julius Ccssar. No piece was eTer more effectively cast: Brutus hadjbr its representative, JohnKemble; COSHIUS, Young; Anthony, Charles Kemble ; Casca, Fawoett; First Citizen, Simmons; and Portia, Mrs. Powell. 1 111.] CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. 39 have never spoken with any one fortunate enough to have seen that play rendered, as it then was, who has not admitted it to have been the greatest intellectual recreation he ever enjoyed. It was really difficult to believe that one had not been trans- ported, while in a state of unconsciousness, from the purlieus of Bow Street and the vicinity of Covent Garden Market, to the glories of the Capital, and the very heart of the Julian Forum ; so complete, in all its parts, was the illusion of the scene. When but six years old, I saw the play on the first night of its repre- sentation ; and I was allowed to see it again in 1817, with the same cast, minus Mrs. Powell. And, although I was then but eleven, the impression ?.eft upon my mind has never been effaced. If it appear a thing incredible, that any play, however well put on the stage, however gorgeous its accessories, and however spirited the acting, should have left definite and durable traces on the brain of a child of STich tender years, it must be mentioned that he had not only inherited a turn for the stage, but had read and re-read the play in question over and over again, had com- mitted its chief speeches to memory, had rehearsed them by heart, and often represented the characters before small but select audi- ences, composed of all the squabs, bolsters and pillows available in the house. The consequence was, that when I saw Julius Ccesar for the second time, I attend to the stage-business, and more particularly to the by-play, with an intentness and enquir- ing interest, which it amuses me, even now, to recall. Owing to my reproductions, in the privacy of my little bedroom, of the effects I had seen and heard on the boards of the great theatre, I was tolerably qualified, in my own opinion at least, to distinguish between the comparative merits of each actor. And there was, perhaps, nothing which elicited more of my boyish admiration, than the fidelity with which the players of prominent parts indirectly indicated the peculiar idiosyncracies of each (and this too before they had opened their lips) by their very mien and movement. Ordinary actors, on first making their entrance in the second scene of the first act, march in procession towards the course, with all the precision of the Grenadier Guards, stepping in time to the martial music which accompanies them. And, even on the part of leading actors, I have noted a taineness of deportment (as mechanical as if they were automata) until speech has stirred them into action. In the play I am writing of, as then enacted, one would have imagined that the invariable white toga, common to all the male performers, beautiful as it is when properly worn and tastefully adjusted, would have rendered it difficult, at first, for any but H> CHAULES MA [('HAP. frequenters of the theatre to distinguish, in the large number of the dramatis person on the stage, John Kemble from Daniel Terry, or Charles Young from Charles Kemble. Whereas, I feel persuaded that any intelligent observer, though he had never entered the walls of a theatre before, if ho had but studied the play in his closet, would have had no difficulty in recognizing in the calm, cold, self-contained, stoical dignity of John Kemble's tro/, the very ideal of Marcus Brutus ; or in the pale, wan, austere, * lean and hungry look ' of Young, and in his quick and nervous pace, the irritability and restless impetuosity of Caius Cassius ; or, in the handsome, joyous, face, and graceful tread of Charles Kemble, his pliant body bending forward in courtly adulation of * Great Coesar,' Mark Antony himself ; while Fawcett's sour, sarcastic countenance would not more aptly portray quick-mettled ' Casca, than his abrupt and hasty stamp upon the ground, when Brutus asked him ' What had chanced that Caesar was so sad ? ' In support of my theory of the mute eloquence of gait and movement, Charles Young used to speak in terms of aiiinost wanton admiration, of a boldly conceived point he saw Mrs. Siddons once make, while playing the comparatively in- ferior part of Voluninia for her brother's benefit. In the second scene of the second act of Coriolanii*, after the victory of the battle of Corioli, an ovation in honour of the victor was introduced with great and imposing effect by John !v< mbl . On reference to the stage directions of my father's interleaved copy, I find that no fewer than 240 persons marched, in stately procession across the stage. In addition to the recognised dramatis pcrsonae, thirty-five in number, there were vestals, and lictors with their fusees, and soldiers with the spolia opima, and sword-bearers, nnd standard-bearers, and cup-bearers, ni:d sena- tors, and silver eu;_rle-bearer.s, with the S.P.Q.ll. upon them, and trumpeters, and di uimners, and priests, and dancing-girls, the directions of the prompter's book or trammelled by old traditions she was Volumnia, the JP. ii.l mother of a proud son and compii nnr h-ro. g o that, when it was time for her to mine on, instead of dropping each r cqui-distunc;; in itn place, with mechanical exactitude, and in cadence subservient to the orchestra; deaf to the- 1-1.] CHARLES MAYNE YOILNG. 41 guidance of her woman's ear, but sensitive to the throbbing** of her haughty mother's heart, with flashing eye and proudest smile, and head erect, and hands pressed firmly on her bosom, as if to repress by manual force its triumphant swellings, she towered above all around, and rolled, and almost reeled across the stage ; her very soul, as it were, dilating, and rioting in its exultation ; until her action lost all grace, and, yet, became so true to nature, so picturesque, and so descriptive, that pit and gallery sprang to their feet electrified by the transcendent execution of an original conception. Shakspeare makes Polonius tell his son Laertes, that * the apparel oft proclaims the man.' But a greater than Shakspeare Solomon tells us 'that man's attire and gait show what he is.' And true it is, that self-sufficient men, bashful men, ener- getic, phlegmatic, choleric, sanguine, and melancholy men, may each and all be known by their attire and * gait.' Of the force and justice of this axiom, I am tempted to give an appropriate, though a ludicrous confirmation. Theodore Hook was one day standing on Ludgate Hill, in conversation with Dubois, a well- known wag,* and one or two other kindred spirits ; when their attention was called to an aldermanic-looking person, 'with fair round belly with good capon lined,' strutting along like a peacock, with double chin in air, chest puffed out, and stride of portentous self-importance. Hook, with his characteristic audacity, immediately crossed over the street, went up to him. took off his hat deferentially, ' And in a bondman's key, With bated breath and whispering liumblL-ncsss,' thus saluted him : ' I really beg your pardon, Sir, for the liberty I take in stopping you. But I should feel very much obliged to you, and so would some friends of mine over the way, if you would kindly gratify a curiosity, which we find irrepressible. We have been observing you, as you walked, with very lively admiration ; and we cannot divine who you can be ? Arn't you somebody i particular?' Unjustifiably impudent, as this question was, at all events, it shows that the interrogator's inference of the man's character was deduced from his ' gait.' Even from an anecdote as trivial as this we may learn that, if it be the conscientious iictor's aim to show ' the very age and body of the time his form and pressure,' he cannot too microscopically analyse and imitate l he slightest peculiarities which 'mark the man.' * In my first edition I spoke of him as a member of the* Stock Exchange. I find he was no such thing, but Deputy-Judge of the Middlesex Old County Court. 42 CHARLES MAVNE YOCJNG. I have lately been re-reading ' Byron's Life by Moore ; ' and I have been struck with the similarity of his opinion of the Actors ho hnd seen, with that which I have often heard my father express. He writes thus : * Of actors, Cooko was the most natural, Keinble the most supernatural ; Kean the medium between the two : but Mrs. Siddons was worth them all together.' That last sentiment, I know, Charles Young would have en- dorsed ' from his heart of hearts.' It was in this year that she, the unapproachable, took formal farewell of the stage she had o long adorned. We * ne'er shall look upon her like again.' Of Kemble, in those great parts which he had made his own, Young had also the most ungrudging admiration. Of Kean he was no great admirer, although he was by no means blind to his genius. This will, of course, be ascribed to jealousy : but I really do not think he was open to that suspicion ; for I have never known him grudge his praise to Charles Kemble or William Macready, who came more frequently into competition with him. No ! I verily believe he thought Kean's unquestion- able merits were eclipsed by the vices of his style. John Kemble thought so, too. Of Cooke, Young had an enthusiastic estimate. In Richard III., Shylock, Sir Pertinax, and lago, ho considered him without a rival. In the years 1814, 1815, and 1816, 1 find, from constant notices of his performances, contained in letters written by valued friends, ihat ho was still playing two or three times a-week at Covent Garden ; and in the recess, in the great provincial towns. One of his earliest and most devoted friends, for years, was the late Earl of Essex. The criticisms on Young's performances, and the tributes to his social qualities and moral excellence contained in his letters, are so sensible, and at the same time so hearty, that it would have pleased me to have transcribed them for the general eye ; but, in the ninety-eight which I have just counted over, there is so much matter of a strictly confidential nature, as to preclude me from the possibility of publishing them. I have not the same cause for withholding a few letters of another highly valued friend, the late Lady Dacre, formerly Mrs. Wilmot, which will, I think, repay perusal. The many others that I have of hers are written under circumstances of domestic sorrow, and therefore must be kept sacred. She was a lady of remarkable accomplishments, and of great sweetness of disposition. She wag a linguist, an exquisite sculptress, a dramatist, though not a successful one, and according to the late Ugo Foscolo's verdict, the best translator known of Petrarch's sonnets. My lather's intimacy with Lady Dacro and her noble lord was never 1I1.J CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 43 interrupted till death dissolved it. Before submitting a few of Lady Dacre's graceful letters, I should mention, that, about this time, viz., the year 1814, two great stars first rose in the theatrical firmament Miss O'Neil and Edmund Keane, the one fixed, the other erratic ; the altitude of the one, determinable ; the measure of the other, doubtful ; the one moving through a celestial arc, the other of great magnitude, but likely to be of brief duration. 14: ' Hampton Court Palace. * Time was, dear Mr. Young, when I addressed you as my Mecsenas ; now, it must be as my cheesemonger. Instead of the comparative merits of the different dramatists, my subject must be that of the different dairies. First and second acts turn on double and single Glo'sters. The persons of the drama, to mites ; the catastrophe, to the ripeness of the cheese ! The getting up, to the toasting ; the decorations, to mustard and pepper. The audience, I hope, our two selves. In token of applause, instead of clapping our hands, we shall smack our lips. * In short, I want one of your cheeses, and yourself to come and help to eat it. * Congratulate me on this complete reform. Safety an. ' B. W. The Hon. Mrs. Bouverie's.' * Hampton Court Palace, November 21, 1814. ; DEAR MR. YOUNG. I fear I have no chance of success in a request I am going to make. It is no less than that you will get on your horse on Tuesday morning, and ride down here, 46 CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. [CHAP. sloop, and return in time for Pierre on Wednesday evening. I told you I should be anxious to see you soon after my return from Hampshire, in both your characters. Now, in your pri- vate character I have no chance of seeing you, if I delay ; for the papers show me that Tuesday is your free day in the earlier part of the week. After that I go from home, and then I hope to contrive to see you in your public character. Before Christ- mas I go from home, for a large portion of the winter. Ina is positively gone back to Drury Lane, and I have been hard at work, since I despatched her, on the drama we invented riding one day together ; and of which I showed you the first act one morning when you called on me at Hampton Court. I feel that I have a right to call upon you for a little interest in this, as I have written on a principle instilled by you. It is now in a state for you to look at before I proceed any farther. I shall have a few people with me on Tuesday evening, which was arranged before I discovered that Tuesday was the only day I had a chance of you. I have no hope of success, especially at such short notice; but, if you should do the good-natured thing, your bed, as usual, shall be ready ; your horse shall be taken care of by your old friend, the ostler at the Toy, and you shall be made much of. 4 Yours sincerely, M me, very shortly after, by Mathews, who was with at the time. 58 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. the most sagacious men I know, a scholar, and a thoughtful one, a critic, and a most accomplished one, entirely dissents from my view. If ever the world produced writings which approach inspira- tion, Shakspeare is their author. But I do not think it heresy or infidelity to withhold from them the title of infallibility. It is usual to extol * Hamlet's direction to the players ' to the very skies. It is constantly cited, as embodying Shakspeare's own pinions on acting, and as a manual for all actors for all time. Now, in the first place, assuming that the words put into Hamlet's mouth words uttered with a special purpose, even though they may have had a general application really repre- sent the author's own notions of good acting, why should they be of irrefragable authority, seeing that, however great he was as poet and dramatist, he was but an inferior actor himself. In the second place, I am free to confess that, excellent as Hamlet's directions to * certain players ' are, the logical justice of one of them I must take exception to. I allude to the passage wherein he tells them, that ' in the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of passion, they should acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness/ If Shakspeare, in making Hamlet say * it offended him to the soul to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters,' meant that indiscriminate rant in the representation of any of the primitive passions such as love, desire, hope, joy was offensive to him, every one of any refinement must heartily coincide with him. But if he meant to aver that, in embodying a derivative passion, such as ' rage,' an actor is, invariably, to be temperate and smooth, he contradicts not only common sense, but himself. The question is Do men and women ever rant in real life? If they do, on Shakspeare's own principle of 'holding the mirror up to Nature,' actors must rant too. Do men and women, when in passion, keep themselves under such control as to be ' temperate ' and ' smooth ' ? On the contrary, are they not apt, when they are slaves to their passions, to be so carried away by them, as often to commit acts verging on in- sanity? Nay, is not 'anger' proverbially a brief madness? Does not a man under the sway of vehement passion fume, and swear, and strike, and even kill ? Does not a woman, under tho same fell influence, stamp, and scream, and tear her hair, and even drown or poison herself ? Could these intemperate acts be properly represented by ' temperance ' or * smoothness ' ? How i* that view reconcileable with Hamlet's own conduct in the scene with Laertes by his sister's grave ! Allow me to recall III.] CARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 59 the scene to the memory of my readers, and respectfully beg them to weigh the force of the following words : * Hamlet. 'Swounds, show me what thou'lt do : Wool't weep? wool't fight ? wool't fast ? wool't tear thyself? \Voo't drink up eisel ? eat a crocodile ? I'll dot. Dost thou come here to whine ? To outface me with leaping in her grave ? Be buried quick with her, and so will I : And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart ! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as tliou.' Listen to Laertes' language, when ho leaps into his sister's^ grave just before Hamlet grapples with him : ' Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o'ertop old Pelion, or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.' I would ask any one if passion such as this, or the desolating, devastating passion, fitly figured by such forcible imagery as Hamlet uses in his direction to the players, is compatible with ' temperance ' ? Does not the torrent as it brawls, and boils, and seethes, and plunges headlong down the valley, sweep away all intervening obstacles from out its path ? Does not the tempest, where it rages, tear up huge trees by the roots, and smite houses to the dust ? Does not the whirlwind, in its fury and its rapture, whirl men off their feet and dash them helpless to the ground ? How then, at such times, and under the impulse of such resist- less agencies, can we look for ' calm ' ? To tell, then, an actor * whose end, both at first and now, was and is to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature,' that in delineating a man carried away by the uncontrolled violence of rage, he should be ' temperate and smooth,' seems to me as reasonable as to give an order to an artist to paint a landscape, in which an impetuous torrent should bo the prominent feature, and, at the same time, to impress on him the propriety of depicting the angry, swollen stream as 4 calm ' and unruffled as a lake. Passion is multiform, and covers a wide area in the human heart. And fitly as the images produced typify one kind of passion, it is, after all, only passion vented: they are totally inapplicable to passion suppressed. The direction to the players is too general and sweeping. And here, by the way, I should like to say a word, on the subject of passion suppressed. I have never read one line of Schlegel or Coleridge, or any other commentator on our great <:0 CHARLES MAYNK YOUX:. [C:AP. Bard's plays. If I Lad, possibly my opinions might bo modi- fied ; but, with no light but instinct to guide me, it strikes mo no better illustration of suppressed passion could be adduced than in the character of Shylock. I must say that I have never had my ideal of Shylock realised. In all the attempts I have seen made to represent this most difficult part the malignity has been too patent and superficial, instead of being latent and pro- found. Surely the passion Shakspeare meant to portray in the Merchant of Venice was not vengeance, but revenge words whii-h are too often confounded together, as if they were not merely .synonymous, but identical, in signification. Vengeance may be, and often is, a righteous act. Revenge never can be other than a base one. Vengeance is retributive punishment, in behalf of another. Revenge is the punishment of another, in one's own behalf. Vengeance, though attended with the infliction of pain, is often a simple act of justice. Revenge loves to inflict pain wantonly, and even without pro- spect of advantage ; and is opposed to Christian principles. Vengeance is God's own attribute. Revenge is the Devil's. Vengeance is quick and powerful, and sharper than any two- cssed by the Demon of Malignity. A Jew, IV.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 61 * a bye-word among all nations,' would not be very ready among a prejudiced community to give way to choler : and one possessed with an intense and bloodthirsty desire for revenge, would rather his yearnings should sink down and prey upon his heart, and eat out his vitals, as the serpent Tityus' liver, than that he should betray its inward gnawings by premature and tell-tale demon- stration. If this is not far remote from truth, then it follows ' as night to day,' that all ebullition of feeling on Shylock's part should be kept down as much as possible (except where his daughter is concerned, for there other passions come into play avarice and affection) ; aye, and even in the speech which might seem to give license to an outburst, * Hath not a Jew eyes ? J I doubt whether, instead of gesticulating violently with both hands, eyes flashing, and voice elevated to a scream, it would not have been more real if Kean, with eyes viciously half-closed, and hands nervously but unconsciously clutching at his gaberdine with the effort to restrain explosion, and step stealthily advanc- ing, now to Salanio, now to Salarino, had rather hissed out in a half-whisper his bitter expostulation to them both. Reasoning from analogy, I would say, that, as a light's flaring up is the precursor of its extinction, so, if Shylock, according to Kean's rendering, had given the reins to his passion in the speech alluded to, he could not have retained the implacable resentment he did against Antonio. CHAPTER IV. IN* 1823-24, Young re-appeared at his old quarters, in Covent Garden, on the same terms as the Drury Lane ones. Indeed, till the day of his retirement from the stage, he never received less than 50Z. every night he played. The following letter received during this year I copy, chiefly for the sake of ono sad sentence in it : Paris le 16 Avril, 1823. 1 MON CHER YOTTNQ. Pcrmcttez-moi de vous addresser Mon- sieur Vignier, l'un de mes anciens camarades de college dont la fortune detruite par la revolution 1'a force de chercher dans son instruction des moyens d'existence. II so rend a Londres pour y donner des lecons dc FranQais et 1'Espagnol. Si vous pouvez lui etro utile dans lo project cju'il entreprend, vous m'obligerez boaucoup, et je vous en aurai une grande reconnaisance. ' Nous avons, done, perdu cc pauvro Kemble. On dit qu'on 6*2 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CiiAP. doit lui clever un monument par souscription. J'ai charge Mons. Darby do me faire mettre au nombro des souscripteurs. 11 est de mon devoir do lui donner cette distincto marque do la sincere amiti que j'avois pour sa personne, et de la hauto admiration quo jo professois pour son talent. Jo reconnois la vos compatriotes, mon cher ami. * Je serai trop Jieureux id, si les prctres me laissent une tombe dans mon jardin ! ' Recevez, je vous prie, mon cher Young, I'assuranco des sen- timents d'estime et d'aim'tie* que je vous ai voues. TALMA/ January 1, 1824. Young made his first appearance as Sir Pertinax Macsycophant. The following critique is from tho ^loniltly Magazine : ' All the world which is yet in London, is astonished and delighted at the success of Mr. Young as Sir Pertinax Mac- sycophant in The Man of the World. We are delighted, but not astonished at all. We have long thought we discerned in Mr. Young's acting, indications of a genuine comic vein which we were assured he would turn, when he pleased, to ex- cellent advantage. Of absolute gaiety we did not suspect him ; but we knew that he could exhibit a solemn humour, hit off a plausible knavery, and play a grave impostor to the very life. In the famous scene with Hubert in King John, for ex- ample, his promises and fawnings are exactly of tho tone which fain would belie the heart, but dares not, and the oily smooth- ness and pretence, for which comedy affords ample scope. Among his friends he has been long remarkable for tho facility with which ho catches dialects, peculiarities, and tones ; and, therefore, we were prepared for a very clever exhibition in Sir Pertinax, and were quite satisfied never having seen Cooko in the part. His Scotch, whether true or not, was wonder- fully consistent with itself, and he spoke it as *' if native and to the manner born ; " his bowing was so perfect, so submis- sive, so full of servile meaning, that it must have made his fortune had he been destined to a diplomatic career; and his disdain of all common honesty and good faith was absolutely magnanimous. The good-natured pity with which, on Egerton's spouting forth some piece of life morality, ho exclaimed, " Ah, Charlie ! you're very young," was almost redeeming, and carried the indulgence of a man of the world to its highest pitch, with- out trespassing on the romantic. His account of his life was a fine example of climai ; his utter amazement at tho resist- IV.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 60 ance of his son and the clergyman to his proposals was comical ; and his last rage and disappointment admirably kept within bounds for a tragedian.' In 1827, Young still continuing at Covent Garden, again agreed to play with Kean at that house. The cast of the play Othello was even better than it had been at Drury Lane ; for it gained a potent auxiliary in C. Kemble as Cassio. When- ever he played a second part he made it a first one. Antony, Mercutio, Orlando, Falconbridge, and Cassio, became so in his hands. Cassio is a very difficult part to render faithfully. The old adage ' in vino veritas,' is irrefragable. The real nature of a man is apt to show itself when he is under the poison- ous influence of 'the invisible spirit of wine.' The mere sur- face gentleman is very likely to betray his innate propensities when he is drunk, and to become a noisy blustering, sensual, hiccup-ing roysterer. But the real gentleman, though his ar- ticulation may be thickened, and his movements unsteady, will not swear or forget his deference for the fair sex. And thus we see Cassio in his cups bewildered, and betraying an anxiety to be thought sober; but clouded as his perceptions are (so much so, indeed, that he can hardly distinguish his right hand from his left), never using foul language, and never forgetting his manners. * For mine own part no offence to the General nor any man of quality,' &c. Charles Kemble throughout, never forgot he was a gentleman, overtaken in liquor not a sot, addicted to it. In August, 1828, Young for the first time had an original part written for him by Miss Mitford, in the play of Bienzi. This was a subject of great satisfaction to him, for he had often deplored his ill-fortune in never having ^iad a playwright to his back, as C. Kemble had had in Fazio, and Macready in Virginius. There were good reasons why C. Kemble should have had the part of Fazio assigned to him. In the first place, its author was his personal friend and great admirer ; and, in the second, his great physical requisites, and his practised ability in lovers' parts, gave him a prescriptive right to it. Again, until Sheridan Knowles wrote Virginius for Macready, villains had been considered his speciality. But his success- ful impersonation of Richard III., and his masterly delinea- tion of Virginius, at once determined his position as an actor of the first class second to none. All the parts in whicli I ever saw him ) such as Orestes, Mirandola, William Tell, G4 CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. [CHAI-. Rob Hoy, and Claude Melnotte, lie certainly liad made his own. He was a man of more reading and cultivation than Young ; and, while the latter amused himself in the hunting field, or the drawing-rooms of his aristocratic patrons, the former gave him- self heart and soul to the study of his art, and greatly improved his powers by intellectual friction with such minds as those of Bulwer, Forster, Dickens, Knowles, and Albany Fonblanque. Moreover, he was what is called an original actor. I am very far from wishing to detract from his signal excellence if I confess that it appears to me to be a popular fallacy, to speak of any actor as an original one, and for the following reasons : A tragedy is a poem cast in a dramatic mould, in which actions of great pith, evoked by the higher passions, and cul- minating in catastrophe, are performed by historic or ideal personages. An actor is one who represents such characters in different situations, and under different circumstances ; and his primary essential, is fidelity in putting into action, what the author has put upon paper. Him, then, I take to be the most consummate actor, whose impersonations are the most life-like, and bear the closest affinity to their prototypes. But resemblance, however startling, does not constitute originality. Conception is the author's proper function ; execution is the actor's. And the moment the actor prefers his own conception to his author's, he becomes, in a measure, his own author he manufactures for himself ; he transgresses his province, and trenches on a domain over which he has no right to trespass. I can understand an audience liking to have their passions roused by startling effects ; but I cannot understand any dramatist liking to have an original actor as the representative of his characters ; for the actor ought to bo the author's mouth- piece and agent. And, while the author's prerogative is to dissect the workings of the human heart, it is the actor's business to describe them. The only real original is Nature, and the greatest actor the world ever produced, but her copyist. The very 'purpose of playing,' Shakspearo has told us, is 1 to hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature.' I, therefore, humbly submit that, as the mirror does not conjure up, create, or invent, but simply reflects the objects presented to it, so the actor is not the originator, but the reflector of objects, IV.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. (J5 traits, and passions presented to his mind's eye by Daine Nature. I am aware that a superior actor sometimes, by a certain novelty in the interpretation of a passage, or by the introduction of felicitous by-play, electrifies his audience, and thus acquires the title of an original actor. But all that he has done in such instances has been to evince a range of observation more ex- tended and microscopic than his predecessors in the same part. If what he does at such time is really original, then must it be out of nature, and therefore an offence against probability. The fact is, there is no such rarity in art, or literature either, as originality. If Shakspeare himself had composed none but historical plays, lie could scarcely have deserved the appellation of an ' original poet ' ; a claim which no one would withhold from him after reading his sublime creations of The Tempest and The Midsummer Night's Dream. And here, writing as I am of authors and actors, I should like to drop a few remarks about the former. Sprung as I am myself from the loins of an actor, I trust I shall not be suspected of a wish to diminish the actor's hold on public estimation though I grudge him his monopoly of it. Play-writers have not their due.* If their works live and endure among the standard literature of their country, posterity may do them justice; but, during their lifetime, it is the actor who gets the lion's share of admiration. Even Shakspeare's present colossal reputation was not a contemporary one ; and I question whether the actor Burbage's name was not oftener on the lips of his fellow men than that of Shakspeare, the dramatist. No doubt, as a rule, the popular playwright is liberally remunerated by those who employ his services. But lucre is not all to which the author is entitled, or which he values most; and I must think that, equally indispensable to each other as author and actor are, the meed of public approbation awarded to them is disproportioned. If a powerfully reasoned sermon were composed by one clergyman for another to deliver, which would be entitled to the greater share of admiration the man who wroto it or the man who read it ? Now, reasoning by * The name of the author of The Lady of Lyons will, no doubt, "recur to the minds of my readers, as a refutation of my theory. But his case is an exceptional one. It retains its hold on public favour, not more on the score of its construction and the beauty of its poetry, than as the produc- tion of one who can prefer a higher title to the admiration of his fellow countrymen, as poet, novelist, dramatist, orator, and statesman, than any man \\ho has ever \vritten for the stage, Sheridan alone exempted. F GG CHAKLES MAYXE YOl'NO. [CiiAi-. analogy, lot us compr.ro the results of the success of a drama in the case of the author and the actor. On the first night of a play which has hit the public fancy. the author may bo called for, and taste the short-lived sweets of popular applause. He may occasionally hear his name whis- pered in drawing-rooms as the writer of the last new play ; but, generally speaking, when paid for his production, he is con- sidered to have had his deserts, and is expected to repose con- tentedly on his laurels. If his glory has not actually departed, it is at all events eclipsed by the more brilliant success of his rival the actor. One night's applause is all the author earns : whereas, every night the play runs, the actor is greeted with reiterated plaudits from crowded audiences for his impersonation of the character the author drew. Again, passages of exquisite poetic force shall occur, and, though their merit is the author's, the actor receives not only the tribute due to his delivery c,f them, but also that approbation which of right belongs to the writer. Night after night, too, on the denouement of a thrilling tragedy, the actor receives not only the promptest recognition of his own ability at the hands of his audience, but also, during tho progress of the piece, the superadded sympathy elicited by tho construction of the plot, which the writer's ingenuity originated. But to return to Miss Mitford and her play. The following letters, while they show her estimate of her interpreter not valuing his services for their originality, but for their fidelity, possess also an interest of their own. 'Three Mile Cross, Reading, August 28, 1828. MY DEAR SIR. I sit down with malice prepense to write you a long letter ; and, if that be a great liberty, it is your own fault that I take it ; for you are, and always have been, so very kind to mo, and I hear every day so many testimonies of your kindness, that I cannot help considering you as one of my most indulgent friends. What I want to talk to you of is llienzi. It would have been still pleasanter to me to talk to you about it really in our little garden ; and I was half in hopes, when I heard you were at Bath, that Reading would have lain in your way, and that wo should have seen you here. I should not at all mind asking you to our poor cottage, although it is a hut that would probably go into your drawing-room. I should no more regard asking you than I should a Duke or a Lord persons mod to magnificence on a largo scale, and quite above tho want of it. Some day or other I hope that you IV.] CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. 67 will prove that I judged you rightly in being sure that you would not regard the smallness of our rooms by giving us the pleasure of seeing you in them. Now for Hienzi. I have to-day returned the MS. with your alterations almost verbatim, for they were so good, and so well managed, as to require nothing except here and there a few words to eke out the verse. One or two lines that you put out, I have, however, retained ; not more, I find, than three where Lady Colonna acknowledged Claudia ae her daughter (and I do this partly in compliment to Mr. Haydon,* who mentioned tliat to me as the finest stroke in the play ; and partly because Mr. Talfourd f wished it kept in). I know that you were right in wishing to condense the scene as much as possible ; but the sentence in question is so short that you will, I'm sure, excuse it. One other alteration I have made. It is in the speech in the banquet scene, act iv., beginning with "My death were nothing." It now runs so : "My death! They who are sent, one in a thousand years, To renovate old empires and to bid Cities once famous, like the fabled bird, Hise stronger from their ashes they, the few, The chosen, the peculiar, tread in the light Of their own peculiar star, the glorious path Of destiny. My death ! Ye might as soon Hurl your dark bolts at that bright star. I soar Too high above ye, sirs. I cannot die Whilst Fame commands me live. For ye, foul slaves," &c. I have made this alteration, to bear out Angelo's reproaches on Itienzi's overweening pride, and to account in some measure for the defection of the citizens; but I must chiefly rely on the growing haughtiness of your demeanour to convey to the audience the perfect idea of the remarkable historical character which I have attempted to depict. You will see that I intended to make him not a buffoon, but a bitter jester in the first acts (Lady Colonna conveys my idea of him), condescending as a king in the levee scene and the banquet scene, or rather in the first parts of these scenes ; but flaming forth in uncontrollable pride when' contradicted or thwarted, always, however, soften- ing into tenderness at the sight or thought of his daughter. Mr. Macready said that the whole character reminded him of Napoleon, and that, in the scene which I have called the leve*e scene, lie, if he were even to play it, should not be able to avoid * I believe, the artist. f Afterwards Sir T. N. Talfourd. F 2 68 CHARLES MAYXE YOUKG. copying Talma in Ncror. I confess that I did think of Napo- leon in writing the play ; and surely there is some resemblance in their story and fate. You know, of course, that I took my tragedy from the splendid narrative of Gibbon ; but yon will find a very graphic account of TJte Tribune in the second volume of the quarto edition of 1'Abbe do Sode's Memoircs pour la Vie de Petrarque. Have you seen the French tragedy ? I had not till Mr. Kemble lent it to me last year. There is no resem- blance at all except in the last two or three lines, the summing up of the character, which is pretty similar in both. I have not heard of any English play on the subject, except one translated from the French original, which Mr. K. told me they had in Co vent Garden, and one begun and abandoned when about half written by my neighbour Mr. Milman, who took, he told me, the same view of the character, but on a totally different plot. Mr. Talfourd tells me that they are going to bring it out the second week after the opening of Drury Lane. Is not this unusually early ? Will not the town be a desert then ? I have not hinted an objection to them, because I know so little of theatrical matters that it would be presumption in me to interfere. Bo- sides, I am quite unacquainted with Mr. Price and Mr. Cooper ; but you, who are such a judge, will, I know, give your opinion if you think the time too early. The play certainly deserves a. fair chance ; and from all I hear of Mi-. Price he is determined to give it one. But its best chance, after all, will bo in your talent and popularity, and the interest with which it has been so fortunate as to inspire you. 1 cannot thank you enough fur the kind pains that you are taking with it ; and, great as the subject is to me, I assure you that failure would be doubly painful from disappointing your kind efforts. But I will not apprehend such a catastrophe. When wo meet I have a littlo prose book for you. My father says you are so good as to like my prose. He joins in kindest regards and siucercst thanks for your goodness to his daughter. ' I am, over very sincerely yours, R. MITFORD.* 1828. 1 Three Mile Cross, Monday. *MY DEAR SIR. My way of writing is so peculiar, and so very unmethodical, that although I have parts of every act of Otto written, I have not one readable. This is always my way. Foscari was written so, Rienzi was written so, Charles I. was IV.J CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. G9 written so, Inez de Castro was written so. In fact, I can sooner do anything than begin at the beginning, or go on from a fixed point ; and any one, to see the intolerable confusion of my MSS., would think it impossible that anything like order could spring from such chaos. The play ought, to have been finished long ago, but I have been partly waiting for the words and ceremony of the Ban of the Empire, which many distinguished literary friends have been hunting for in vain in England, and which has at last been sent for to Germany ; and mainly, I have been prevented from going on by a great degree of nervousness and depression, under which I have been suffering nearly the whole winter. I have not been ill, though not so strong as I look ; but so out of spirits as no tongue can tell, with a sense of inability on the one hand, and a consciousness that it is my duty to struggle against it on the other, that none but a woman of weak nerves and feeble character can comprehend. However, I am much more comfortable now. My dear friend Miss James has been so good as to come and see me, and the very sound of iier voice does my heart good. She knows exactly how I am situated, all that I have to bear, and all that is expected of me. It is that sense of being overweighted that seems to paralyse the powers that I have ; and precisely because it is my duty to do so much I feel as if I could do nothing. I am pouring out my whole heart before you, my dear Mr. Young, as I have scarcely done to any one except Miss James in all my life ; but I know your singular kindness and your high honour, and I wish at once to account for the play's not being completed, and io interest you in a request which I have to make on the subject. Besides, there is nothing like truth. I am now completely xoused from my dejection, perfectly well in health, and able to command all the power I ever have in composition ; and I have little doubt no doubt (if it please God to continue my health and faculties) but that, using strong exertion, I shall be able to send you Otto finished in a very few weeks ; but, at the same time, it would be an unspeakable relief to me, and certainly for the good of the play, if that tragedy might rest till next season, and Inez be substituted in its place. Will you read that play with a view to performing Pedro, and with a wish to find it do? And if you do so find it, will you have the further goodness to put it into Mr. Price's hands ? The play is still at Covent Gurden, but I could write instantly to withdraw it ; indeed, I vlid, under your advice, forbid their playing it, as they meant to do after the production of Rienzi. I have no doubt they would 70 CHARLES MAYXE YOUXG. [CHAP. play it there now if I chose ; but that is quite out of the question. If there were no other reason, the cast would be perfectly unsatisfactory. Now, with you for Pedro, and Miss Phillips for Inez, I should have no fear. Inez is (although J say it that should not) a splendid part, and you would make a great part of Pedro. Pedro is not a boy, not a lover, not a Romeo, and I would even make him older if you chose (for I foresee your possible objection), although the only Hamlet on the stage may surely play a character quite as old as his other characters, The Stranger and Beverley. I could make Alphonso an old man for Mr. W. Farron, if he would accept it, with half-a-dozen touches, or I could shorten the part for Mr. Cooper ; but to give some effective touches to Alphonso, for Mr. W. Farren, would be best, and that I could do in a few days ; and Miss Ellen Tree would make a beautiful Constance. Any part that you liked I would alter, especially that scene in the first act, between Pedro and Inez, the beginning of which is too much like that of Angelo and Claudio ; and Mr. Cooper would be excellent in Marvel, although I suppose Mr. Vining could do that part in case Mr. W. Farren would not play the King. Pray think of this. I would not urge it if I did not expect a real success. Why should I ? But with Miss Phillips for Inez, and you for Pedro, I should have no fear ; for assuredly the piece is interesting, and of an interest too which would come home to men's bosoms ; and I think the opportunity for Miss Phillips would recommend it to Mr. Price. Pray think of this, and let me hear soon. I will get on with Otto as well as I can ; but you will remove a mountain of lead from my head if you do Inez, and then you shall have Otto next year. It will come better then, because Inez has less of the character and mark of Rienzi, and is more absolutely different in kind than Otto will be. What gratitude do I not owe you for Rienzi ! But this will be even a deeper obligation. It will give me such freedom, such ease, and enable me to write for The Annual people, and oblige them who have BO much power with the press. I am ashamed of my own importunity ; but the thing is near my heart. Adieu, my ' Ever very gratefully yours, *M. R. MITFOKD.' ' Three Mile Cross, November 17, 1828. * MY DEAR Sin. I can but thank you most sincerely for all your kindness, lamenting unfcigiicdly the state of health which IV.] CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. 71 must make all exertion troublesome to you. How, when unwell, you can contrive to play Rienzi in the manner that every one says you do, is to me most astonishing. God grant it may not permanently injure you. I should feel a guilty creature if it did. Tell Mr. Price that Albert may be played by almost any- body. He need not sing the first song, which is performed off the stage ; nor the second, which may be performed by the other minstrels, or by one other and a chorus, although he must be by ; and the third I can manage to make him turn over to another. Indeed, I think it would be better in acting to make him suggest the song to one of his brother minstrels, and then take the responsibility on himself. I suppose it is permissible to have a song behind the scenes supposed to be sung by one actor, when in reality it is sung by another. If that be not allowable, I could re-write the scene in the first act, where the situation occurs, or make any other alteration that Mr. Price may desire. You are quite right about Charles. The very name of religion is at present a war cry. And you are quite as right about Otto. It is impossible for you or Mr. Price either to tell what so wretchedly written a scheme is likely to turn out ; but you will think better of it when you see it put into form or life above all, when the latter part is united and harmonised with the beginning ; for instance, the commander of the pursuing forces must be the man whom Otto has injured and insulted in the first act, and so on. Motive must be given, unity preserved (I don't mean the writer's, but that singleness of interest and action which are really important), and as much of individual character given as I can contrive. You may depend on my observing your hint respecting the domestic* copying oneself would be a very fatal error. Might I do much with the boy ? Could a clever child be found ? And if he could, would ho be heard in that great theatre ? And how old, or rather how young, might I make him ? I wish I could see sweet Miss Phillips but hers shall be a fine part, and I have not the slightest doubt of her success. I wish I were half as certain of my own power in the play, but I will do my best ; and what you have done for mo ought to be my inspiration. 1 Most gratefully yours, ' M. R. MlTFOKD.' 1828. ' Three Mile Cross. * MY DEAR SIE. A thousand thanks for all your kindness. I have met with a great deal in the course of a life otherwise * The word here wanting is illegible. 72 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. unprosperous, but never I think with so much, except from Mr. Talfourd ;* no, never with so much, or with half. Will you have the goodness to send the plot of Otto to my friend Mr. Talfourd. I told him that I should beg you to do so, therefore you have only to put it in an envelope addressed to T. A. Talfourd, Esq., 2, Elm Court, Temple, and send it to the two- penny post. I shall get on as fast as possible with the writing. For the last fortnight I have had a cough, which has jarred my head so much that I could hardly write a letter ; but it is much better, almost well, and I will undoubtedly set to work dili- gently and send you the result as soon as possible. Remember that at any time I am ready to make alterations. To my mind it shows as much want of resource as redundancy of vanity not to submit to the advice of those whose experience must make them the best judges. Tours I shall always take as the greatest favour. Would you like to see my tragedy of Inez de Castro ? The female part in it is (if I may say so) exceedingly fine. When Mr. Kemble showed it to you, it was with a view to know whether you would play Alphonso if he played Pedro. Now, if you would like to do Pedro, and the other male parts could be cast, and Miss Phillips were in physical power equal to Inez, perhaps you might prefer that play to Otto. But this I should leave entirely to you, taking care of course that it should not bo named to Mr. Price or any one. The great progress that Miss Phillips has made under your auspices has of course been my motive for thinking of this. But I shall undoubtedly go on with Otto, and take care that, except through you, neither that play nor Gaston, nor Inez, shall be mentioned to Mr. Price, leaving all that concerns the tragedies to your choice, and not worrying or hurrying him about the melodrama. How sorry we are to hear that you are still so ill, and how very glad we should be to see you in our poor cottage. Some day or other I trust that we shall have that great pleasure. I certainly believed my letter to have been franked; but my friend Mr. Monck, who took the letter from my father, promising to frank and send it to the post with his own letters, is one of the most absent as 11 as the kindest of persons in the world, and doubtless the mistake originated with him. I will not trust him again, and you will forgive me this time. Will Ricnzi run on ? Shall I get the fourth hundred ? I hope so. They say it is playing very successfully in the country. Adieu, dear Sir. * Always most gratefully yours, < M. R. MITFOBD.' * Afterword* Lord Talfourd. IV.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 73 ' December 19, 1828. ' MY DEAR SIR. I have had to-day a request from Mr. Cum- berland (the person who purchased the copyright of Rienzi) that I would ask you to allow Mr. Wageman to take your portrait in that character. It is to be, as I understand, first exhibited in the Royal Academy, and then to be engraved by Woolnoth ; and according to some specimens of theatrical portraits which he has sent me (e. g. Mr. Cooke and Mr. Bra- liam), seems likely to be creditably done, provided you are so good as to allow the artist a sitting. I have great scruples of conscience in asking you this, because I know how very trouble- some an operation it is, and because I am just about to undergo it, for a different purpose, myself ; but I could not well refuse T>Ir. Cumberland to transmit his request to you, and can only "beg you to act just as you would have done if the petition had come directly from Mr. Cumberland. Of course the expense will be defrayed by him, and the favour a very great one he will consider it is that of giving a sitting to Mr. Wageman. ' I am involved in a good many puzzles about Otto. It was certainly an historical fact I mean his killing the em- peror. Would it (that being the case) be too bold an experi- ment to make him kill him on the stage ? In the German play he does it behind the scenes, but goes out purposely to do it, and returns with the bloody sword, like Macbeth. 'Now my notion is, to make Otto kill the emperor in the melee, whilst aiming at another, and before the audience. An- other puzzle is, that the competitor for the imperial crown was & Duke of Brunswick. I really think that I must falsify his- tory in this particular, because in these days of Brunswick Clubs, the very name would be dangerous. One is quite ashamed of these precautions, and really they fetter one inoro than they ought to do. I hope and trust you continue bettor. Those who see you play find it difficult to believe you have been ill : but mind and will are, in you, singularly victorious over bodily ailments. How glad I am to hear of Miss Phillips' success. She is a sweet creature, and does honour to her most kind and able instructor. It is a moot point whether she or I owe most to your goodness and genius. Having superintended Mr. Monck's doings, whilst directing the cover, I hope you will not have to pay double for this. * Most respectfully yours, 1 M. R. MlTFORD.' 74 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. IV. In the year 1829, the offer of a splendid engagement made to Charles Young, from the other side of the Atlantic, viz. 12,000 for ten months ; but his heart was so set on quit- ting the stage, that he was proof against the tempting bribe. On May 31, 1832, when but fifty-three years of age, he bade u final farewell to the public in his favourite character of Hamlet. It being usual for actors to apply to the owners of private boxes for permission to let them, in the event of their not using them, my father wrote to Sir John Conroy to ascertain the Duchess of Kent's pleasure in the matter, and received the following reply : * Sir John Conroy presents his compliments to Mr. Young. Ke begs to relieve him of the feeling which he has had about the application for the box, by stating that the Duchess of Kent was gratified to receive it ; and that, although her Royal High- ness does not, from motives which he can easily understand, g:, to benefits, that she may avoid shewing preferences, yet, on this occasion, where it is a farewell one, her Royal Highness is anxious to shew the interest she takes in the drama of this country, as also, especially, to evince the same feeling towards Mr. Young, in recollection of the many occasions on which she has been gratified by his admirable representations. Kensington Palace, May 22, 1832.' Subjoined is a copy of the balance sheet of his night's receipts at the doors. (See opposite page.) The band was removed behind the scenes ; and so great was the demand for places, that the orchestra was converted into two rows of stalls. Eighty-one pounds were returned to persons who were unable to procure standing room. Charles Mathews, the elder, ' for that night only,' played Polonius ; and William Macready, with a generosity that did him honour, condescended to undertake the spiritual function of the shadowy Ghost. There were many present on the occasion, who had watched tho retiring actor throughout the whole of his career to its very close, who declared they had never seen him play with greater effect. At the close of the tragedy, after the curtain had fallen, there was an interval of a few minutes, when it was raised again, and disclosed Young surrounded by tho whole corps dramatique. Ho came forward, and thus addressed the audi- ence : * LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I have often been before you with a fluttering heart and a faltering tongue ; but never, till now, MR. YOUNG'S BENEFIT. 1S32. WEDNESDAY, 30th MAY. 179 NIGHT. Hamlet. Song. Gretna Green. Total No. First Account. Ko. Paid. Tickets Sold. Second Account Third Account Boxes . a. d. Boxes . a. d. Boxes . 8. d. 320 Dress 3 317 .. .. .. .. 117 K. S. 41 59 K. S. 6 ,2 6 K. S. 10 G 31G P.S. 1 20G 110 P.S.I 20 6 P.S. 210 254 P. S. 2 160 94 P. S. 2 2 12 6 1007 410 143 10 Pii Pit Pit 428 K. S. 409 4 K. S. 020 K. S. 12 352 P. S. 304 .. P. S. 1 18 P.S. 060 371 Extra 357 7 1151 1070 187 15 Gallery Gallery Gallery 237 K.S. 224 1 K. S. 180 K. S. 020 317 P. S. 309 .. P.S. 250 P.S. 040 551 533 53 6 U.G. 251 12 11 U.G. 1 1 U.G. 390 12 592 35 15 3 15 G First account Money with Tickets Second account Third account Total Money .. .. Value of 592 Tickets 39G 12 1 35 15 3 15 6 436 8 6 207 4 Total G43 7 G 7() CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CiiAP. with a sense of pain and a degree of heaviness which almost still the beating of the one and impede the utterance of the -other. I would fain have been spared this task ; but if I had not complied with long-established usage, I should have laid myself open to the charge of want of respect for you. To usage, then, I bow. * I very proudly acknowledge the indulgence, the great and continued kindness, you have shewn me for five-and-twenty years. You first received and encouraged my efforts with a Kemble, a Siddons, a Cooke and an O'Neil ; and by their side I shared with them your applause. In this the very last hour of my theatrical life, I still find myself cheered, supported, and upheld by your presence and approbation. Although retirement from the stage, and from the excitement of an arduous profes- sion, has been long my fervent wish, yet, believe me, there are feelings and associations connected with these walls, and with the very boards on which I stand, and where I have been so often cheered by your applause, which make me despair of find- ing words sufficient to express my gratitude. I throw myself on your indulgence to measure the extent of it by the kind rule you have always observed when you have secured it. I surely say no more than the truth when I state, that, whatever of good name or fortune I may have obtained, or whatever worldly ambition I may have gratified, I owe them all to you. It has foeen asked why 1 retire from the stage while still in possession of whatever qualifications I could ever pretend to, unimpaired. I will give you my motives, although I do not know you will accept them as reasons : but reason and feeling are not always cater-cousins. I feel, then, the toil and excitement of my cal- ling weigh more heavily upon me than formerly ; and if my qualifications are unimpaired, so I would have them remain in your estimate. I know that they were never worthy of the approbation with which you honoured them ; but, such as they are, I am loth to remain before my patrons until I have nothing better to present to them than tarnished metal. Permit me. then, to hope that, on quitting this spot, I am honourably dismissed into private life, and that I shall carry with me the kind wishes of all to whom I say respectfully and gratefully " Farewell." ' Young was often called an imitator of Kemble. A devout <1 sciple of his school, he acknowledged himself to bo; and con- sidering that they played the same parts, and held the same JV.J CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 77 principles of art, it were no wonder if community of sentiment begat similarity of style. But, intentional copyist he was not. Before bringing this crude sketch to a close, I cannot resist telling three or four anecdotes of Charles Young, each of which reveals a different phase of his character. 1. He was always very glad to hear good preaching; and when residing at Brighton, in old age, was a constant attendant on the ministry of Mr. Sortain. Mr. Bernal Osborno told mo that, one Sunday morning, he was sho\vn into the same pew with my father, whom he knew. He was struck with his devotional manner during the prayers, and by his rapt attention during- the sermon. But ho found himself unable to maintain his gravity when, as the preacher paused to take breadth after a long and eloquent outburst, the habits of the actor's former life be- trayed themselves, and he uttered, in a deep undertone, the old familiar * Bravo.' 2. He was sitting at dinner next a lady of rank and consider- able ability, who was rather prone to entangle her neighbours at table in discussions on subjects on which she was well ' up,' when she, suddenly, appealed from the gentleman on her right to my father, who was on her left, and asked him if he would bo kind enough to tell her the date of the Second Punic War. He, who had not the remotest idea whether it was 218 before- Christ, or 200 after, and who was too honest to screen his igno- rance under the plea of forgetfulness, turned to her and said, in his most tragic tones, ' Madam, I don't know anything about the Punic War ; and, what is more, I never did. My inability to answer your question has wrung from me the same confession which I once heard made by a Lancashire farmer, with an air of great pride, when appealed to by a party of his friends in a commercial room : " I tell ye what, in spite of all your bragging, I'll wedger (wager) I'm th' ignorantest man i' coorn- pany."' 3. He was once dining at the house of a well-known noble- man, when a fashionable scion of the aristocracy, as if bent on insulting him, began to inveigh, in terms of more than ordinary rancour, on the degradations of the stage, and to insist, perti- naciously, on the invariably vicious lives of actresses. Charles Young admitted that there was, unhappily, too much truth in his charges, but humbly submitted that they were too sweep- ing, and required qualification. ' They are all alike ! ' was tho retort. 'Unhappily,' replied my father, 'a harshly-judging world, which winks u^ and countenances, by its presence, sue- 78 CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. [CHAP. cessful vfco in high places, has nothing but the cold shoulder and the harsh epithet for many whom destitution has driven, first, to despair and then to evil courses.' Ho then cited the honoured names of the late Countess of Derby, Countess of Craven, Countess of Essex, Lady Thurlow, and Lady Beecher, as instances of stainless characters, who had passed through the furnace of temptation and come forth scathless. One lady, whose life and conduct had been from her childhood, as an open book, to Young, was, then, assailed by this gentleman, in the most unscrupulous manner. He boasted of his own familiarity with her, in terms so coarse that the indignant player rose from the table, uttering these words before he left the room : * If, Sir, you will prove the truth of your assertion, I will tender you, in the presence of these same gentlemen, the most abject apology on which they can insist ; if you do not, whenever I hear your name I will brand it as that of a calumi- nator and braggart.' Bowing, then, politely to his host, he left the room, expecting that the matter would not end there. How- over, he never heard more from the gentleman in question. 4. On one of the very foggy nights of November, as Charles Young was stepping out of the stage door of Covent Garden theatre, on his way home (in such weather, he preferred braving the perils of the trottoir on foot to those of the pave in a hackney coach), he heard the link-boy, whose aid on such nights was indispensable, apply abusive epithets to one of the many Circes who used to hang on the skirts of the great theatres, and saw him push her rudely aside into the gutter. Young angrily remonstrated with him on his unmanly violence ; and turned to look at the object of his ill-usage. She bore herself so meekly, and cast so sad and deprecating a look at him, that he called her to his Bide, snatched the link from the boy, and bade him follow, while he spoke to her. The direct and artless way in which she replied to his questions, the diffidence of her manners, and the plaintive accents of her voice, encouraged him to hope that she was not yet so hardened in vice as to be irreclaimable ; that, in short, she had been the reluctant victim of circumstances rather than a volunteer in the ways of sin. Ho gave her half a-crown and his card, at the same time (with his address), and invited her to come to him the next morning at ten o'clock. She curt- sied her acknowledgments, and forthwith vanished in the fog. The link-boy resumed his torch and his office, and, casting a familiar grin behind him, preceded his employer, and pioneered him safely home. IV.] CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. 79 At tho hour appointed on the following morning the young woman made her appearance. The particulars of the interview I never heard pass from my father's lips ; in fact, the poor Magdalen's errors were never once alluded to by him to any one. From what I know of her story as told me forty years ago by a friend of her own, she was in the first instance blame- less ; for, she was no consenting party to her own undoing. Outraged by a villain, whose statement it was her father's inte- rest to prefer to hers (he was the squire of the village in which she had been born, and was her father's landlord), she was dis- owned, thrust from tho door, and flung penniless upon the streets. As soon as Young, after rigid enquiry, had verified her state- ments, he offered to ensure her against penury, if she would promise to retire to some secluded spot and try to employ her remaining days usefully and virtuously. For two-and- thirty years in short, until the day of her death her annuity was paid to her quarterly, without fail. She settled in a neat little cot in Bakewell, in Derbyshire, where she led not only a most respectable but a most useful life; for, out of her own slender pittance, she always found something to spare for those still poorer than herself; and wherever sickness or sorrow entered, in that house was she a willing and a welcome visitant. So prudently did she administer the funds at her disposal, that she not only died owing no man anything, but left upwards of twenty pounds behind her to defray her funeral expenses. The last act of this poor Magdalen's life was to raise her emaciated hands and invoke a blessing on her benefactor's head. Having told all the little I have to tell of my father in his public capacity, it may, not unreasonably, perhaps, be expected of me, that I should say something of him as he appeared in the daily relations of private life. All I can recall of it, during tho years in which ho was on the stage is, that it was charac- terized by its remarkable simplicity, uniformity, and temper- ance. Two or three days in the week, when the managers were playing old stock pieces, and there was no need for rehearsals, he would bo sure to bo found in the hunting-field. As a rule, he played three nights in every week ; and on the mornings of those days, he would keep as quiet as ho could, to save his phy- sical powers for tho coming exertion of the evening. He would read or write till one ; and, ride from one to three o'clock, when he would dine. Dinner was followed by an hour's siesta ; a SO CHARLES MAYXE YOUXG. cup of coffee followed; and at 5'30 lie was off to his dressing- room at the theatre. The instant his work was over, without staying generally without entering in the * green room,' lie would return to his apartments, and rarely be out of bed after 11-30 p.m. When not ' on duty,' no man mixed more with society (and that the best) ; and no man relished his dinner more (though lie never exceeded). Yet, whenever engaged in his calling, he was singularly, I may say, exceptionally, abstemious. I have known him, during the whole of one theatrical season, allow nothing but carrot soup and a pint of porter to pass his lips. Two mutton chops, dry bread, and half-a-pint of dry sherry, I have known to have had an uninterrupted run for two seasons. And I well remember his writing to me, once, from Dublin, where he was engaged for five weeks, and telling me that ho had been ' indulging ' ; for, that, except on three days, two of which he had dined with the Lord Lieutenant, and the other with the Chancellor, he had rioted in boiled fowl, mashed pota- toes, and a pint of weak brandy-and-water, every day, without intermission. He had very marked peculiarities of taste and habit; but they were so harmless and original that they made intercourse with him all the more racy. He considered humidity the besetting sin of our insular climate ; and, therefore, thought it expedient to counteract its effects by scientific rule. He had but little scientific knowledge, and, as I have less than none, I will not attempt to define what I do not understand: but ho talked much of the benefits of the rarefaction of the air by means of heat. The practical results of his theory I could understand, when I would enter his [bed-room in the month of July, at night-time, and see a perfect furnace blazing up the chimney his bed-room candle, lighted, on a chest of drawers ; two wax candles, lighted on the chimney ; two, lighted, on his. toilet-table; a policeman's lantern, lighted for the night; and the handle of a warming-pan protruding from his bed, and remaining there, till he was prepared to enter it. Town-bred, as well as town-born, he was a thorough cockney in his predilections and prejudices. He was of the street, streety ; he hated green lanes, and loved the neighbourhood of shops ; and preferred to hear the rumbling of cabs and omni- buses to the sound of the scythe or the note of the nightingale. There was one thing in the country for which, however, he had a perfect passion, and, that was, to watch the sunsets. Other IV.] CHARLES MAINE YOUNG. 81 wise, but for the hunting, and the social intercourse he enjoyed in large country houses, he could not be said to appreciate rural life for its own sake. He believed that almost everything we cat and drink, except beef, mutton, game, and fish, was more or less adulterated. Not that he resented this as a wrong. In many cases, he reckoned it an improvement ! For example, ho greatly preferred coffee cum chicory, to coffee pure and simple. He preferred Champagne, compounded of tartar, sugar, alcohol, and the unripe gooseberry and currant, to the mere fermented juice of the grape. He preferred porter, concocted of pale malt, burnt sugar, liquorice, and coculus indicus, to plain honest brown malt. Of course, in the abstract, he would not have justified the want of principle involved in debasing a pure article by dishonest admixture with other things; but, prac- tically, he relished the result. Thus, for instance, he had a perfect aversion to a home-baked loaf such a genuine horror, that I never knew him pay us a visit in the country without making a descent on some baker's shop on the road, and filling the carriage with white, vicious, alumy bread, sufficient to have lasted our household throughout a siege of moderate duration. He had always been used to have his fires lighted with daintily-prepared chips ; and as, in each fresh residence wo had, he doubted our supply of the necessaries of life, as much us if our tent had been pitched in Lapland, he would generally bring with him a store of such goods as he considered indis- pensable for his own comfort. Any one following him through our hall, a few minutes after his arrival, would have taken it for a general colonial store ; so full would he have found it of the most incongruous articles, portmanteaus, carpet-bags, sad- dles, Mackintosh cloaks, Mackintosh cushions, Mackintosh sto- mach-warmers, three or four double-actioned bellows, and, inva- riably, a large sack full of mysterious firework-looking articles, which were, in fact, bits of wood glued together in this shape }, and coated over with a preparation of resin to make the pieces ignite more readily. But, a truce to the enumeration of harmless peculiarities, which were the growth of the solitary life he had so long led, and which in no degree detracted from his sterling worth. I shall now present to the reader a letter, written, at my request, by one who knew Charles Young intimately and loved him well, and whose keen appreciation of his drolleries, as well as of his amiability, still lingers in her heart and memory, after a lapse of fourteen years. [CM.M-. -vr, I give her letter, I ouglit to mention that the last years of his IHe, with tho exception of such visits as ho paid to us, \vcru spout entirely at Brighton, lie would havo ended his days under our roof at Fairlight, but for tho nature of a painful malady, which made him dependent on prompt and fre- quent medical attendance ; which he could only havo in a town. Hastings, from its proximity to us, would havo seemed the natural place for him to havo settled in ; but ho had had too much ex- perience of the great skill, fertility of resource, and tender caro of Dr. James Oldham, of Brighton, to bo happy under any hands but his. * September 10, 1820. London. 'To THE EEV. JULIAN YOUNG. * MY DEAR FRIEND. It is not easy for mo to do what you ask of me. I wish I could give a faithful sketch of your dear father as I knew him in his age. I fear to mar the beauty and dignity of the subject by bald and imperfect delineation ; but I will, nevertheless, try to give a faint outline of the individuality of Charles Young ; for it really ought not to be lost. Many, I am sure, who are too young to remember the actor, will love to retrace the social charm and domestic virtues of the man. I was very young when first I saw him. He must have been nearing his sixth decade ; but the forty odd years which were between us did not seem to mako any wide difference in our tastes and sympathies. He was singularly fitted to attract to him the young, of both sexes ; but it was perhaps the fairer half who understood him best. TTia long exposure to tho cor- rupting influences of tho theatre had never soiled the purity and innocency of his mind and heart. No Galahad ever wore a whiter shield 1 In many homes, where family life and the pure rule of motherhood were seen in all their sacred beauty, Charles Young was welcomed as a trusted and devoted friend and ad- viser. Until you became a husband, he was thrown, as it were, on other homes for domestic life ; for never since the death of his fair young wife had ho desired to marry again.* Her memory reigned in his deepest affections; and, possibly, tho remarkable blamelessness of his walk and conversation was attributable to his perfect remembranco of tho thirteen or four- teen brief months of wedded life which had been granted to his * Tho writer was not aware that, fifteen years after, he would gladly have married the daughter of a valued friend of his in Edinburgh: but it was not to b<-. Though tho lady in qu.>tion was pre-engage I, hi i, and her husband continued his fastest frienda for upwards of forty year*. IV.] CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. 83 you tli. His gifts and accomplishments were various. His musical taste, bis melodious voice, his wide range of anecdote, his extensive knowledge of life, his humorous power of portray- ing character, his arch, droll, waggish ways and stories, lent to his companionship a charm, which rendered him a desired guest in many of the stateliest homes of our aristocracy ; where young men and maidens would gather round him eagerly, the one to discuss the incidents of 'the run' and the comparative merits of dogs and horses (for your father, as you know, rode well and delighted in the chase); the other to beg for hints over their song-books, and to listen to his exquisite recitations, while all, of every ago and degree, could thoroughly enjoy the waggery of his spirit, and join in the laughter called forth by his innocent 'peculiarities. He had a somewhat stately manner, tinged, no doubt, by the old dramatic element, which was so pronounced in him ; and so far he certainly was artificial : but this was easily distinguishable from his true nature ; so that it only im- parted a kind of grotesque flavour to his quaint and, sometimes, grandiloquent treatment of trifles. It is difficult, in writing, to give any illustration of this ; but to the old friends who still cling with love and honour to his memory it will recur at once, as having given a piquancy to his manner quite irresistible. As time ran on and the black hair became silvered, and the Koman features lost something of their classic sternness, and the well-balanced figure began to stoop, a deeper tenderness and seriousness gave new interest to his character. Naturally, he had a devout frame of mind ; and now he declined reading any of the lighter literature of the day, and confined himself to meditation on the sublimcr mysteries of the Christian faith with the simple heart of a little child, often asking questions, on these subjects, of persons much younger than himself, and re- ceiving their answers with a docility that was touching. His charity was large and fervent ; and he could not understand the divisions and disputes, which seemed to him to disfigure the beauty of the spiritual life of, otherwise, good men. His person was well known at Brighton, at this time, where he passed the decline of his days. Friends, in plenty, clustered round his couch, or gladly sat with him, in the gloaming, as he hummed his songs of the olden time ; for his piano was a never-failing resource a beloved companion, up to within a few hours of his death. He had a faithful heart for humble friends ; and those who had known him through his upward career were cherished by him to the last, and remembered in his parting bequests. G 2 84 (HAKU1S MAVNK YOUNG. CHAP. Many were the acts of large and thoughtful liberality, that sig- nalized his life throughout long years, and which became known, only, when infirmity and failing memory obliged him to lean on others, as his almoners. By the side of his sick-bed stood a little mahogany table with an ever-opening drawer, into which the large white hand would be thrust, as oft as any talo of sorrow or application for help reached his ear. " What will ye have?" was the only question asked, and out came the gold and silver without stint : and, " Mind ye, let me know when ye want more for the poor creatures ! " was sure to be his parting injunction. The profile sketch, made by yourself, is very like what he was at this period of his life, though it needs colour to give the fine Rembrandt tone, which really made his head a study for a painter. I have often wished that Gainsborough or Sir Joshua could have drawn him, as he sate in his richly-bro- caded dressing-gown and black velvet cap, with the dark eye gleaming from under the great eyebrow, the snowy hair and grave, serene mouth firmly closed, until some sally of nonsense from one of his grandsons, or some stray joke from an odd nook in his own memory, would light up the old face with the rippling sunshine of mirth, and show how light a heart he carried beneath the burden of his four score years. ' There are kind eyes and loving hearts who, perhaps for his sake, may read your memoir, and these words of mine, nnd wh<> will know that what I have briefly set down in memoriam of Charles Mayne Young is strictly within the limits of truth. Much more might be told of his kindly generous heart and simple mind; but more than enough has been said for those who knew him not. To those who did, and who count it a joy for ever to have loved and been beloved by him, I commend bis dear memory. Actor though he was, he wore the grand old name of gentleman unsullied to the end, and died in the fulness of his years beloved, honoured, and lamented. R. I. P.* After a lapse of sixty-five years, I hope I may bo excused for introducing here a letter of my father's, lately sent me by my aunt. The Christian spirit which it evinces throughout is delightful. One of my mother's brothers, a highminded, griu-r- ous creature, but possessing the hot Italian temper, had written a very severe letter to one to whom he had once given a minia- ture of my mother, and which, after her death, he wished to have restored to him. The fact was, this gentleman luul passionately loved Julia Grimani, yet, after her marriage with IV.] CHARLES MAYXE YOUNG. 85 my father, retained for her the most chivalrous devotion, and, at the same time, bestowed on his successful rival the most genuine friendship. 1 8, Chapel Row, Bath. July 25, 1806. * DEAR FRANK. I am waiting here in expectation of a letter from Lady Catherine Howard, whom I propose to see as soon as I know whether she is at Charlfcon or at Cheltenham. I will explain to you, when we meet, the object of that visit, and why I have come here before seeing dear Mrs. Grimani and yourself. Poor H. has been bitterly wounded by the extreme severity of your letter. I hardly think, if you had thought twice, that you would have been so cruel. His motives for not parting with the miniature were anything but mean or mercenary. But this we will speak of when we meet, and at greater length than this letter will admit of. Possibly I may bear the miniature with me. But if you have any respect for my judgment, or confidence in the rectitude of my sentiments, you will make somo sort of atonement to poor H. I feel most gratefully to him for his brotherly conduct to my adored, my sainted Julia, and I hope you do. Frank, I enter into your feelings as well as his, and can be sorry for you ; but sometimes excess of feeling begets injustice ; and I think it has done so in this instance. You know the mild, forgiving spirit of our beloved one would have endeavoured, always, to heal a breach of friendship and to allay imprudent warmth. For her dear sake, then, act woic, as she would have wished, had she but lived. I will not delay flying to comfort you all, the very moment I know what I have to bring. * You will be pleased (as far as your misery will let you bo pleased at any thing) with the views I have for the future. May God's mercy permit them tu prosper. Kiss my poor suffer- ing mother for me ! Dear creature, how my heart bleeds for her ! Tell her she may hope that the cup of her woe is nearly full, and that an all merciful Providence, who, so mysteriously, but, no doubt, wisely, chastens his creatures expects they should meekly kiss His rod, and bow with penitential submission to His will. Oh ! Frank ! If you feel her loss, what must I do, her loving, doating, adoring husband '? And yet, Frank, I feel, in the midst of mental agony unutterable, a religious faith and hope which calms me into submission and resignation, though I cannot boast it has decreased my grief. My happiness is gone for over in this world. My tranquillity may return, no doubt, 86 CIIARL1> YOUNG. CHAP. and with it my health ; and this will help mo to fulfil the duties which lie before me. God's gracious goodness grant they may, till He be pleased to restore me again to my heart's idol my best beloved Julia ! Dear, dear name ! How often I invoke thee. May thy loved spirit hover over and direct me now, as in thy life it ever did ! Adieu, dear Frank, and pray remember to control the violence which, else, my poor suffering brother, will bring yet more misery (if more can be) upon your already sorely afflicted family. * Yours affectionately, ' C. M. YOUNG. Julia Ann, the wife of Charles Mayne Young, died in the first week of July, 1806, aged 21. She lies in Prestwich church- yard, near Manchester, where her grave is often visited by those who knew her story. Charles Mayne Young died on the 28th of June, 1856, aged 79, just fifty years after his young wife. He lies in the church- yard of South wick, near Brighton, Sussex. FIFTY YEAES of separation might well have dimmed the bright image of the one love of his youth. FIFTY YEARS, the first half of which were passed amid tho fevering influences of the stage, the latter half in the pleasant circles of social life, where he was welcomed by the very highest in the land. FIFTY YEARS, during which he was treated with such flattering confidence and affection by women, as might well have obscured, if it did not obliterate, the memory of his lost wife. But it v. not so. In moments of family intercourse, when his tongue was un- loosed, and when he would give utterance to the deeper secrets which a loyal heart holds sacred, he loved to revert to her beauty, her tenderness to him, her devotion to her parents, her renunciation of a far higher station than that of an actor's wife, from delicate consideration for the pride of those who had loved and cherished her. At such times he would take from out the recess of a secret drawer her miniature, and as he gazed upon it, till the tears ran down his furrowed cheeks, he would deplore its unworthy p - sentment of her sweet face, and then he would produce from out a cherished morocco case a long tress of chestnut hair cut fr her luxuriant locks; and as he grew older a7id drew nearer i > tho solemn portal of tho unseen state, whither she had so long CHARLES MAYNE YOUNG. NIX montlis Itfore dmtk. To face p. P6. V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 87 preceded him, the reality of that love, stronger than death itself, became more evident. A few words spoken by the old man, as he lay half unconscious aye, while the damp dews of death were gathering over his brow revealed how truly and how fondly he had clung through life to the memory of his beloved, and how solely and supremely she had reigned over his purest affections. ' Thank God, I shall soon see my Julia,' were almost the last words that fell from his dying lips. CHAPTER V. JOURNAL JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 1806. June 30. I made my first appearance on the stage of life only ten days before my poor mother's farewell from it. So inconsolable was my father for his loss, and so painfully was the fact of my existence associated in his mind with his bereave- ment, that for the first six years of my life he could not endure the sight of me. 1812. During this year I was withdrawn from the fostering cure of the lady I have mentioned in my memoir of my father, and made over to that of the late Dr. Charles Richardson, the celebrated lexicographer, who then had a school at Clapham. For ten years I was under his tuition and tutelage, in company with Charles James Mathews, the son of the comedian, and John Mitchell Kemble, the son of Charles, who afterwards dis- tinguished himself by his proficiency in Anglo-Saxon literature. My own scholastic attainments during those ten precious years deserve no mention ; for, if they were not below the average of boys of my own age, they were certainly not above it. There can be no intrinsic interest in my life for any one ; therefore I mean to write as little about myself as I well can. My name will rarely appear, except where its connection with others makes it necessary. I have acknowledged the superficiality and insignificance of my acquirements as a scholar. But it would, bo mock modesty if I hesitated to avow, that, if ns a scholar I was commonplace, as a horse, I distanced all competitors. There prevailed throughout the school the propensity which appertains to most boys, viz., that of aping the tastes and man- ners of their elders and their betters. As the keeping a horse S8 JOURNAL. [CHAP-. and carriage of some sort was deemed an infallible criterion of worldly position, there were few who could afford it (in other words, whose pocket-money amounted to threepence a week) who did not deny themselves other indulgences, that they might compass the luxury of purchasing and maintaining a horse. The monied men among us that is to say, * the big boys ' and * parlour-borders ' in their dealings with each other, whether as buyers or as sellers, invariably affected the slang phraseology and adopted the questionable fashions of the Turf. A wisp of straw between the teeth, hats cocked on the side of the head, legs straddled wide apart, the faculty of whistling and spitting,, as the comparative perfections or blemishes of horses put up for sale were descanted on, were deemed essential qualifications for those who aspired to be leaders of ton among us. We had our TattersalTs. We had our 'Hide' (the shed meant to protect us against rain), in which animals of all kinds- were trotted out for the satisfaction of purchasers * Suffolk punches ' (always fat stocky chaps), * Irish horses with plenty of bone ' (always thin boys, with big joints), ' thoroughbred hacks ' (always the tallest and most gentlemanlike lads). We had our rostrum for the auctioneer (a wheelbarrow turned topsy-turvy) from which Tom Husband, hammer in hand, held forth. We- had our circulating medium not vulgar coin, as gold, or silver, or copper ; but an equivalent, in the shape of lemon-cakes, and parliament, and toffee. When anything in horseflesh more than usually spicy and showy was wanted, I was always the first brought to the hammer ; and after much animated competition invariably realized the highest price. Not that my merit consisted in the beauty or harmony of my proportions, but in the splendour of my action. The auctioneer would generally describe me as ' a ruin 'un to look at, but a good 'un to go.' I remember when first, after much wrangling between two bidders, I was knocked down to Charles Mathews. From that moment my pre-eminence was established. He had been at Merchant Tailors' a Public School ! therefore he was considered an accomplished man of the world compared with the rest of us. Ho was two years older than any of us ; ho was richer than any of us. A sovereign in gold, and nearly a sovereign's worth of silver, had been seen in his purse ! His allowance, besides, was a shilling a week, whereas no one- clse had more than threepence. His stud of horses was tim largest and best appointed. Where most were obliged to bo content with a bingle horso and chaise (the chaiso was a myth) V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 8^ he never drove less than two, in tandem ; and aoinetimes four in a drag. Everything belonging to him was well turned out. His bits, with checks of different lengths, for touch or tender mouths, were made of boxwood ; his traces were of broad web- bing ; his reins were of ribbon ; his whip was one of Crowthor and Callow's best (I can swear to that from painful experi- ence). If our coats stared, it was not from want of grooming :. for his stable-boys had such a passion for wisping and curry- combing and strapping, that, if it had not been for ' the dread of something after,' I should have jumped over the palings and 1 run away, to escape the irritating manipulation of their ' itching palms.' If, on the other hand, anything could have reconciled, our equine natures to our destiny, it would have been the liber- ality with which we were treated at ' feeding time.' I must say that a tendency to use the whip too freely was the besetting sin of all who drove their own horses. I am sure I had more than my share of castigation. Fearfully so, whenever the two fair daughters of our Gamaliel appeared at the windows of their bed- room ; for then a violent but unequal rivalry ensued between, the horse and his driver, each doing his best to win their notice. As for myself, conscious of the eyes that were on me, I would arch my neck, and foam at the mouth, and indulge in such high action, bending my knee nearly to my chin, prancing, curvet- ting, plunging and kicking, that my inhuman driver, incensed at the admiration I was exciting, and not less anxious to display his own dexterity as a Jehu, would uncoil the thong of his whip- to its utmost length, and malignantly flank me in the most sen- sitive part of my body, and send me howling to my stable & sadder and a humbler brute. 1813. I forget in what month it was in this year that I was taken to see a man pilloried in the Haymarket. He was placed on the parapet above a small house just above Charles-street, and exposed to the merciless peltings of a truculent mob. At the time I felt shocked, to think of so much power being put into their hands to wound and bruise a fellow creature in cold blood. But now I revert to it with horror. Thank God it has been expunged from the Statute Book. It was a disgrace to at civilized community that such a relic of barbari&ai should have been tolerated so long. 1817. June 18. I was taken to lunch with the Hon. Mrs. Bouverie, in Somerset Place, Somerset House, to see Waterloo Bridge opened by the Regent, the Duke of Wellington, and others. The Duchess, Mrs. Bouverie's intimate friend, was of the party to lunch. 90 JOURNAL. [CHAP. In the year 1821, being considered too old to remain longer with advantage at a private school, and too young for admission at Oxford, my father, who had been assured that my youth (I was fifteen) would not disqualify mo for admission into the Scotch University of St. Andrews, wrote to Walter Scott to ask him his opinion on the subject. He replied that, though ho had a very high one, ho would rather my father did not take any decisive step until he had seen his son-in-law Lockhart, who had greater familiarity with the place than any he could boast. To this end he proposed that we should go and stay a few days at Abbotsford. Before describing the visit itself, I may as well state its result. It was arranged that I should pass a three years' course at St. Andrews ; but as ' the term ' did not com- mence for three or four months, that I should spend the interim under the care of a Dr. Gillespie, a personal friend of Lock- hart's, a joint contributor with him to JLttackwood's Magazine^ an excellent scholar, and the son-in-law of Dr. John Hunter, the Professor of Humanity at St. Andrews. We left Edinburgh the day before we were expected at Abbotsford, in an open carriage, for Melrose. There we dined and slept. Shortly after eight o'clock next morning we pro- ceeded, by invitation, to breakfast at Abbotsford. As we drew near the house, which had been designated ' a romance in stono and lime,' the thought of soon beholding the Great Magician in ' his habit as he lived,' caused my heart to throb high with joy a joy not altogether unmixed with awe. As we turned into the gate, and were being driven round towards the stables, my father jogged my elbow, and told me to look to the right. On doing so, I perceived, at a table in a window, a figure busily engaged in writing, which was nono other than the Wizard's self. I saw his hand glibly gliding over the pages of his paper the hand whose unwearied activity had dispensed pleasure to so many thousands the hand whoso daily perseverance had so excited the astonishment of its owner's opposite neighbour* when he lived in Castle Street, Edinburgh the hand which, years after, when his daughter put the pen into it, forgot its cunning and fell powerless by his side. As soon as we had disencumbered ourselves of our luggage and our wrappers, we were ushered into a handsome dining- room, in which the breakfast cijuip:igo was set, and the loud- bubbling urn was emitting volumes of Steam. The party gathered * Vi!o Lockhart'H Life cf Scott, vol. iii. p. I'JS. V.] JULIAN CHAELLS YOUNG 91 there together consisted of Lady Scott, Miss Scott, Charles Scott and his friend Mr. Surtees. It was not long- before we heard the eager tread of a stamping heel resounding through the corridor, and in another second the door was flung open, and in limped Scott himself. Although eight-and-forty years have passed away since that memorable morning, the great man's person is as palpably present to mo as it then was in the flesh. His light blue, waggish eye, sheltered, almost screened, by its overhanging penthouse of straw-coloured bushy brows, his scant, sandy-coloured hair, the Shakspearian length of his upper lip, his towering Pisgah of a forehead, which gave elevation and dignity to a physiognomy otherwise deficient in both, his abrupt movements, the mingled humour, urbanity, and benevolence of his smile, all recur to me with startling reality. He was dressed in a green cut-away coat with brass buttons, drab vest, trowsers, and gaiters, with thick shoes on his feet, and a sturdy staff in his hand. He looked like a yeoman of the better class; but his manners bespoke the ease, self-possession, and courtesy of a high-bred gentleman. Nothing could exceed the winning cordiality of his welcome. After wringing my father's hand, he laid his own gently on my shoulders, and asked my Christian name. As soon as he heard it, he exclaimed with emphasis 'Why, whom is he called after ? ' ' It is a fancy name in memoriam of his mother, compounded of her two names, Julia Ann.' ' Well ! it is a capital name for a novel, I must say,' ho replied. This circumstance would be too trivial to mention, were it not, that, in the very next novel which appeared ' by the Author of Waverley,' the hero's name was Julian. I allude, of course, to Peveril of the Peal:. We sat down at once to breakfast; such a one as I had never seem before, and never have seen since. It reminded mo of a certain one at Tillietudlem given by a certain Lady Mar- garet Bellenden. Besides tea and coffee and cocoa, there was oatmeal parritch, wheatcn bread, and ' bannocks o* barley meal/ and rolls ; and on the sideboard, venison pasty, ham, collar* kippered salmon, reindeer tongue, and a silver flagon of claret. Though the bill of fare was tempting, and the keen morning air though which we had driven might be supposed to have given an edge to my appetite, I was so excited by everything I saw around me, that it failed me altogether. I could but sit still and nervously crumble my bread, and listen to the sparkling conversation at the table. 92 JOURNAL. Breakfast ended, Scott told us that * the lion must retire to his den till lunch-time, when he should be at large, though per- fectly tame and submissive to orders. Meanwhile,' said he, * I consign you, Young, to my lady's care, or, if you prefer it, to Charles's. You will find him an experienced master of tho ceremonies ; and if Julian would like it, I can lend him a gun,, and he might bring us home a hare or two for dinner/ As I was no shot, I preferred accompanying my father round the house and grounds, under the guidance of our cicerone, who justified his father's commendations by the readiness with which he gave us chapter and verse for the many curiosities within and without, and thus pleasantly wiled away the time till lun- cheon was announced. The nature of the conversation which took place during the despatch of that meal I am unable to recall ; although I have rather an uncomfortable recollection of a speech of Lady Scott's, which startled mo by its apparent want of appreciation of her husband. I daresay it was said without any real meaning, but none the less it had a discordant sound which grated en my ears. My father had been admiring the proportions of the room and the fashion of its ceiling : when observing his head uplifted, and his eyes directed towards it, she exclaimed, in her droll Guernsey accent, * Ah ! Mr. Young, you may look up at the bosses on the ceiling as long as yon like, but you must not look down at my poor carpet, for I am ashamed of it. I must get Scott to write some more of his nonsense-books and buy me a new one ! ' As she was in the secret of the authorship of the novels and was pledged, in common with all the family, to keep ifc inviolate, it is clear that, when she spoke of his nonsense-books, she must have referred to his poems, about which there was no disguise. Luncheon concluded, it was proposed that we should ride, under Scott's guidance, to Dryburgh Abbey. As soon as ho had seen us mounted on his two well-bred hacks, with an alacrity striking in a lame man, ho flung his right leg over the back of his iron-grey cob, and summoning around him Maida hi& deer-hound, Hamlet his jet-black greyhound, and two Dandie Dinmont terriers, between all of whom and their master there evidently existed the freemasonry of a common attachment, he- put spurs to his horse and started off at a sharp trot for our destination. He seemed to enjoy the exhilaration of fast riding ; for he soon broke into a hand-gallop with all tho high animal spirits of a boy just out of school. Now and then he would V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 93 rein up his steed rather abruptly to point out to our notice objects of romantic or legendary interest : here, were sites memorable because of raids and forays committed on them by Border chiefs; there, our attention was called to changes effected in the outline and surface of the country, since my father's last visit, through improved agriculture. Then wo listened to his hopeful auguries of the tale his fir plantations would tell when they should have attained to larger growth! "When we arrived at Dryburgh, the stores of archaeological lore connected with the abbey, which he poured forth with lavish volubility, astounded me; although I must own I was a far more appreciative listener when he told us racy anecdotes of Lord Buchan's eccentricities and Harry Erskine's wit. By the time we had reached home, after our delightful ride, the gong was sounding for dressing. On descending to the drawing-room, we found several friends and neighbours of Scott's assembled there. They were all strangers to me, and therefore it is no wonder that I should forget their names. The dinner, in point of profusion, was exactly what I might have expected from the foretaste I had had at luncheon and break- fast. The characteristic feature of the meal was its absence of all stiflhess and restraint indeed, its joyous hilarity; and yet the laws of bienseance were never violated. There was, however, one material drawback to my entire enjoyment of my dinner, in the droning notes of the bagpipe, which never inter- mitted till the cloth was about to be removed. I can well believe that, to a native Scot, the historical associations of the bagpipe may be most endearing ; nor will I deny that, in certain states of the atmosphere, when sound is mellowed by distance, or when it is heard on a march by the hillside, or used as a stimulus to exhausted nerves in action, as was the case at Waterloo, or as a cordial for the drooping hearts of captives, as at Lucknow, it must have a music of its own which none else can equal. But, to unfamiliar and sensitive English ears, its buzzing din interrupting conversation, distracting attention, and irritating the temper, it certainly is a nuisance. Walter Scott was a Scotchman, and loved to keep up feudal habits, and there- fore to him it was the very reverse. It was an established usage de maison that John of Skye, a grand fellow, in full Highland costume a lineal' descendant of Wallace, by-the-bye should, during the hour of dinner, parade up and down the front of the windows, and squeak and squeal away, until summoned to receive his reward. When the cheeso had been removed, and 9-1 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. the cloth brushed, a footman stood at the rigid of * tho sheriff* (as his retainers loved to call him), and the piper at his left, still bonneted. The former poured forth a bumper of Glenlivet ami handed it to his master ; who, in turn, passed it on to John of Skye. There was a smack of the lips, a stately bow to tho company, and the Highlander was gone. After the gentlemen were supposed to have had their quantum of wine, they withdrew to the armoury for coffee, where the ladies joined them. In the centre of a small, dimly-lighted chamber, the walls of which were covered with morions, and claymores, and pistols, and carbines, and cuirasses, and antique shields and halberds, &c., &c., each piece containing a history in itself, sat the generous host himself in a high-backed chair. He would lead the conversation to the mystic and the super- natural, and tell us harrowing tales of glamor and second- sight and necromancy ; and, when he thought he had filled the scene enough, and sufficiently chilled our marrows, he would call on Adam Ferguson for one of his Jacobite relies, such as Hey, Johnny Cope, are ye waiiking yet ? or Tlie Laird o' Coclcpen, or Wlia wad na fecht for Charlie ? and these he sang with such point and zest, and such an under-current of implication, that you felt sure in what direction his own sympathies would have flowed had he been out in ' tho '45.' When he had abdicated the chair, my father was called upon to occupy it, and he gave us, from memory, the whole of Tarn o' Shanter. It seemed to be an invariable custom at Abbotsford, that every one admitted within its circle should utilize the gift within him, so as to contribute to the common stock of social amusement. As I have mentioned my father's recitation of Tarn o' Shanter, I may as well introduce hero Lady Dacre's lines addressed to him after hearing him read them years before. TO MR. YOUXG. On his reading ' Tarn o' Shunter' with peculiar spirit. ' The same rude winds wi' mighty sweep Upheave the waters of the : To dash them on ilk jutting steep Their fury m< And cozio 'mang low llo\\ r St. uling their sweets. And suns that rear the forest's pride, To bear upo' the subject tide Britannia's thund'-rs far and wide, Wi' milder ray Will glint adown the copsewood sido On ilka spray. V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 1)5 So them wi' learned and tunofu' tongue V'ilt pour, iiu/lliiluous, full and strong, (ireat Shakspeare's bold, creative song ~Wi' master skill Resistless to the listening throng Thou sway'st at will : And Tarn o' Shanter, roaring fou, By thee embodied to our view, The rustic bard would own sae true, He scant could tell ~\Vha 'twas the living picture drew, Thou, or himsell.' When wo had retired to bed, my nerves were so much on the stretch, in consequence of all I had seen and heard, that I could not sleep till morning. As I lay pondering on the character and qualities of our host, I could not help thinking how much the circumstances which surround a man, conjoined, no doubt, with organization and temperament, help to mould the poet. Thus, for instance, if he take ' man ' for his theme, he will write best of that class of men with which he has mingled most : while, if ho look to ' Nature ' for his subject, he will paint her best in those of her forms with which he is most familiar. I think there can be no question, that the early life and bodily training of Scott had much to do with the formation of his mind, and with the character of his compositions. 'A wild and woodland rover,' of so much thew and muscle, spending so much of his youth in the open air, now dashing through the foaming flood after the otter, now stalking the roe-deer, * free to tread the heather where he would,' could hardly fail to have his sense of beauty enlarged and quickened by the romantic scenery around him ; while the legendary tales and the historic associations with which the Highlands and the Lowlands teem, would impregnate his ardent fancy with a fecundity of imagery which, while it explains his marvellous descriptive power, and the masculine vigour of his verse, also accounts for its utter absence of passion and of sentiment. Nothing in Walter Scott struck me more than his ignorance of pictures and his indifference to music. There was not one picture of sterling merit on his walls ! A young lady in the house sang divinely; but her singing gave him no pleasure. He was much too honest to affect to bo what ho was not, or to have what he had not ; thus he admitted * that he had a reason- able good ear for a jig,' but confessed that * solas and sonatas gave him the spleen.' The late Sir Eobert Peel also hated .KH'UNAL. [CiiAP. IM'C : and Rogers used to say, when speaking of Lord Holland, he had so little appreciation of art, that he firmly believed painting gave him no pleasure ; while music gave him absolute pain.' Byron, again, like Tasso, cared so little for architecture, that he lived nine months in Pisa before he cast an eye on the Baptistery ; and Madame de Stae'l cared so little for the grandest scenery in the world, that though she lived so long at Oopet, she never cared to see the glaciers. In the instances I have cited, deficiences in taste do not much surprise mo ; but it did disappoint mo to find that one who had painted natural scenery with such artistic power nnd fidelity, and who had composed lays as tuneful as those of The Last Minstrel, could be insensible to the charms of the twin sisters, Music and Painting. Each day that we remained at Abbotsford, fresh visitors camo to dine, or sleep, or both, with two exception^. Once we dined at six, and went to Melrose by moonlight to see the abbey. Every one who has read The Lay remembers the opening of the second Canto, ' If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight/ Now, I have so often heard it confidently asserted that the writer of those lines never visited Melrose, himself, by moon- light, that, considering the lapse of years and the infirmities of n treacherous memory, I am disposed to doubt the correctness of my own impressions. But that my father, Ferguson, and 1, went one night after dinner, in Scott's sociable, to Melroso by moonlight I will swear ; and, but for the many statements to the contrary, I would have sworn that I distinctly remem- bered Scott himself sitting opposite to me in a queer cap with a Lowland plaid crossed over his breast, and saying, after my father had repeated in the churchyard Gray's Elegy, 'Bravo, Young!' but I BO often find myself mistaken, where memory is concerned, that I doubt my own evidence. Until I am con- tradicted, however, I shall believe that another day we all went to Chiefswood and dined with Lockhart and his sweet wife. I was much struck with Lockhart's beauty. Ho was in tho prime of life: the sorrows of after years had not grizzled his jet black curly locks; nor had time dimmed tho lustre of his splendid eye. His deference and attention to his father-in-law, it was delightful to witness. After dinner I had another oppor- tunity of observing Scott's insensibility to music, when detached V.] JULIAN CHARLKS YOUNG. <)7 from association. Two sisters sang duets in French, Italian, German, and Spanish, with equal address. One had a clear soprano voice, the other a rich contralto. Their vocalization was faultless, their expression that of real feeling. I was so bewitched with their singing, that I could not refrain from an occasional glance at Scott, to see if he were proof against such captivation. But the more they sang, and the better they sang, the more impenetrable did he appear. He sat, absent, abstracted, with lip drawn down and chin resting on his gold-headed crutch, his massy eyebrows contracted, and his countenance betokening * a sad civility.' At last, Mrs. Lockhart, thinking she had suffi- ciently taxed the good nature of her gifted friends, uncovered her harp, and began to play the air of * Charlie is my darling.' The change which instantly passed o'er the spirit of the poet's dream was most striking. Pride of lineage, love of chivalry, strong leanings to the Stuart cause, were all visibly fermenting in the brain of the enthusiastic bard. His light blue eye kindled, the blood mantled in his cheek, his nostril quivered, his big chest heaved, until, unable longer to suppress the emo- tion evoked by his native melodies in favour of a ruined cause, he sprang from his chair, limped across the room, and, to the peril of those within his reach, brandishing his crutch as if it had been a brand of steel, shouted forth with more of vigour than of melody, ' And a' the folk cam running out to greet the Chevalier ! Oh ! Charlie is my darling,' &c. This honest, irrepressible outburst of natural feeling would have thrown his friend Tom Moore into convulsions ; for he once told Lord and Lady Lansdowne, at Bowood, when I was present, that he had been invited, when in Edinburgh, by Black - wood, to one of his suppers at Ambrose's. On going there he found many he knew Scott, Lockhart, Jeffrey, Muir, John AVilson, James Ballantyne, and three or four ladies ; and, among their number, two peeresses, who had, only that very day, begged for an invitation, in the hope of meeting Moore. Their presence being unexpected by the majority of the club, the members had dropped in in their morning dress ; while the two ladies ' of high degree ' were in full evening costume, or, as Moore described it, * in shoulders.' When supper was half over, James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, appeared. A chair had been designedly left vacant for him between the two aristocrats. His approach was discernible before his person was visible ; for he came straight from a cattle fair, and was reeking with the unsavoury odours of the sheep and pigs and oxen, in whose H 98 JOUK.NAL. [CHAP. company he had been for hours. Nevertheless he soon made himself at home with the fair ladies on each side of him : some- what too much so; for, supper over, the cloth withdrawn, and the toddy introduced, the song going round, and his nextdoor neighbours being too languid in their manner of joining in the chorus to please him, he turned first to the right hand, then to the left, and slapped both of them on their backs with such good will as to make their blade bones ring again ; and then, with the yell of an Ojibbaway Indian, shouted forth, ' Noo then, leddies, follow me ! " Heigh tutti, tutti ! Heigh tutti, tutti !" ' Moore expressed himself as horrified at Scott's want of refine- ment in giving his countenance to such people as Hogg, and taking part in such orgies as the Nodes Ambrosiance. On quitting Abbotsford, my father took me to Cults, and left me there, under the temporary charge of the gentleman who, I have already stated, had been recommended by John Gibson Lockhart. Cults was a retired country manse, in rather a pretty and very liveable country, where there were no distrac- tions if I wished to study, and capital trout fishing if I wished for recreation. It was four miles from Cupar, of which, at that time, the late Lord Campbell's father was the rector. Here it was that David Wilkie first gave indications of his genius. His picture of ' Pitlessie Fair ' was his earliest work of mark, and Pitlessie was within a mile of Cults. Over the gate of the entrance of the manse, carved on the stone lintel, were the follow- ing lines from * Gil Bias ' : ' Inveni portum, spes et fortuna, valcte ! Sat mihi lusistis, ludite, nunc, alios ! ' which a friend of mine thus rendered : 4 At length I've reached the wishod-for port ! Fortune and Hope, lor you I long enough have furnished sport ! Seek other game Adieu ! ' I have nothing to tell of my temporary stjour in this place, except to say that I found in the Doctor an accomplished scholar and a kind friend, whose keen sense of the ludicrous made him a most congenial companion in leisure hours. On the commencement of term I left Cults for St. Andrews, and found myself a stranger in a strange place, and Jioivcsco referens, at fifteen years of age, my own master; living in lodgings of my own choice; uncontrolled by any one; with T.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 99 license unlimited to do as I listed, to select my own tutor, and to attend whatever lectures I pleased. It was, if I remember rightly, in October 1821 that I first went up to college. The session used to last from October till May, so that I had to return to England from May till October for the three years during which I was considered a St. Andrews scholar ample time for me to have unlearned all I had acquired, Lad I been so minded. The transition from the restraints and discipline of boyhood to the life and independence of premature manhood was very startling. It was a great mercy that no harm resulted from the latitude of action allowed me. The town itself, from its proximity to the sea, its healthiness, its remote- ness from any place of dissipation, and the quietude of its streets, seemed marked out by the finger of Nature as a place meant to be dedicated to study ; and certainly, if any one who went there with the professed object of education, failed to im- prove his opportunities, it was not from want of efficiency on the part of its professors. I doubt if any one college in either of the great English universities could have boasted, at that time, of more scholarly names than those of Dr. John Hunter, Pro- fessor of Humanity, and Alexander, Professor of Greek ; or of men of greater scientific attainment than Dr. Jackson, Professor of Natural Philosophy, Duncan, Professor of Mathematics ; Dr. James Hunter, Professor of Logic ; Buist, Professor of Hebrew ; .and Dr. Chalmers, Professor of Moral Philosophy. Many of these names may be unknown to English ears, but they are all embalmed in the affectionate recollection of those who studied under them. On my return to St. Andrews in 1822, after spending the vacation in London, I found that, by going back a week or two before the opening of the classes, I should have a chance of being in Edinburgh when George IV. paid his visit there. I took care, therefore, to arrive the day before he was expected in the Scotch metropolis. It would be absurd for me to attempt to reproduce, in detail, scenes which have already been de- scribed with such graphic ability by Lockhart. But I may be pardoned, perhaps, for saying that the impression made on my youthful imagination, at the time, was so powerful, that the lapse of eight-and-forty years has failed to blunt the edge of retrospection. I still see, through the mists of memory, the same multiplicity of objects which flashed in rapid review be- fore me r.s I landed from the steamer and drove through the crowded, busy streets of Auld Reekie. I can hardly, now, dis* H 2 100 JOURNAL. [CHAP. abuse myself of the notion of having been suddenly trans- ported into some continental city during the gayest season of its carnival. The general aspect of the principal thoroughfares, sparkling with every imaginable variety of colour and costume the native beauty of Arthur's Seat, heightened by scores of picturesque tents, and giving it the air of a mountain invested by a hostile force the rarely frequented road on Salisbury Crags, crowded with soldiers in scarlet uniforms the grim old castle, with its yawning cannon, its bristling bayonets, and banners flaunting and fluttering from the outer walls the motley crowds of hand- somely-dressed strangers hurrying to and fro the buoyant step of the Royal Archers, in their Lincoln Green the sturdy limbs and lofty bearing of the Highland clans, who had never left their heathery braes save at the bidding of their chiefs the variegated tartans, the nodding plumes, the parti-coloured plaids of the Camerons and Grants, the M'Leods, the Macphersons, the M'Gregors, the M'Kays, all, all now rise before me like the- shifting changes of a kaleidoscope ; and present such a rich and rare combination of the historic, the poetic, the romantic, and the dramatic, as to have made me doubt whether I was not the dupe of a fantastic dream. If the balance of my mind were upset by the whirl of excitement in which I found myself plunged, I only shared, after all, in the national intoxication under which sober-minded Scotland and her lovely capital literally reeled. What with the gathering of the clans, the influx of English, and the eagerness of country lairds to greet their king, * the land of brown heath and shaggy wood ' appeared to have poured forth the whole of its mountain and lowland population, like a flood, upon the modern Athens. There were many more heads in the to\vn than there were roofs to cover them. The demand for beds was greater than the supply. Hundreds of decent folk gave fabulous prices for the rudest accommodation that could be extemporized for them on the common stairs ; and many of the rural poor were said to have sold the very beds from under them that they might be able to get but a peep at their sovereign, and pour fortli the tribute of their loyal hearts at his feet. 1822. August 14. The Royal yacht, 'The George,' arrived this day in the Leith Roads ; but the rain poured down in such torrents and so unceasingly, that Scott was commissioned to put off to the King and humbly request that he would postpone his landing till next day. Lockhart, in his ' Life of Scott,' says, that as soon as the King heard that Scott was alongside, ho V.] JULIAN CHAIiLES Ynl . ]f(Ji exclaimed, < What ! Sir Walter Scott ! The man in Scotland I most wish to see ! Let him come up.' ' He then ascended the ship, and was presented to the King on the quarter-deck ; where, after an appropriate speech, in the name of the ladies of Edinburgh, he presented his Majesty with a St. Andrew's Cross, in silver, which his fair subjects had pro- Tided for him.' This Lockhart inserts in his book as an extract from the newspaper of the day ; but he does not tell of the following speech made by Sir Walter to the King : ' Impatient, Sire, as your loyal subjects are to see you plant your foot upon their soil, they hope you will consent to postpone your public entry until to-morrow. In seeing the state of the weather, I am forcibly reminded of a circumstance which once occurred to myself. I was about to make a tour through the Western Highlands with part of my family. I wrote to the innkeeper of a certain hostelrie,* where I meant to halt a day or two, to have rooms prepared for me. On the day appointed it rainedj as it -does to-day, ceaselessly. As we drew near our quarters, we wore met on the hill over his house by our Boniface, with bared head, who, backing every yard as I advanced, thus addressed me : * Gude guide us, Sir Walter ! This is just awfu' ! Sic an .ji downpour ! Was ever the like ? I really beg your pardon ! I'm sure it's no fault o' mine. I canna think how it should happen to rain this way, just as you, o' a' men of the warld, should come to see us ! It looks amaist personal ! I can only say, for my part, I'm just ashamed o' the weather ! " And so. Sire, I do not know that I can improve upon the language of the honest innkeeper ! I canna think how it should rain this way, just as your Majesty, of all men in the world, should have condescended to come and see us. I can only say, in the name of my countrymen, I'am just ashamed o' the weather ! ' August 15. The King and his people were amply rewarded for their patience during the clouds of yesterday, by the sun- shine of to-day. The public entry, unique in its arrangements, and in the care which had been bestowed on its details, was a most august and thrilling spectacle. The procession had been got up and was arranged by Sir Walter. Nothing struck me more forcibly than the towering indifference with which the privates of the Highland clans regarded the illustrious visitor, some of them hardly deigning to cast a look at him. Glen- gurry's men and tail, who preceded the royal carriages, instead * It was the inn at Arroquliar, 011 Loch Long. 102 of playing the National Anthem, or some other air appropriate to the occasion, struck up ' The Campbells are coming, oh ! oh ! ' I well remember the undisguised astonishment expressed in the King's, face as, on passing the High School, and casting a glanco to his left, he beheld, on Arthur's seat, a huge hill of huninn life, and the pallor which overspread it as, on looking down the whole perspective of Prince's Street, he saw the sea of men and women surging from one end of it to the other ! He rose threw up his hands and arms ; then sank back in his carriage, and burst into tears. I was not at the theatre when the King visited it ; nor at the banquet given to him in the Parliament House ; still less likely was it, at my age, and in my humble position, that I should have been at the levee ; but I was present on the occasion of his public visit to the Castle, and also in St. Giles' church when lie went there on the Sunday. When he paid his visit to the Castle, a very picturesque incident took place. After standing on one spot in the streets for upwards of an hour my attention divided between the fussy self-importanco of sundry provosts and baillies and deacons, who were exulting in their petty brief authority, and the bewilderment of certain of the town council who had not read the programme of the day's proceedings the approach of the Royal cortege was trum- peted forth. Many were the men of mark who, at any other time, would have called for notice, who, on this occasion, passed unheeded by. There were no eyes for any one but him whom all had come to see. When the procession had filed by, and had moved quite out of sight, there was a pause then some moments of suspense interrupted, at last, by the speculations of the crowd. ' D'ye think the King has got to the Castle yet ? ' Some thought * he must have got there ; ' others thought * he could not;' others, again, said 'they'd gae hame! We'll sec his sonsie face nae mair, be sure ! He'll gang home to Dalkcith anither way.' When, with an abruptness that was electrifying, all the cannon planted on Arthur's Seat belched forth their wel- come in one deafening discharge. The Castle guns were not slow to acknowledge and return the compliment; and, as the smoke cleared off, the first object that met the gaze df thousands of spectators was the King in the centre of one of the embra- sures, waving his hat to those below. Perhaps the finest and most edifying sight of all the many of those few days was the King's visit to the cathedral on tho Sunday. To see the same mighty concourse of people, who V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 103 before had cheered him to the echo whenever he had shown himself, standing as he passed with bared heads, uplifted hats, and mute voices thus marking their sense of the sacredness of the Lord's Day, and of the higher reverence due to Him by whom kings themselves do reign was in itself an impressive sermon. By-the-bye, I must not close this brief notice of a very remarkable event without committing to paper an anecdote which was told mo shortly after the levee had been held at Holy rood House. A laird of old family and no mean estate, previously to the day of the reception, had sent in his name for presentation. He arrived, to his own great discomfiture, late on the scene of action; and, as he was passing through the antechamber, and saw many whom he knew, coming out, he asked them to tell him ' whether his being late was of any material consequence : what he had got to do, &c., as he had never been at Court before,' &c. ' Oh,' said one who had passed through his own ordeal without let or hindrance, * there is no difficulty about the matter. It is very plain sailing. You have only got just to go in, make your bow lower, by-the-bye, than you would to any one else and pass on, and pass out.' The old gentleman, constitutionally shy, and rendered doubly so, in the present instance, by the fear of having incurred the royal displeasure by the tardiness of his arrival, like Sir Per- tinax Macsycophant, kept ' aye bow-bowing ; ' and, with ghastly smirk, sidling and edging his way towards the door of exit; when Lord Erroll, observing his embarrassment, and pitying it, kindly shouted to him, under his voice, * Kiss hands ! kiss hands ! ' On which, to the delectation of the King, and the dismay of all around him, the poor startled man faced about, and then retreating backwards, kissed his own hands to the King, as if wafting a cordial recognition from a distance to an old and intimate friend. 1822. September. Most kindly received by Dr. Hunter and Professor Alexander; and, though last not least, by Dr. Chalmers. Of all our professors, Dr. Chalmers has earned for himself the greatest reputation. In point of physique, Chalmers fell short of my expectation. Truly impressive as his character w;is. when known, from its moral elevation and godly sincerity, in person he was deficient in dignity and of homely aspect. In height and breadth, and in general configuration, he was not unlike Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I have, since I knew Coleridge, sometimes thought, that if Chalmers' head had been 104 JOURNAL. [CHAP. hidden from sight, I could easily have mistaken him for that remarkable man. His face was pallid and pasty ; and, I rather think, showed slight traces of small-pox. His features were ordinary ; his hair was scanty, and generally roughed, as if his fingers had been often passed through it; his brow was not high, but very broad and well-developed. His skull, phrenologically speaking, argued great mathe- matical power ; but showed deficiency in the very qualities for which he was conspicuous, viz., benevolence and veneration. There was one feature in his face which struck me as so very peculiar, and, I may say, anomalous, that I have often wondered never to have heard or read any comment made upon it by others ; I allude to his eye. The eye, by its mobility, its power of expressing the passions, and the spirit it imparts to the features, is usually considered as the index of the mind. Now, I never beheld so mute, impassive, inexpressive an eye as that of Chal- mers. It was small, grey, cold, and fishy. When, either in preaching from the pulpit or lecturing in the class-room, he was excited by his subject; when his heart grew hot within him, and the fire binned ; when the brilliancy of his imagery and the power of his phraseology carried the feelings of his auditory away with all the impetuosity of a torrent ; nay, when lie seemed transported out of himself by the sublimity of his conceptions, and the intense reality of his convictions, so as to cause him to defy conventionalities and set at nought the arti- fices of rhetoric, and make him swing his left arm about like the sails of a windmill ; when every fibre of his body throbbed and quivered with emotion ; when his listeners' mouths were wide open, and their breath suspended, the cheeks of some bedewed with tears, and the eyes of others scintillating with sympathy and admiration his eye remained as tame and lustreless as if it had been but the pale reflex of a mind indifferent and half asleep ! * Whether Chalmers preached extempore or memoriter when he was the minister of the Tron Church, Glasgow, or whether lie preached from book when he was followed in crowds by the best intellects in London, I have no means of knowing; but I can declare, with confidence, that I never heard him at St. Andrews and I have heard him often that he had not his manuscript in full before him. It is a well-known fact, that * In a charming letter received from Mrs. Hanua, I am assured that Dr. Tianna (her hut-band and her father's biographer) confirms the justice of my rttMurk. V.] JULIAN CIIAIil.KS YOUNG. 105 Presbyterians think that the duties of the pulpit arc the most important which devolve upon a minister ; and that, with few exceptions, they have an invincible repugnance to a sermon conned over and composed in the study, on the ground of its apparently lacking spontaneity and the impress of the Spirit. Therefore it was always a subject of wonder to me how Chalmers managed to reconcile his hearers to his sermon- reading,* which, in any other case, would unquestionably have been to them a stumbling-block and an offence. I have a distinct recollection, one Sunday, when I was living at Cults, and when a stranger was officiating for Dr. Gillespie (who had been summoned to Edinburgh on business), observing that he had not proceeded five minutes with his 'discourse,' before there was a general stampede. The exodus, at last, became so serious, that, conceiving something to be wrong, probably a fire in the manse, I caught the infection, and eagerly inquired of the first person I encountered in the churchyard what was the matter, and was told, with an expression of sove- reign scorn and disgust l Losh keep ye, young man ! Hae ye eyes and see not ? Hae ye ears and hear not ? TJie man reads ! ' At the time when the authorship of the Waverley Novels was yet a mystery, and Walter Scott's familiar appellation was * The Great Unknown,' he paid a visit to my good friend Dr. Mudic, and, on the Sunday, accompanied him to the Town Kirk to hear Dr. Chalmers. The presence of so distinguished a man was soon whispered about \ and many an eye which ought to have been riveted on the preacher was diverted towards the poet. During the prayer and the psalm something like decorum was maintained, but when the Doctor gave out for his text 1 To the Unknown,' so prevalent was the conviction of its intended application, that all the restraint generally imposed by the sanctity of the place was discarded, the heads of the most reverential were turned in the same direction, and the commotion became so universal as to put both its object and its cause completely out of coun- tenance. Dr. Chalmers' testimonial, given mo on leaving his class, now lies before me. I value it beyond all price. He was a inan, in his special vocation, unrivalled in his day. His gifts * Sermon-reading though it was, there was no slavish adherence to the MS. Every word came from the heart, and it was terribly in earliest, or, as one eaid of it, it was 'fell ' reading. ].i(i JOURNAL [CHAP. were manifold and his acquisitions varied. He was a prof omul mathematician, a great political economist, a far-seeing poli- tician, a recondite scholar, a considerable astronomer, but, though a most eloquent preacher of the Gospel, not a great theologian. His character might be summed up in the lan- guage applied in Scripture to another ' lie had wisdom and understanding exceeding much, and largeness of heart.' The only other St. Andrews professor, of whom I remember anything worth the telling, was Dr. Haldane. Ho was one of the most estimable of men; universally respected by all who knew him ; and yet, in spite of a pleasing person, a genial manner, a good position, a good house, and a handsome compe- tency, he was well advanced in life before he could make up his mind to marry. No misogynist was he ! Womankind he loved, 'not wisely, but too well;' and yet, when in their presence, his self-possession forsook him, and he became a much oppressed and bashful man. Shortly before I left St. Andrews, the nephew of his patron, Lord Melville, who had been his inmate and companion for three years, was also about to leave. The loss of the society of one whose great ability had led all who knew him to expect he would one day fill high place in the councils of his sovereign, grieved him much. When it was reported that he had fitted up his house afresh, and this at the very time when appearances were of less consequence to him, it was generally supposed, and currently reported, that he was going to change his state. There is no doubt the rumour was well founded ; for, on a given day, at an hour unusually early for a call, the good Doctor was seen at the house of a certain lady, for whom he had long been supposed to have a predilection, in a bran-new coat, wiping his ' weel pouthered head ' with a clean white handkerchief, and betraying much excitement of manner, till the door was opened. As soon as he was shown ' ben,' and saw the fair one, whom he sought, calmly engaged in knitting stockings, and not at all disturbed by his entrance, his courage, like that of Bob Acres in the Rivals, began to ooze out at the tip of his fingers, and he sat himself down on the edge of his chair in such a state of pitiable confusion as to elicit the com- passion of the lady in question. She could not understand what ailed him; but felt instinctively that the truest good-breeding would be to take no notice of his embarrassment, and lead tho conversation herself. Thus, then, she opened fire : ' Weel, Doctor, hao ye got through a' your papering and painting yet?* (A clearing of the throat preparatory to speech, but not a word V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 107 uttered.) 'I'm told your new carpets are just beautifuV (A further clearing of the throat, and a vigorous effort to speak, termi- nating in a free use of his handkerchief.) ' They say the pattern o' the dining-room chairs is something quite out o' the way. In short that everything aboot the house is perfect.' Here was a providential opening he was not such a goose as to overlook. He ' screwed his courage to the sticking-place,' advanced his chair, sidled towards her, simpering the while, raised his eyes furtively to her face, and said, with a gentle inflection of his voice, which no ear but a wilfully deaf one could have misin- terpreted, ' Na ! Na ! Miss J n. It's no quite perfect. It canna be quite that, so long as there's ae thing wanting!' 'And what can that be?' said the imperturbable spinster. Utterly thrown on his beam-ends by her wilful blindness to his meaning, the poor man beat a hasty retreat, drew back his chair from its dangerous proximity, caught up his hat, rubbed it tho wrong way of the nap with his sleeve, and, in tones of blighted hope, gasped forth his declaration in these words ' Eh ! dear ! Eli ! Well 'am sure ! The thing wanting is, a a a side- boord ! ' In association with Dr. Haldane's name stands that of a certain lady, wife of one of our professors, and a near connection of Lord J y's, who was equally distinguished for the self- possession of her manners and the pithiness of her sayings. On a certain occasion she had invited a party to dinner, while rent- ing a small cottage a short distance out of St. Andrews. To supply the culinary deficiencies of her cook, who was not a first- class artiste, she had recourse to the skill of the confectioner of the town, and ordered of him a savoury veal pie. The company duly assembled, the appointed dinner-hour struck; the parlour-maid in waiting, noiselessly opening the drawing-room door, and beckoning to her mistress, told her that the pie had not arrived. No way put out by the announce- ment, and fertile of resource, she merely ordered another knifo and fork to be laid, and then returning to her friends, expressed her astonishment at the non-arrival of Dr. Haldane. 'What can hae become o' our Doctor ? Aweel, aweel, he's a precveleged mon, so wo mon e'en gie him a few minutes' law.' Shortly after, a telegraphic wink from the maid to the mistress from behind the door, intimated that tho lookcd-for dainty was on the table ; when Mrs. H., with well-feigned annoyance, turning to the company, declared she would 'wait uae mair for the Doctor he'll nac doubt hae forgotten the day.' The much-maligned 108 ' JOUi. [<".IAP. worthy, on being taxed with liis flagrant delinquency, declared that he had never been invited ! Again : The same eccentric lady, after the birth of one of her children, received a visit of congratulation from one of her country connections. As a matter of course, great curiosity to see the baby was expressed, and as the little article was not in company-trim, Mrs. H., never at a loss in an emergency, said to her nurse, l Guse, step over to Mrs. Tompson (the grocer's wife, whose babe was about the same age, and always clean and neatly dressed), and ask her to send her bairnie over for a wee while.' The babe soon appeared, and met with due admiration ; the visitors discovering a marvellous resemblance to various members of the family on both sides of the house, to the infinite delectation of the supposed mother. This same lady, knowing her son-in-law, Mr. S , was very fond of attending funerals, turned to her nurse on her own death-bed, and said, 'Aye, aye, there'll soon be a fine ploy for S g! f If I thought my reader would never repeat a little incident of those days which my tongue itches to tell, I would take him into my confidence, even at the risk of incurring his reproach. '(The reader assures me I may trust his discretion puts his hand on his heart parole d'honneur, &c., &c.). Satisfied, then, that he will not betray me, and hoping he will not judge me harshly for having played a boyish prank (I was not 18), I will my plain, unvarnished tale deliver. While yet a Htudent at St. Andrews, I was invited to spend a week with Col. and Mrs. Murray atLintrose. I had not been long in the house before Mrs. Murray informed her party that Dr. Haldane was expected next day. The announcement was received with general acclamation, for he was a general favourite with all who -^mew him. Naturally enough we discussed his merits, qualifying our laudatory remarks by expressions of regret that a man so formed to make a partner happy, and one, himself, so anxious to be married, would, in all probability, doom himself to a life of cheerless celibacy, simply from, lack of decision of purpose, a sheepish bashfulness, and a nervous dread of falling a victim to the arts and wiles of woman. * Ah ! ' said I, in a spirit of rhodomontade, ' what he wants is a lady of a strong mind, who would, by the help of a frank nature and feminine tact, and a well chosen bait, land him at her feet before he was aware that he was caught.' V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 10D Hereupon it was unanimously suggested that I should dress myself as a woman, and make the experiment. The proposal met with such general concurrence that I consented. Preparations were at once entered on by our charming hostess. The skill of her maid was enlisted in my behalf ; and she was ordered to take one of her mistress's smartest evening gowns and adapt it to my figure. At 65, I may perhaps be pardoned for saying that, without the slightest pretension to good features, I had a lively eye and a white throat, so that, with the accessories of burnt cork to my brows, a delicate aouppon of rouge to my cheeks, and chest- nut ringlets adroitly adjusted to my own hair under cover of a handsome tiara, I sufficed for a very decent representative of a bouncing, light-hearted, rather rollicking Diana Vernon. For a good hour before the expected arrival, I was steadily practising my walk. I discarded masculine strides, and affected mincing steps. With my voice I had no difficulty. About 6 P.M. the Doctor arrived, soon followed by the gentleman who was an inmate in his house. Each went to his dressing-room to prepare for dinner. Mrs. Murray, her maid, and myself repaired to my dressing- room, when I was in fit condition to receive the finishing touches at their hands. The pains they bestowed on me were not in vain ; for so effectual was my disguise, that not one of tho servants in waiting recognized me during the evening. And when with low-cut gown, bare neck decorated with a beautiful topaz necklace, gloved hands, braceleted wrists, a laced shawl over my shoulders, and a well-perfumed handkerchief in my hands, I descended the stairs, and felt what a precarious task I had undertaken, my heart palpitated as perceptibly as if I had been a veritable fair one about to meet the man she wished to captivate. On my entering the drawing-room, all the gentlemen rose from their chairs, and I was formally presented as Miss Mackenzie, a niece of Mrs. Murray's. There was so much attention shown me, and something so uncommon in my appear- ance, that I observed the Doctor's eyes frequently wandering towards me, and whenever they met my gaze I dropped my lids AS a modest maiden should. ' Dinner on the table/ said the butler. * Dr. Haldane, will you take in Miss Mackenzie ? ' said Mrs. Murray. The Doctor sprang forward with alacrity and offered me his arm. 110 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. In passing through the hall to the dining-room, I contrived to let my lace shawl slip from my shoulders, on purpose that I might put my squire's gallantry to the proof. He instantly picked it up and replaced it for me. I thanked him diffidently with my lips but fervently with my hands ; for I squeezed his arm with such good- will that he blushed 'like the red, red rose' from the apex of his powdered head to the very edges of his shoe-buckles. My artless demonstrativcness had penetrated to his very marrow. As the ingenuous blush died away his moral courage rose, and screwing it to the sticking-place, he entered on his conven- tional labours very creditably deploring the harshness of the weather asking me if that was my first visit to Lintrose if I liked it as much as W w ; if I had travelled all the way from London alone, &c., &c., until, the hackneyed topics pretty well exhausted, he struck upon a new, and, to me, more amusing vein. ' I thought,' said he, ' that that droll chiel, Julian Young, was here when did he leave ? ' I began to suspect I was discovered. But, finding this was not the case, I replied in a tone of affected indifference, ' I fancy he returns to-morrow.' Ey degrees, as dinner advanced and conversation became more general, I dropped into a sentimental vein, affected dis- gust with light literature and desultory reading, deplored the want of sympathy I met with at home, confessed that I would give the world to have a friend considerably older than myself who would direct me in my studies, and should be so grateful if he could help me. And at every word he uttered in reply, I raised my eyes with reverent homage to his, and with lan- guishing tenderness of intonation, exclaimed, * Oh ! thank you J thank you!' at the same time pressing his foot with mine, until from red he waxed blue ; and, what with the pain I fear I inflicted on his corns, and the mental perturbation my unseemly advances threw him into, I suspect he would soon have hod to leave the room, hod not a timely signal for the ladies to rise released him from his dilemma. Of such susceptible stuff was the reverend professor made, and so successfully had I wrought upon his feelings during the remainder of the evening, that when he lighted my candle as I was retiring to bed, he said a something (it was a mere NOTHING but it suited ray book to construe it into 'a proposal'), on which, with a gentle smile And an eloquent pressure of his hand, I had the effrontery to whisper, You must speak to my aunt.' V.] JULIAN CH.iRLES YOUMG. Ill How he felt, or how he interpreted these words, I know not. Whether he was undeceived or not as to the sex of the counterfeit Miss Mackenzie, I do not remember, for neither he nor the pseudo young lady ever met again; lie had beaten an ignominious retreat the next morning be- fore the breakfast hour, alleging a prior engagement as the cause. 1824. In May of this year I left St. Andrews, with infinite regret. In the month of January, while still there, I read the trial of Hunt, Probert, and Thurtell, for the murder of Mr. Weare, which took place in a lane some three hundred yards from Gill's Hill Lane Cottage, where I had stayed a year or t'A-o before with my friends the Tomkisons. The dead body was dragged across two or three intervening fields, and flung into a pond in the grounds. That done, the gentlemen adjourned to supper, and ate their pork chops with the blood of their victim still red and unwashed upon their hands. 1825. In this year I was admitted as an undergraduate at Worcester College, Oxford. My father, finding that my heart was set on taking holy orders, and learning that, before doing so, I must go through a preliminary course of three years' study at one of the universities, was at a loss to know at what college to enter me. At this juncture he happened to meet the Duke of York, who, with his usual condescension, asked him how his boy was getting on. ' Why, Sir, I want to send him to Oxford ; but I know none of the big-wigs there, and have not an idea which is the proper college to send him to.' * Oh, said the kind Prince, ' send him to Christ Church : Christ Church, by all means.' * I am afraid, Sir, it is too aristocratic a placo for my son ; he might be led into expenses I could ill afford, iind into society above his class.' ' Pooh, pooh ! ' replied the Duke. ' You leave it to me. Egad,' he added, ' I know what I'll do. I want an excuse for a ride. You have given me an object ; I will ride down to Combe Wood and see Liverpool about it.' Without another word he turned his horse's head, and, followed by his groom, rode all the way to Lord Liverpool's to ask the Premier himself to help us. Lord Liverpool said, 4 1 assure your Royal Highness, that it is no easy matter for any one be his rank what it may to get admittance into Christ Church at present. But if any one in the kingdom can servo your protege it is Peel. I will write to him by to-night's post He is the man ; for, as Member for the University itself, he is omnipotent ; and Dr. Lloyd, the Regius Professor of Divinity, 112 JOURNAL. [<'n A--. lives in Christ Church. . . . He was Peel's tutor, and is his personal friend.' * Instead of writing by post to-night, my dear Lord,' said the Duke, 'write at once, and I will be tho postman, and take your letter to Peel myself.' Lord Liverpool sat down at once, and wrote. The Duke instantly trotted off to Whitehall Gardens, found Mr. Peel at home, stated his wish to ' serve Charles Young, the tragedian, whom he had known intimately for twenty years,' and obtained a promise that Dr. Lloyd should be written to that night. In three days' time my father received a letter from Sir Henry Cooke better known as Kang Cooke the Duke's aide- de-camp, to say that rooms at Christ Church were not to be had, for love, or interest, or money ; and that, therefore, Dr. Lloyd had secured rooms for me at Worcester College, where Dr. Whittington Landon, Dean of Exeter, and Provost of the college, would be glad to receive me on the following Monday. On that day I went ; and, as no one will care to hear of tho university career of one who neither distinguished nor dis- graced himself while there, I will simply state that, after taking my degree of B.A. on the 17th of December, 1827, I went up to London to read, under a private tutor, for Holy Orders. 1827. December 22. As my father was driving me in his mail phaeton to Brighton, two carriages-and-four passed us. The first was quickly pulled up, and a voice called from the window, 'Young! Young! ' It was the Duchess of St. Alban's, who, after detaining my father at her carriage door for full ten minutes, desired that I might be presented to her which accordingly I was. 1827. December 25. At Brighton. Dined at Pedder's, who told the following story : ' Some few years ago, a gentleman, a bachelor, residing in lodgings on the first floor of a respectable but small house in this town, appeared before the bench of magistrates, with si charge against the maid of his lodging of having robbed him of a ring. ' It appeared that he occupied tho front drawing-room on tho first floor, and slept in the back; that, one night, having undressed by the drawing-room fire, and wound up his watch, he deposited it, with his chain, two seals, and a ring attached to it, on the chimney-piece, and jumped into bed in the next room. In the morning, on dressing himself and going to the chimney-piece for his watch, he discovered that the ring, which V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. he valued, was gone. As he was in the habit of sleeping with the folding doors between the rooms ajar, and was always a light -sleeper, he felt confident that no one had entered the room since he had left it over-night, except the maid, who had come in early, as usual, to dust and sweep the room, and lay the table for breakfast. The servant was so neat in her person, o pretty, gentle, and well conducted, that he felt loth to tell her his suspicions; but the moral certainty he entertained of her guilt, and the great value he set on the ring, determined him to conquer his scruples. On hearing herself charged with the theft, she started and stared, as if doubting the evidence of her ears ; indignantly denied the charge, burst into tears, and told her mistress that she would not remain another hour under her roof; for that her lodger had taxed her with dishonesty. The landlady espoused the cause of her maid, and used such strong language against her accuser, that his blood, in turn, was roused ; and he resolved to bring the matter to a determinate issue before the magistrates. Pedder said he was on the bench ; and that, prepossessed as he and his coadjutors were by the girl's looks and manners, they felt quite unable to resist the weight of circumstantial evidence produced against her, and never had a moment's hesitation in committing her for trial At the next assizes. Five or six weeks after she had been in jail the prosecutor went into Shaw's, the pastry-cook's, in the Old Steyne, to eat an ice. While he was pausing, deliberately, between each spoonful, the sun burst forth in all its strength, and darted one of its beans across the floor of the shop, bringing into light an object which glistened vividly between the joists of the flooring. He took out his penknife, inserted the point of it between the boards, and, to his utter amazement, fished up his lost ring. He ran back to his lodgings, and, on referring to his diary, he found that, on the evening of the very night on which he had left his watch and its appendages on the chimmey-piece, ho had been at Shaw's having some refreshment ; and he there- fore conjectured that, as half the split-ring from which his seals hung, had been, for some time, a good deal wrenched apart, it must have come into contact with the edge of the counter, and thus liberated the ring from its hold ; that it had fallen on the ground, been trodden under the feet of some of the visitors to the shop, and in this way been wedged in between the boards of the flooring. Stung to the quick by self-reproach, at the thought of having tarnished the good name of an innocent girl, 114 JOURNAL [CiiAP. by false accusation, and of having exposed her to the unmerited sufferings of prison life, he instantly took a post-chaise and drove off to the jail in which she was confined, asked every particular about her from the governor, and found him en- thusiastic in his admiration of her, and utterly incredulous of her guilt. ' She's the gentlest, sweetest-tempered creature we have ever had within these walls ; and nothing shall make me believe she is a thief,' said he. * No more she is,' was the eager answer. She has been falsely charged by me, and I have come to make her every reparation in my power.' In one brief word, he offered her his hand, and married her. 1828. February 2. Went up, once more, to Oxford, to keep my Master's term, and to attend the Divinity Lectures of Lloyd, the Regius Professor of Divinity. February 4. After my first lecture to-day, to my surprise, Dr. Lloyd came up to me, and asked me to follow him to his house. On entering his library, the first thing he did he was Bishop of Oxford was to fling off his wig. You smile at my getting rid of that article,' said he, ' but the fact is, as you sec, I am of a full habit of body ; and, for the first three months after appointment, every bishop, unless he is as thin as a whipping-post, suffers terribly from determination of blood to the head, in consequence of the pressure of the spring of liis wig on the temporal artery; and my determination is never to wear my wig, except when I am obliged to do so.' (N.B. It is a curious fact that the first bishop who ever dispensed with the wig, was a Bishop of Oxford Eichard Bagot.) ' Mr. Peel wrote to me about you when first you came up, three years ago. Why did not you go up for honours ? Eh? You've lost a J^MM! friend in the Duke of York. He was well disposed towards you,' &c. 1828. March 20. Bade farewell, finally, to Alma Mater. May 1. Started for the Isle of Man. Left it, heartily sick of it, on May 8. For Liverpool and London. June 28. Left for Rotterdam. July 1. Arrived at the Hague. July 2. Dined with Sir Charles Bagot. George Tierney and others there. July 3. Dined again with Sir Charles Bagot. Lady Bagot wrote me several letters of introduction ; among others, one to her sister, Lady Burgersh, at Vienna. Sir Charles is a hand- some, thoroughbred gentleman, and a capital raconteur. On my V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 115 speaking of the exceeding cleanliness of the Dutch, he said, * In spite of all the scrubbing and scraping you see bestowed on their houses, they are not personally a cleanly people. The attention paid to doors, and windows, and brass knockers, is a matter of imperious necessity. Water and paint are used to ward off the injurious consequences of the humidity of the atmosphere.' We spoke of the village of Broek, reputed the cleanest in the world. On my saying I was going there, ' Well, then,' he said, ' you had better get a letter of introduction from my banker to a friend of his, who lives there ; for, in consequence of the greater number of dwellings there being the private resi- dences of merchants or retired tradesmen, it is not easy for strangers to see the interiors without the help of some friend. The inmates of most of the houses leave their shoes or sabots at the door, and put on slippers before they enter. This is de rigueur, and they expect every one else to do so too. Tho Emperor Alexander of Russia and suite once visited Broek; and, on presenting themselves at the door of a certain house, they were most ungraciously received by the owner, who told them that, unless they conformed to the rule of the place, they should not enter. " Doucement," said one of the Emperor's suite, " you don't know whom you are speaking to ! This "- pointing to him "is the Emperor of all the Russias ! " "I don't care who he is ! Unless he take off his long boots, ho shall not enter no, not if Tie were the Burgomaster of Saardam himself!" 1828. July 6. Mrs. Aders, an old London friend of mine, who was in the habit of spending her summers at a chateau she had on the Rhine, hearing I was going for a twelvemonth's tour on the continent, begged me to visit her at Godesberg on my road south. I had read so much of the beauty of the place, and heard so much of the cultivated society she contrived to attract around her, that I was only too glad to avail myself of her invitation. When I had been under her roof for a fortnight, fearing to outstay my welcome, I announced my intention of leaving on the morrow. The declaration was received with flattering indignation. I was accused of being ennuye with the place and the people in it. On my expatiating on the enjoy- ment I had had in my visit, I was challenged to prove the sincerity of my protestations by consenting to prolong my stay another fortnight. 'You will not regret doing so/ said my hostess, * for I expect those here to-morrow whom I am sure you would like to meet. Who they are I shall not tell you, till i 2 llfi JOURNAL. [CHAP. I introduce you to them.' She then reiterated her invitation with such cordiality, that I felt no longer any hesitation in accepting it. In the evening of the following day, having overwalked myself in the morning, I retired early to my room, and had not been many minutes in bed before the cracking of postilions' whips, the rumbling of carriage wheels, the ringing of bells, the slamming of doors, and the other discordant noises common to a late arrival, told me that the expected visitors had come. Next morning I was down, and in the breakfast-room betimes, awaiting with curiosity the entrance of the strangers. After a while, Mrs. Aders made her appearance, and told me they were so fatigued, that they had asked leave to have their breakfasts sent up to their bedchambers. Our meal concluded, I once more tried to ascertain the names of the new comers. But my hostess evaded the question, and withdrew to her boudoir ; and I was compelled to adjourn to the saloon, that I might despatch my letters before I was interrupted. I had scarcely entered the room, and was trying to improve a bad sketch I had made the day before when an old gentleman entered, with a large quarto volume beneath his arm, whom I at once concluded to be one of the anonymous gentry about whose personality there had been so much mystery. As he entered, I rose and bowed. Whether he was conscious of my well-intentioned civility I cannot say, but at all events he did not return my salutation. He appeared pre-occupied with his own cogitations. I began to conjecture what manner of man he was. His general appearance would have led me to suppose him a dissenting minister. His hair was long, white, and neglected ; his complexion was florid, his features were square, his eyes watery and hazy, his brow broad and massive, his build uncouth, his deportment grave and abstracted. He wore a white starchless neckcloth tied in a limp bow, and was dressed in a shabby suit of dusky black. His breeches were unbuttoned at the knee, his sturdy limbs were encased in stockings of lavender-coloured worsted, his feet were thrust into well-worn slippers, much trodden down at heel. In this ungainly attire he paced up and down, and down and up, and round and round a saloon sixty feet square, with head bent forward, and shoulders stooping, absently musing, and muttering to himself, and occasionally clutching to his side his ponderous tome, as if he feared it might be taken from him. I confess my ig spirit chafed under the wearing quarter-deck monotony of his promenade, and, stung by the cool manner in which ho V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 117 ignored ray presence, I was about to leave him in undisputed possession of the field, when I was diverted from my purpose by the entrance of another gentleman, whoso kindly smile, and courteous recognition of my bow, encouraged me to keep my ground, and promised me some compensation for the slight put upon me by his precursor. He was dressed in a brown-holland blouse ; he held in his left hand an alpenstock (on the top of which he had placed the broad-brimmed * wide-awake ' he had just taken off), and in his right a spring of apple-blossom over- grown with lichen. His cheeks were glowing with the effects of recent exercise. So noiseless had been his entry, that tho peripatetic philosopher, whose back was turned to him at first, was unaware of his presence. But no sooner did he discover it than he shuffled up to him, grasped him by both hands, and backed him bodily into a neighbouring arm-chair. Having secured him safely there, ho c made assurance doubly sure,' by hanging over him, so as to bar his escape, while he delivered his testimony on the fallacy of certain of Bishop Berkeley's propositions, in detecting which, he said, he had opened up a ricli vein of original reflection. Not content with cursory criticism, he plunged profoundly into a metaphysical lecture, which, but for the opportune intrusion of our fair hostess and her young lady friend, might have lasted until dinner time. It was then, for the first time, I learned who the party consisted of ; and I was introduced to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Wordsworth, and his daughter Dora. The reported presence of two such men as Coleridge and Wordsworth soon attracted to Mrs. Aders's house all the illuminati of Bonn Niebuhr, Becker, Augustus Schlegel, and many others. It is matter of lamentation to me, now, to think that I have not preserved any traces of tho conversations at which I was privileged to be present. But, alas ! my ignorance of German, and my inaptitude for metaphysics, debarred me from much information that, but for those accidents, I might have obtained. I recall nothing but a few fragmentary remarks, which, for a wonder, I could understand. Schlegel was tho only one of those I have named who spoke English, so that his were the only remarks I recollect, and they hardly worth repetition. I fancy I see him now, twitching his brown scratch wig, and twisting a lock of artificial hair into a curl, and going to the glass to see how it became him. He talked admirably, yet not pleasingly, for whatever the topic, and by whomever started, he soon contrived to make himself the central object of 118 JOURNAL. [CiiAi*. interest. The perfect self-satisfaction with which he told of his involuntary successes with the fair sex, was both amusing and pitiable. He said that when he lived with Madame de Stael at Copet, he supplied her with all the philosophical materials for her L'Allemagne. Coleridge told him that there never had been such a translation of any work in any language as his of Shak- speare. Schlegel returned the compliment, scratched his back in turn, and declared that Coleridge's translation of Schiller's Wallenstein was unrivalled for its fidelity to its original and the beauty of its diction. Both of them praised Gary's Dante highly. Schlegel praised Scott's poetry. Coleridge decried it, stating that no poet ever lived, of equal eminence, whose writings furnished so few quotable passages. Schlegel then praised Byron. Coleridge immediately tried to depreciate him. * Ah,' said he, ' Byron is a meteor '" which will but blaze and rove and die : " Wordsworth, there,' (pointing to him) 'is a " star luminous and fixed." During the first furore of Byron's reputation, the sale of his works was unparalleled, while that of Wordsworth's was insignificant, and now each succeeding year, in proportion as the circulation of Byron's works has fallen off, the issue of Wordsworth's poems has steadily increased.' I observed that, as a rule, Wordsworth allowed Coleridge to have all the talk to himself; but once or twice Coleridge would succeed in entangling Wordsworth in a discussion on some abstract metaphysical question : when I would sit by, reverently attending, and trying hard to look intelligent, though I did not feel so; for at such times a leaden stupor weighed down my faculties. I seemed as if I had been transported by two malignant genii into an atmosphere too rarefied for me to live in. I was soaring, as it were, against my will, 'twixt heaven and the lower parts of the earth. Sometimes I was in pure aether much oftener in the clouds. When, however, these potent spirits descended to a lower level, and deigned to treat of history or politics, theology or belles lettres, I breathed again ; and, imbibing fresh ideas from them, felt invigorated. I must say I never saw any manifestation of small jealousy between Coleridge and Wordsworth ; which, considering the vanity possessed by each, I thought uncommonly to the credit of both. I am sure they entertained a thorough repect for each other's intellectual endowments. Coleridge appeared to me a living refutation of Bacon's axiom, 'that a full man is never a ready man, nor a ready man a full one :' for he was both full and ready. -V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 119 Wordsworth was a single-minded man : with less imagination than Coleridge, but with a more harmonious judgment, and better balanced principles. Coleridge, conscious of his transcendant powers, rioted in a license of tongue which no man could tame. Wordsworth, though he could discourse most eloquent music, was never unwilling to sit still in Coleridge's presence, yet could be as happy in prattling with a child as in communing with a sage. If Wordsworth condescended to converse with me, he spoke to mo as if I were his equal in mind, and made me pleased and proud in consequence. If Coleridge held me by the button, for lack of fitter audience, he had a talent for making me feel his wisdom and my own stupidity: so that I was miserable and humiliated by the sense of it. I remember reading, once, in a life of Plato, that if ever Aristotle were absent from his master's lectures, Plato would say to his other scholars, 'Intellect is not here to-day;' and if Ooleridge could have divined the confusion of my mind, when he was trying to indoctrinate me with his own extravagant specu- lations, he would probably have tapped my skull and applied the same words to me, though in a less flattering sense. While he confined himself to his 'judgments, analytic and synthetic,' I had a glimmering conception of his meaning ; but when he gave tongue on 'a priori knowledge and a posteriori knowledge,' and spake of 'modality,' and of the 'paralogism of pure reason,' my feeble brain reeled, and I gasped for escape from the imaginary and chimerical and for a refuge in the material and the practical. I had occasional walks with Coleridge in the garden, and many with Wordsworth over the fields. The former was an indifferent pedestrian, the latter a practised one. I revert with great delight to a long expedition I one day made with Wordsworth alone. He had heard of the ruins of an old Cistercian abbsy, Heister- bacli, on the side of the Rhine opposite to that on which wi were staying. He asked me, playfully, to join him, in these words : ' Go with us into the abbey there ; And let us there, at large, discourse our fortunea.' Shakspeare. Hitherto I had only seen Wordsworth in the presence of "Coleridge ; and had imagined him, constitutionally, contempla- tive and taciturn. To-day I discovered that his reticence was soil- imposed, out of consideration for the inordinate loquacity of his brother poet. 120 JOURNAL. [CHAP: Coleridge always speechified or prcaclicd. * His argument Was all too heavy to admit much taV;.' Wordsworth chatted naturally and fluently out of the fulness of his heart, and not from a wish to display his eloquence. As I listened to him in this happy walk, I could not but apply to him one of Hooker's wise saws, * He who speaketh no more than edifieth is undeservedly reprehended for much speaking.' Idolatry of nature seemed with Wordsworth both a passion and a principle. She seemed a deity enshrined within his heart. Coleridge studied her rather as a mighty storehouse for poetical imagery than from innate love of her, for her own sweet sake. If once embarked in lecturing, no landscape, however grand, detained his notice for a second : whereas, let Wordsworth have been ever so absorbed in argument, he would drop it without hesitation to feast his eyes on some combination of new scenery. The union of the great and the small, so wonderfully ordered by the Creator, and so wondrously exemplified on the banks of the great German river, had. little attraction for the author of ' The Ancient Mariner.' The grander features of a landscape he took in at a glance ; and he would, with signal power of adaptation, dispose them into a magic world of his own. The rolling mist, as it hung suspended over the valley, and partially revealed the jagged tower and crag of Drachenfels, the river shooting out of sight the burden on its bosom with the velocity and force of an arrow ; the presence of elemental power, as exhibited in the thunderstorm, the waterfall, or the avalanche, were stimulus, enough to stir the pulses of his teeming brain, and set his ima- gination afloat with colossal speculations of hereafter. With him terrestrial objects soon expanded into immensity, and were quickly elevated above the stars. The more Ilasselas-like mind of the recluse of the Lakes, on the other hand, who ' loved the life removed,' would direct itself to the painstaking investigation of nature's smallest secrets, prompt him to halt by the wayside bank, and dilate with exquisite sensibility and microscopic, power of analysis on the construction of the humblest grasses, or on the modest seclusion of some virgin wild-flower nestling in the bosom, or diffidently peering from out the privacy of a shady nook composed of plumes of verdant ferns. In that same stroll to Heisterbach, he pointed out to mo such beauty of design in objects I had used to trample under foot, that I felt as if almost every spot on which I trod was holy ground, which I had rudely Y.J JUI.LAN CHARLES YOUNG'. 121 desecrated. His eyes would fill with tears and his voice falter as he dwelt on the benevolent adaptation of means to cuds dis- cernible by reverential observation. Nor did his reflections die out in mawkish sentiment ; they lay * two deep for tears,' and, as they crowded thickly on him, his gentle spirit, subdued by the sense of the Divine goodness towards his creature, became at- tuned to better thoughts; the love of nature inspired his heart with a gratitude to nature's God, and found its most suitable expression in numbers. The melody of Coleridge's verse had led me, as in the case of Scott, to credit him with the possession of the very soul of song ; and yet, either from defective ear or from the intractability of his vocal organs, his pronunciation of any language but his own was barbarous ; and his inability to follow the simplest melody quite ludicrous. The German tongue he knew au fond. Ha had learned it gramatically, critically, and scientifically at Gottingen : yet so unintelligible was he when he tried to speak it, that I heard Schlegel say to him one evening, ' Mein lieber Herr, would you speak English ? I understand it : but your German I cannot follow.' Whether he had ever been before enlightened on his malpronunciation of German, I know not ; but he was quite conscious that his pronunciation of French was execrable, for I heard him avow as much. He was a man of violent prejudices, and had conceived an insuperable aversion for the grande nation, of which he was not slow to boast. * I hate,' he would say, * the hollowness of French principles : I hato the republicanism of French politics : I hate the hostility of the French people to revealed religion : I hate the artificiality of French cooking : I hate the acidity of French wines : I hato the flimsiness of the French language : my very organs of speech are so auti-Gallican that they refuse to pronounce intelligibly their insipid tongue.' He would inveigh with equal acrimony against the unreality and immorality of the French character of both sexes, especially tin- female; and, in justification, I suppose, of his unmeasured invective, he told me that he was one day sitting tete-a-tete with Madame do Stae'l, in London, when her manservant entered the room and asked her if she would receive Lady Davy. Sin- raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders, and appeared to shudder with nausea, as she turned to him and said, 'Ah ! ma foi! oh! mon cher ami, ayez pitie do moi ! Mais quoi faire? Oette vilaiue femme. Comme jo la deteste ! Elle est, vraiment, insupportable !' And then, on her entry, flung her arms around JOURNAL, [CHAP. her, kissed her on both cheeks, pressed her to her bosoin, and told her that she was more than enchanted to behold her. Query. Have our neighbours across the water a monopoly of such conventional duplicity? or has honest John Bull his own proper share of it ? I have heard Coleridge say, more than once, that no mind was thoroughly well organized that was deficient in the sense of humour: yet I hardly ever saw any great exhibition of it in himself. The only instance I can recall, in which he said anything calculated to elicit a smile, during the two or three weeks I was with him, was when he, Wordsworth, and I, were floating down the Rhine together in a boat we had hired con- jointly. The day was remarkably sultry; we had all three taken a considerable walk before our dinner; and what with fatigue, heat, and the exhaustion consequent on garrulity, Cole- ridge complained grievously of thirst. When he heard there was no house near at hand, and saw a leathern flask slung over my shoulder, he asked me what it contained. On my telling him it was Hock Heimer, he shook his head, and swore he would as soon take vinegar. After a while, however, finding his thirst increasing, he exclaimed, ' I find I must conquer my dislike eat humble pie, and beg for a draught.' He had no sooner rinsed his mouth with the obnoxious fluid, than he spat it out, and vented his disgust in the following im- promptu : ' In Spain, that land of monks and apes, The thing called wine dotli come from yrapes ; But, on the noble river Rhine, The thing called gripes doth come from wine.' It must not be assumed that the reciprocal admiration enter- tained by the two poets for each other's gifts made them blind to each other's infirmities. Wordsworth, in speaking of Cole- ridge, would admit, though most regretfully, the moral flaws in his character : such for instance, as his addiction to opium, his ungrateful conduct to Southey, and his neglect of his pa- rental and conjugal obligations. Coleridge, on the other hand, ever forward as he was in defending Wordsworth from literary assailants, had evident pleasure in exposing his parsimony, aye in the same breath in which ho vaunted the purity and piety of his disposition. An illustration of this at once occurs to mo. After the trio had left Godesberg, and were returning \ards via Amsterdam and Rotterdam, they paid a visit to Haarlem. Mrs. Aders received a letter from Coleridge, dated V.I JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 123 from that place, in which he told her that they had not arrived many minutes at their hotel before one of the principal waiters of the establishment entered the room, and asked them if they would like to accompany a few other persons in the house to hear the celebrated organ played, as a party was then in the ,ct of forming for that object. ' Oh,' said Wordsworth, * we meant to hear the organ ! but why, Coleridge, should we go with strangers?' 'I beg your pardon,' interrupted the waiter, who understood and spoke English well, ' but it is not every one who is willing to pay twelve guilders (I/.) ; and as the organist will never play privately for less, it is customary for persons to go in par- ties, and share the expense between them.' ' Ah, then I think I will not go : I am tired,' said Wordsworth. ' Then you and I will .go together, Dora,' answered Coleridge. Off they went, arm-in-arm, leaving Wordsworth behind them, reclining on a couch. They had not been long in the Church of St. Bavon, listening to the different stops which the organist was trying to display to the greatest advantage the solo stop, the bell stop, the trumpet stop, the vox humana stop before Coleridge was made sensible of the unwelcome intrusion of a strong current of air throughout the building. He turned his head to see the cause; and, to his amusement, descried his gentle friend, noiselessly closing the door, and furtively making his way behind one of the pillars, from whence he could hear without being seen, and thus escape payment. Before the organist had concluded his labours, Wordsworth had quietly withdrawn. On the return of his friend and his daughter, he asked them how they had enjoyed their visit to St. Bavon, but said nothing of his own ! When Wordsworth was in London, during the height of the season, he was aware it would be expected, after his appoint- ment to the laureateship, that he should present himself at one of the levees of the sovereign. As his means had never been large, it was rather a proof of wise economy, than of meanness, that he should have shrunk from the idea of buying a costly court-suit for one day's wear. In this dilemma Rogers came to his rescue, and told him that, as he should never go to court again, he was welcome to make what use he could of his clothes, bag-wig, sword, buckles, &c. By the help of a little tailoring he was enabled to avail himself of Rogers' kindness, *md attend the levee. When it was over, he called in St. James' Place, and accompanied Rogers to Miss Coutts'. As they were 121 JOURNAL [CHAP. walking together up the footway (under the gardens of the Arlington Street houses) which leads into Piccadilly, and is directly opposite to Stratton Street, Wordsworth's attention was arrested by the prepossessing looks of a little girl, who was sitting on the grass alone. He stopped and talked to her, and asked her of her parents, her home, whether she went to school, &c., and being well pleased with the ingenuous answers that sho gave him, he put one hand on her head, and with the other dived down into the recesses of his coat-pocket, and drew forth a little copy of his minor poems, telling her to look at him well, and note his person ; to be sure also to observe well the time of day, and the spot ; and to recollect that that little book had been given to her by the author, the celebrated William Wordsworth ! N.B. The narrator of this story was Rogers himself. I hope that no one will infer from my inserting these two anecdotes of Wordsworth, that, because I am not his unqualified eulogist, I therefore wish to throw ridicule or discredit on so great and good a man. I know the stories to bo true, and, if true, they should be told; for such details serve to elucidate character : and what man so strong that has not his weak side ? There is no greater monster than a faultless man. Personal partiality has ofteu tempted biographers, who have meant to bo honest, to yield to a suppressio veri, from fear of doing injustice to their subject. Now I conceive that none but u purblind hero-worshipper would deny that the real wrong is knowingly to allow a mistaken impression of a character to go forth un corrected. There are shades as well as lights in the idiosyncracy of every man on earth. I regard Wordsworth as having been so essentially eminent and virtuous, that no man can better afford to have the truth spoken of him. When Coleridge, Wordsworth, and his daughter, had left Godesberg, I felt that I had no longer excuse for lingering in quarters where I had already tarried but too long, and therefore proceeded to visit some friends at Frankfort. After a few days' stay there I went on to Heidelberg, with the object of studying German. With the exceeding beauty of the spot I was as much en- chanted, as diKgusted with the manners of the students. I had seen something of them in Bonn, but in Heidelberg they out- Hcroded Herod. When Coleridge heard that I was going to Heidelberg, ho said, If I were not pledged to tl:.o dear V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUi.'G. 125 Wordsworths, I would go with you, for I long to sco Tiedemann, the great anatomist ; and with that arch-heretic Paulus, I want to measure swords I mean in argument. And by-the-bye, talking of measuring swords, let me give you a piece of advice, which, as coming from one who has himself been at a German university, you should not despise. You will, ten to one, be wantonly insulted by some of the students, who will challenge you on the slightest pretext. Instantly accept, but name pistols as your weapons.' I did not forget this advice, which was well-timed, for I had not been long in Heidelberg before I was struck with the offensive rudeness of the students, who, with their fancifully embroidered frocks, and bare throats, and long hair, and long pipes, and swaggering strut, seemed to infest the main street with the express object of provoking a quarrel with passers by, challenging them, and thus ' renowning ' at their expense. I owe it to Coleridge's hint that I did not get into a serious scrape. A young man, without the slightest provocation, deliberately jostled me off the trottoir into the middle of the street, and then charged me with having been the assailant. He was so insolent and voluble, that, being unable to speak his language, I knocked him down. He sprang up, and challenged me to meet him at the Hirschgasse, the inn for duels. With an indifference which, God knows, I did not feel, I bowed to him, and told him in French I would meet him at the appointed place and bring my pistols with me at eight on the morrow.' He then called me a coward, said he only fought with the weapon estab- lished by German usage, the rapier; and, to my unbounded satisfaction, retired. Luckily no other students were by, or they might have made us proceed to extremities. While in Heidelberg, I used to take daily lessons in German, from a certain Dr. Hiihle, who had been for some years the minister of the German Lutheran chapel in the Strand. Although, personally, of irreproachable reputation, his discourses had been so distasteful and unprofitable to his congregation, that, not knowing how otherwise to get rid of him, they clubbed together to purchase him an annuity. They then deputed some of the more influential of their members to wait on him and assure him of a fact (hem!) of which he seemed to bo strangely unconscious viz., that his health was rapidly declining, owing to his exertions in their behalf. They begged him to retire, before it was too late, to his birthplace in Germany, where, revived by his native uir, they hoped he would end his declining years in that tran- quillity which he had so nobly earned, and to which they 126 JOURNAL. [CHAP. hoped their little offering might, in some degree, contribute. On that pittance he retired to Heidelberg, where, with the help of teaching English, he managed to eke out a sufficient liveli- hood for his slender wants. Ho was, without exception, the dirtiest and dingiest man on whom I ever set eyes. He lodged at a tanner's ; and I some- times found it no easy matter, in mounting his stairs, to pick my way through the blood-stained skins which were spread upon them to dry, and which had just been purchased from the butcher. On my first visit to him, I was saucy enough to ask him how he came to select such a house for his quarters. 'Surely/ said I, 'however odorous you find the tanyard, the smell of the reeking skins of newly-slaughtered beasts must be very disagreeable?' 'Nod at all, Saar. I took dese lodgings on brincible ! Know you not vat your myriad-minded poet says'? Ven Hamlet asks de Clown by do grave shide, " How long vill a, man lie i' de earth ere he rot?" de Clown say, " Iv he be not rotten before he die, he'll last eight or nine years. A tanner vill last you nine years." And vy? Because, for de same reason vich kept flesh-butchers from catching de cholera veil all else in deir neighbourhood had it.' I said he was the dirtiest man I ever saw. I may safely add, he was the vainest ! I found him, on a particular occasion, seated in a filthy old dressing-gown, with a pipe in his mouth, enveloped in a cloud of tobacco-smoke, overlooking, sorting, and making selections from, a large pile of sermons and manu- scripts. I said to him, ' Have you never published any of your many compositions ? ' Looking over his pipe at me, with an air of great importance, he thus addressed me : * Saar ! You arc not de erste persono who have asked me dat question mit sur- brise. Der Herr von Nohden, die Librarium of die Breeches Mooseum at London, von day said to mo ver plain " Mein gooto freund, vy do you not bublish ?" 1 shook mein head. " Oh," said dat great man, " you musht bublish 1 You musht indeed t I vill speak out I You musht evacooate your brain, or, by ! youvillbursht!"' 1828. August 2. My stay in Heidelberg, which at first promised ill for my peace of mind (for I was in daily dread of being insulted by one or other of tho ill-conditioned young men improperly called ' students ') was afterwards rendered most agreeable, mainly through the hospitality of two or three English families then residing there. The kindness of tho Tobins, Count and Countess de Salis, Dr. Wiss (Tom Campbell's V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 127 nephew), Mr. Mitchell, and, above all, longo intervallo, the Rigby family, I remember with gratitude. The present accomplished and amiable Lady Eastlake was one of the Miss Rigbys, and the authoress of Letters from the Baltic ; and many of the most chaming articles ever published in the Quarterly. 1829. February 5. My father was on a visit the other day to Mr. Johnnes Knight's at Welwyn. Among other beaux esprits, Theodore Hook was there. In the course of the evening he was asked to improvise for the amusement of the company. * \Yith all my heart,' said he, ' if you will only give me a subject which will fire my muse. Remember how often I have played Punch for you before, and how many subjects I have turned into song : therefore be lenient, and give mo something new, but easy.' After thinking over several subjects, it was at last suggested that he should take for his theme the very village in which they were all assembled Welwyn. Without one minute's pause for reflection, he ran his fingers over the key-board of the pianoforte, and sang the following lines impromptu : IMPROMPTU ON WELWYN, BY THEODORE HOOK. 1. * You ask mo where, in peaceful grot, I'd choose to fix my dwelling ? I'll tell you ; for I've found the spot ; And mortals call it Welwyn. 2. ' Its shade a quietude imparts, All other shades excelling ; The county where it stands is Herts, And hearts are lost at Welwyn. 3. * I feel my own throw off its load When passing by the Bell Inn ! And why ? Because I know the road Will lead me on to Welwyn. 4. 1 And when arrived beneath those trees, Secure from ftorm or felling, The charms of Beauty, Friendship, Ease, All welcome me at Welwyn. 128 JOURNAL. [CHAP. 5. ' In other times, rrc mute his Jmigu", His Thoughts ' there Young sat telling; Now I, although I am not Young, Give all my thoughts to Welwyn. C. ' And when my sorrows or my grief I wish to be repelling, I always pray for such relit f As kindness gives at Wehvyn. 7. * Shall I implore those heathen dons On high Olympus dwelling ? Xo. faith ! I'll write to Mrs. Johnnes To ask me down to Welwyn.' 1829. February 7. My father told a story to-day which he heard from James Welch, a solicitor of Wells, too good to forget. A mile or two from some town in Somersetshire there was a manufactory I think, of cloth the treasurer and cashier ol which lived some distance from it in a cottage of his own. Ho was known to pass to and fro every Saturday with a large sum of money in specie on his person, with which to pay the workmen their weekly wages. A man in the neighbourhood, pressed by want, under a sudden impulse, determined, as a means of extricating himself from his difficulties, to waylay and rob him. As there had been no premeditation or malice aforethought in the case, he had not provided himself with any offensive weapon. He wrenched, therefore, a strong rail out of some palings which skirted the roadside. Before he could extract a long nail by which the rail had been fastened to the board- ing, the very man he was waiting for came by. He followed him stealthily, and beat out his brains. His victim despatched, he was alarmed by the distant tramp of horses' feet, and was barely able to drag the body into the nearest ditch, and cover it over with dried leaves and rubbish, when two horsemen came in sight. As there was no time for him to possess himself of the spoil, he decamped as fast as lie could to a farm- yard, about a mile off, where he kuew the hay harvest was not yet concluded. Seeing no better place of retreat, ho climbed up, by the help of a ladder, to the top of one of the large ricks which had been left to settle before being thatched, V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOU.N(j. 129 and burrowed his way into it backwards, leaving cut enough of his head to admit of his breathing. Ho had no alterna- tive but to spend the night there, meaning, at early dawn, after rifling the body left in the ditch, to make for some point near the coast. Thirty years after, when he had confessed his guilt, he described, with terrific force, the unutterable horror of that night, haunted, as he was, with remorse, and in momentary dread of detection ; buried up to his chin in fermenting, newly- made hay, and menaced, for an hour or two, by flights of angry, hungry crows, which, shortly after his arrival in his quarters (attracted by the smell of blood), had swooped down upon him, and kept hovering about, cawing and screaming, and wheeling and whirling, round and round, within a foot of his face, and only deterred from pecking at his eyes by the sudden move- ment of his head and an occasional gruif whoop, which daunted them. About four in the morning he extricated himself from his feverish hot-bed, and retraced his steps towards the ditch in which his victim and his treasure were secreted. The murdered body was undisturbed. He ransacked the large pockets of the coat, which were heavily laden with gold and silver. He found, also, a belt filled with bank-notes strapped round his waist, and under his waistcoat. With these he fled on on till he reached the sea-port for which he was making. On his arrival there he jumped into the first packet which was starting for America. In due time, and without any untoward accident, he arrived at the place for which he was bound set up a school there, and soon acquired a first-rate reputation as a teacher. At the end of thirty years of uninterrupted success, during which he amassed an independence, he thought he might safely return and settle in his native country. I think the first county to which he repaired was Yorkshire. He had not been long there before ho felt irrepressible yearnings to revisit his birthplace, a spot fraught with miserable reminiscences, yet endeared to him by the associations of early days, ere blood-guiltiness had poisoned his existence. Satisfied that, from the cessation of intercourse with friends for thirty years, the effects of time on his person, the wear and tear of an arduous profession, and the change produced by his altered dress and manners, he might defy detection, he repaired to the village in which he had once dwelt. As a precaution against risk, he thought it prudent to shun frequented thoroughfares, and to approach the cottage he had once called * home ' by a by-path across the fields. In following 130 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. the road he had selected, he had to pass through the village churchyard. On entering it, ho was much struck by the vast improvements effected since his absence. Old crumbling walls had been razed to the ground ; neat iron railings had been sub- stituted in their place; villas of pretension now reared their chimneys where there had been only barns, hovels, and cow- sheds ; the church itself had been restored, and its yard extended and beautified. As he sat on a tombstone, smoking his pipe, and ruminating on the strange metamorphoses of thirty years, ho noticed that the sexton was busy digging a grave. He drew nigh, and, finding him to be a stranger, entered freely into conversation with him. While thus engaged, the grave-digger threw up several human bones, of which the listless visitor took but little heed. Presently he jerked from his shovel, at his very feet, a human skull. That did not disturb him, though it was remarked by the sexton that he suddenly ceased talking. Bitter memories sat heavy on his soul. All at once his eyes began to open, and then became transfixed: his cheeks grew deadly pale, his body trembled, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. And why ? An inanimate skull could have no terrors for him. It could tell no tales ! no ! But there was that protruding from the back of the skull which kindled the dormant fires of conscience within him, as if they had been fires of hell. A nail I He stood petrified and breath- less ; * Cold fearful drops stood on his trembling flesh,' and, as his gaze became more rivetted, ho beheld horror of horrors ! the skull turn slowly round, without any visible agency, and direct its empty sockets upon him. He shrieked out, in irre- pressible agony of spirit, ' Guilty ! guilty ! God ! ' and fell insensible to the earth. When his faculties were restored, ho told those whom the sexton had summoned from the parsonage to his help, that * this was none other than the Lord's doing.' He made an ample confession before the authorities, was tried, convicted, and executed. The seemingly miraculous incident, viz., the moving of tho skull, was explained on natural grounds. A dormouse, revived by the outer air, had woke up from his slumbers, and, in run- ning from one side of his resting-place to the other, had caused the movement which had so disturbed and harrowed the con- science of the guilty one. 1829. Juno 11. Left London on a visit to friends in Scotland. Stayed in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Stirling, until T.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 131 1829. June 24. When I saw the contest between the Cale- donian and Bannockburn societies. At 5 p.m. left by coach for Callender, and slept at Macgregor's hotel. 1829. June 25. I saw the Pass of Leny, the Brig o' Brack- linn, and left at 3 p.m. for The Trosachs. On the road, there rushed out from a wretched hovel of mud and peat, not six feet high, a revolting-looking creature, half man, half brute a hirsute, red-haired, semi-nude ' natural ' or ' innocent,' who ran by the side of the chaise, gibbering and demanding alms. I was men- tioning him in the evening to my friends, when one of them re- marked that he had been once travelling the same road in the same sort of vehicle, when he saw the same daft animal dart from his lair and, on the sound of approaching wheels, vault over a little burn that rippled its course between him and the high road, run abreast of the carriage at a jog trot, gnawing a bare bone the while with as much apparent relish as if it had been substantial meat. ' How are ye the day, Sawney ?' asked my informant. Distainful silence ! * What ails ye, man ? ' Still no answer. * I gie ye the day, and ye wunna speak to me ! ' The poor creature, more used to the kicks of travellers than their half- pence, turned round, with a look significant of his insight into the interested motives of the questioner's civility, and answered him at last. <0u aye, ou aye! Mighty ceevil we are the day ! To-day it's, How are ye ? To-morrow 't will be, Gae W wi' ye ? There's aye plenty o' freends when there's onything -going!' 1829. June 26. Stayed with my friends, who had taken the inn, at Arroquhar, till August 0, 1829, when I left for Edin- burgh. Put up at Gibb's hotel, and found my uncles there ready to receive and welcome me. 1829. August 9. Edwin Landseer spent the evening with us, on his road home from a visit to the Duke and Duchess of Bedford at Rothiemurchus. August 25. Left Edinburgh for the Lakes. September 2. Reached London. September 10. I had a long walk round and round Fitz- roy Square with Macready. I was charmed with him. Ho is a reader, a thinker, and an actor. 1829. September 18. Spent .the evening with Tom Campbell, the poet, and his nephew, Dr. Wiss. We talked much of Mrs. Siddons, for whom his admiration is unbounded. 1830. January 10. Ordained deacon by Bishop Gray, at K 2 132 JOURNAL. [CIIAJ>. Bristol, having had letters dimissory to him from the Bishop of Chichester, in whose diocase my cure is .situate. A memorable and momentous epoch in my life ! 1830. February 11. Heard William Cobbett lecture. Strong sense, masculine English, extravagant prejudice, political eco- nomy, currency, radicalism, universal invective, all jumbled together ! Personally, a homely, independent, vigorous farmer, dressed in blue coat, brass buttons, broad-brimmed hat (a white one), drab breeches, top-boots. 1830. February 16. Saw the English Opera House burnt to the ground. A sad sight. 1830. June 16. I went with Frederick Reynolds, the dra- matist, to call on Godwin, the author of Caleb Williams and Political Justice. However heterodox, a mild, kindly old gentleman. I did not stay long enough to have a taste of his mental quality. I recollect his saying that there was no poem Shelley read so often, or with such enjoyment, as The Book of Job. Afterwards called on Jack Bannister, the hand- somest old man alive. Hair white as snow ! He is the only man now living who has played with Garrick ! He was taught by him, and gives one an inkling of what ho must have been, by his imitation of him. 1830. June 17. Went to Sir Thomas Lawrence's with Tomkison. On our way, after to the Royal Academy, Tom- kison told me that he took Sir Thomas, not long ago, to see some paintings of a very promising young artist, in whom ho felt interest. Lawrence said many encouraging things to the young man, which he received with becoming modesty. As ho was leaving, the youthful aspirant to fame said to his visitor, ' You have been kind enough to praise what you have seen. Would you give me some piece of advico which may help me in my pursuits for the future ? ' ' I do not know that I have any- thing to say, except this/ said Sir Thomas : ' You have round your room two or three rough, clever, but coarse, Flemish, sketches. Were I you, as a young man desirous to rise in my profession, I would not allow my eye to become familiarized with any but the highest forms of art. If you cannot afford to buy good oil-paintings of the first class, buy good engravings of great pictures ; or, have nothing at all upon your walls. You allow, in intercourse with your follows, that "evil communications corrupt good manners." So it is with pictures. If you allow your mind to become familiar with what in art is vulgar in concep- V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 133 tion, however free and dashing the handling, and however excellent the feeling for colour, your taste will, insensibly become depraved. Whereas, if you habituate your eye only to look on what is pure and grand, or refined and lovely, your taste will, insensibly, become elevated. An artist of well- earned reputation, who owed his position in his profession entirely to his own genius, and who had never seen any of the works of the greatest painters, went with ;me to see one of the grandest collections on the continent. It was arranged ac- cording to the different schools. It began with the German the Albert Durers, the Quentin Matsys, and Holbeins. It then proceeded with the Flemish and Dutch the Vandycks, the Breughels, the Ostades, the Teniers, the Gerard Dows, the Rys- daels, and the Rubenses. He was so enchanted with the vigour of pencil, the audacity of invention, the mastery of form, and the superb feeling for colour which characterized the works of Rubens, that I had difficulty in dragging him away from them. We then visited the Spanish school, with its Murillos and Velasquez, &c. ; the Bolognese school, with its Guercinos and Caraccis, and Carlo Dolces and Guides; then the Venetian school, with its Tintorettos, and Giorgiones, and Paul Veroneses, and Titians; and, lastly, the Urabrian, with its Peruginos, ITrancias, Michael Angelos, and Raphaels. When the custodian came to tell us it was the hour for the gallery to close, my friend's taste had been so educated by what he had seen, and Iris appreciation for art had been so developed, that, after con- templating the heavenly and chastened expression of the highest Italian types, on his repassing the Rubenses, which a few hours before had so delighted him, ho positively shuddered at their grossness, and hastened away from them as if he were in a low neighbourhood.' 1830. July 24. Ordained priest this day, by Carr, Bishop of Ohichester a day much to be remembered ! 1830. October 31. Appointed sub-chaplain of the Palace, Hampton Court; my chief, the Hon. and Rev. Dr. Gerald Wellcsley, the Duke of Wellington's brother, being non- resident. 1830. November 2. I sat a long time with Constable the artist, and watched him paint. He is a most gentle and amiable man. His works will have greater justice done them by pos- terity, when they have become mellowed and toned down by time. His theories of art are original and instructive. I was 134 JOURNAL. [CHAP. surprised to see the free and frequent use he makes of his palette-knife in painting; often, where he wants to impart force and breadth to his subject, preferring it to his brush. He told me that, if he lived in the country, and could afford it, he would never paint a landscape anywhere but in tho open air; that he believed most artists sketched their sub- jects out of doors, and finished them in ; and that he could always distinguish the parts of a picture which had been painted al fresco from those which had been elaborated iu the studio. My uncle, George Young, mentioned to me a beautiful instance of Constable's imperturbable sweetness of temper. He called on him one day, and was received by him in his front room. After half an hour's chat, the artist proposed to repair to the back, to show him a large picture on which he was engaged. On walking up to his easel, he found that one of his little boys, in his absence, had dashed the handle of the hearth- broom through the canvas, and made so large a rent in it as to render its restoration impossible. He called the child up to him, and asked him gently if he had done it. When the boy admitted that he had, he took him on his knee, and rebuked him in these unmeasured terms : * Oh, my dear pet ! See what we have done ! Dear, dear ! What shall we do to mend it ? I can't think can you "? ' 1830. December 13. I sat two hours with Jane and Anna Maria Porter, the authoresses of Sir Edward Seward's Narrative, The Scottish Chiefs, The Field of the Forty Footsteps, &c., &c. They are very feminine and ladylike, and utterly devoid of pedantry or Bas-Bleu-ism, or any other ism, except rheumatism, to which one of them is a martyr. I am glad to learn their excellent brother, Sir Robert Kerr, is coming home soon. 1831. January 10. I dined with Colonel and Mrs. Schenck. No one there but Merrewether, the Rector of Hampton. Colonel Schenck is a Dutchman, and, originally, came over here with the Stadtholder, with whom he was a favourite. At Kingston- on-Thames he was fortunate enough to form an acquaintance with a Mrs. Rolls, the widow of a rich brewer, and to marry her. They are a very original couple, and are a striking con- trast to each other. He is tall, with eyes so prominent as to excite fears in the minds of his friends that, in some sudden accession of anger, they may drop out of their sockets: she is short, with eyes so sunk in their lids, that it would not surprise one if they, some day, disappeared behind them altogether. V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. i:>f He is thin : she is fat. He is choleric : she is phlegmatic. He is as loquacious as a magpie : she is as mute as a mouse. In her movements she is as measured as a tortoise : whereas he is as mercurial as quicksilver itself. Certainly, if contraries in wedded life best assimilate, this couple ought to be the very model of connubial bliss. The gallant Colonel had a habit, if any sentiment were broached in his presence in which he did not acquiesce, of discharging an indignant ' What ? ' with such electric abruptness, rapidity, and reiteration, as to cow the timid, and effectually to silence the bravest, if they wished to avoid a quarrel. It was not often that his meek lady ventured to hazard a remark, even on the weather ; but I have known her so bold ; and if she chanced to say it was warm, when he thought it was chilly, he would fire a volley of 'Vat? vat? vats ? ' into her, and roll her over directly. It is difficult to convey, on paper, an idea of the irresistible power of one of those vocal discharges each vat ? vat ? vat ? increasing in in- tensity on repetition, and delivered with a rapidity and pre- cision, against which there was no standing up. It was a case for fight or flight. And, as one did not go out to dinner to engage in single combat, one laid down one's arms, and sur- rendered at discretion. Not long since I was dining with these good people, in company with the Rector of Hampton and three or four others. The coldness and hauteur of our national temperament was severely dwelt on by the Colonel, and un- favourably contrasted with the more genial natures of the Dutch. From men and manners, he descended to soil and climate, ' Here, surely/ said I, * you will award us the pre- ference ? I am sure, after having become almost naturalized, and having married and settled here, you would be sorry to tear up the attachments and associations you have formed, and re-establish yourself in Holland.' I had no sooner hazarded my thoughtless remark, than I foresaw the explosion that would come. * Vat ? vat ? VAT ? I tell you vat, Sir ! Mrs. Schenck is breaking very fast ! Just look at her ! I see a change in her every month 1 Look at her, I say ! ' (She was flushed with dinner, and looked likely to outlive him, unless carried off by an apoplectic fit). ' She's vasting avay fast ; and, as soon as 1 have paid friend Merrevedder de foes, and put her under de mould, I am off to live and die in my bootiful Hague ! ' Let me do justice to Mrs. Schenck, who was by far the more amiable of the two, though not without her own weaknesses. I was rather a favourite of hers ; and when my forthcoming mar- 136 JOURNAL. [CHAP. riagc was made known among my friends, she went to pay her congratulatory call on my future mother-in-law. After speaking of me in favourable terms, she wound up her eulogium of mo in these words : ' Ah ! my dear madam, you may rely on it, your daughter is going to have a treasure ! I never knew any man, in my life, so easily satisfied. Although he dines out so much, and at such grand houses, yet, if I only give him a basin of clear soup, a bit of fish, a slice of chicken and tongue, a snipe, a tart, a head or two of asparagus, and a glass of good wine (it must be drv), he is as contented as if ho had dined at Bushey. Well, I do congratulate you once for all ; so good- bye ; and you may as well bear in mind what I told you, eh ? ' My mother-in-law elect, not exactly knowing what she alluded to, asked her. ' Why, don't forget his sherry must le dry ! ' CHAPTER VI. 1831. JANUARY 15. To-day, Horace Seymour came to me to request my attendance, ministerially, on a private of the 9th Lancers, who had shot himself in the night, but not fatally. It would appear that, for some misconduct or other, ho had boon put in confinement all day : and, for precaution's sake, during the night, as he was known to be of choleric temper, his feet had been chained together, and a sentry placed on each side of him. As soon as his brother soldiers, who were to watch him, and who were on good terms with him, and had no reason to apprehend any violence at his hands, heard him snoring, they fell asleep ; and, when he had ascertained that they were not, like himself, shamming, ho gently drew a pistol from the belt of one of them, put it to the pit of his stomach, and pulled the trigger. Ho succeeded in wounding himself dangerously. A piece of the cloth of his waistcoat and trowscrs was propelled by tho ball into the lungs ; but the ball itself struck against the edge of the lowest of the small ribs, glanced from it, traversed round, and sank in the fleshy part of tho back, from whence it was extracted. I begged, and obtained, leave to keep the bullet as a curiosity ; for, incredible as it may appear, instead of its having d or broken the rib, the rib had indented a groove in it. 1831. April 13. I was this day, for tho first, and I sincerely hope tho last, time presented at tho levee at St. James's. It VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 137 was no 'vaulting ambition* on my part which caused me to 4 o'ciieap myself,' but a royal summons. The fact is, Sir Horace Seymour, one of William the Fourth's equerries, had called on me and told mo that the King had said to him, ' I hear you have got a new clergyman as chaplain in Gerald Wellesley's place. Why has he never been to pay his duty to me ? ' Sir Horace told his Majesty he was sure I had kept away from diffidence. * Nonsense ! Tell him Hampton Court chapel is a lloyal one ; and, as he is now its minister, I expect to see him here at my next levee* After this, I had no alternative but to submit and go. Sir George Seymour was kind enough to take me in his car- riage, and Sir Horace to present me. Before going into the large waiting-room, where all the presentees were waiting for the doors to be thrown open, I expressed my fears to Sir Horace that I should be guilty of some solecism in good manners, from my utter ignorance of court usages. He ridiculed my nervous- ness, and promised to stand by me and pilot me through the quicksands and shoals by which I conceived myself surrounded in such a place. * Follow in the wake of others, and imitate their example. Bow lower than you would to any one else; and, when you have kissed hands, mind you don't turn your back upon the King; were the simple instructions given me. My turn came in due time, and in spite of all the cautions given me, the very instant I had kissed hands I turned my back upon the sovereign and hurried off. I had no sooner thus committed myself, than Sir Horace came hurrying after me, and laughingly caught hold of my shoidders, saying, * Take heart ; your retreat has been covered by a Surrey baronet, who, on seeing the royal hand outstretched, instead of reverently kissing it, caught hold of it and wrung it lustily.' Still further to comfort me in my embarrassment, he told me, that, a few days previously, at a former levee, a city alderman, more familiar with the yard measure than the sword, in backing from the presence, got the martial weapon so entangled between his legs, that he was tripped up by it and thrown prostrate on the floor. As ho lay floundering there, the Sailor King, in utter defiance of all the established rules of regal reserve and dignity, whispered, with infinite glee, to those around him, * By Jove, the fellow has caught a crab ! ' and then burst into a hearty peal of laughter. 1831. May 3. I dined with a large party at ' The Pavilions/ 138 JOURNAL. [Cn.vr. at General Moore's. His charming residence, on the skirts of the Home Park in one direction, and of the Thames in another, and immediately opposite Boyle Farm (celebrated for its Dandy's Ball), was once occupied by the late Duchess of Gloucester. It was assigned to its present tenant in recognition of important services rendered by him to the Duke of Kent, when his life was endangered in the Pig-tail Mutiny at Gibraltar. In the evening there was a ball, at which I was witness to an introduction between two gentlemen, which tickled my sense of the ludicrous acutely. A Colonel W had been dining with an old brother officer, who had but just returned from India, and whom he had not seen for some years. He brought him in the course of the evening to the ball at the Pavilions. The Colonel, with high broad shoulders, epaulettes up to his cars, a stiff military carriage, and a salute rather than a bow, presented his friend to the General in the following terms : * General Moore ! let me introduce to you a friend of mine ! * Then, waiving his hand from one to the other, in the approved fashion, he said * General Moore! Captain Cox ! General Cox! Captain Moore ! ' The rapidest instances of promotion and reduction I ever heard of. 1831. June 10. I dined with Admiral Sir George Scott. Our party consisted of Lord Mount Edgecumbe, the Hon. Mr. Harbord, Mr. and Mrs. Quentin Dick, Mr. and Mrs. Dawkins, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert, Archdeacon Cambridge, John W. Croker, Jesse, and Theodore Hook. I chronicle this dinner because of an unlucky contretemps which befel me there. After the cloth was removed, many a joke was cracked at my expense, in consequence of my recent blunder at the levee, of which Hook had heard. As a parallel to it, I told my story of the Scotch laird at Holy Rood. One of the party, piqued at the mirth excited by my story, said, in a somewhat supercilious tone, * Se non e vero e" ben tro- vato,' on which my host came unexpectedly to my rescue, and at the same time covered me with confusion by stating ; * Incre- dible as you may think what Young has told you, I can vouch for its truth ; for the gentleman alluded to was my own uncle/ Pleasant for me ! 1831. June 16. I heard Paganini. The furore there has been about this man has bordered on fatuity. The prices paid for seats to see and hear him have been fabulous. On the principle, I presume, of 'omno ignotum pro magnifico' the great violinist has shut himself up in close confinement VI.J JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 131) since his arrival in this country, and refused to receive any one but bis entrepreneur and his dentist. In both cases the relaxa- tion of his rule was a matter of necessity, and not of choice. With the gentleman who bad engaged him he could not avoid making certain preliminary arrangements for his delmt. Still less could he dispense with the help of the dentist; for, as nature had failed him in her supplies, art was called in to aid him. Sorely discomfited, on arriving in London, by the state of his teeth, and hearing that, among the brethren of the profession, Cartwright was facile princeps, he sent for him ; and after having such teeth as he had filed and scraped, he asked him if he could undertake to supply him with such as he had not by the following Thursday. The commission was un- hesitatingly accepted, and faithfully executed. On Paganini's asking Cartwright what he owed for the service he had ren- dered him, the dentist assured him that he felt honoured by having had it in his power to administer to the comfort of such a man; and that the only remuneration he could think of claiming at his hands would be his giving him the pleasure of his company at dinner the next day. After such extraordinary liberality, Paganini felt that he had no alternative but to accept the invitation so gracefully given. It happened that ten minutes after the great lion of the hour had left the door in Burlington Street, the Duke of Devonshire entered it, by appointment, to have his teeth looked at. Cart wright asked his noble patient in the course of his manipulations if he had yet been fortunate enough to hear Paganini. The Duke said that he had tried to get him at Devonshire House, but had been unable to induce him to go, his reason for refusal being that it would not suit him to play in private till after his appearance in public. 'Well,' said Cartwright, 'there is no rule that has not its exception, and I shall be very much surprised, my Lord Duke, if I do not hear him to-morrow.* ' How so ? ' exclaimed his Grace. Because he dines here ; and I feel sure will bring his instrument with him.' ' Good gracious,' said the Duke, ' I wish you would ask me to meet him.' Of course Cartwright immediately did so. The Duke told every one he called on in the afternoon that he was going to meet the great lion next day, and where. By a curious coincidence the Duke of , and the Duke of , and the Duke of , and the Duke of , instantly discovered that their teeth were much out of order; and the next morning, between ten o'clock and one, four dukes had been under Cart- 140 JOURNAL. [CHAP. Wright's hands, and received invitations to his table for tho same day. The consequence was, that when Paganini arrived at seven p.m. to dinner, in a hackney-coach, expecting to meet a professional friend or two of his host, he found himself sitting down with the most aristocratic party he had ever met in his life, and among them the very magnate whom he had refused to honour with his fiddle. 1831. June 18. Dined with Mr. Jesse. Met, as one always docs, a most agreeable party at his house. None among them shone more brilliantly than James Smith, one of the joint authors of Eejected Addresses. His talk for conversation it was not was very lacy and witty, and his memory nothing short of marvellous. He quoted pages of Pope and Goldsmith ; and sang some of his facetious songs to his own accompaniment. J esse gave me a curious instance of his ready wit. When ho was preparing for the press his Gleanings in Natural History, James Smith one day unexpectedly burst in upon him. The moment he saw him, he said, ' My dear Smith, you have como in the very nick of time, as my good genius, to extricate mo from a difficulty. You must know that to each of my chapters I have put an appropriate heading : I mean by that, that each chapter has prefixed to it a quotation from some well-known author, suited to the subject treated of with one exception. I have been cudgelling my brains for a motto for my chapter on " Crows and Rooks," and cannot think of one. Can you ? ' * Certainly,' said he, with felicitous promptitude, * here is one from Shakspeare for you ! ' 4 The cause (caws), my soul, the cause (caws).' After dinner we were talking of divers incongruities in language, genders, and grammar as a science. I had the effrontery to say that it had always struck me that grammars might be very much simplified in their construction ; and that there was one error common to those of the one or two languages with which I had any familiarity which I should like to see corrected namely, the giving the rule before the definition ; that this was putting the cart before the horse ; and that I fancied that, if a number of instances were given first, of ' an adjective agreeing with its substantive, in gender, number, and case/ tho scholar would deduce the rule almost for himself: whereas, according to the present system, tho pupil must accept tho rule arbitrarily imposed, without understanding it, until the definitions made it clear. There was so much quotation from V.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 1-11 Home Tooke, and Harris, and Priestley, and Lord Monboddo y that I began to feel I was getting out of my depth, and there- fore made a diversion by remarking the singular fact that though the sun in most languages was masculine, in German it was feminine ; and the moon, usually feminine, masculine. ' By-the-bye,' said I, ' if I recollect rightly, in Latin, the names of rivers are generally masculine.' ' I forget,' said James Smith, * but that can't be the invariable rule in English, for the two great American rivers must be feminine Miss-souri and Miss- fiisippi.' 1831. July 2. Dined with John Wilson Croker. Our party consisted of Sir Dudley Hill, Dorrington, Captain Pennell, Theodore Hook, James Smith, and Jesse. A curious and rather grave discussion arose on the prayer in our Evening; Service, ' Lighten our darkness ;' in which Croker shone, and showed greater seriousness of mind than I was prepared for. Later in the evening there was a wonderful rebound from gravity to levity ; for Theodore Hook was in a state of rampant spirits, and would keep calling, as if by an involuntary slip of the tongue, though, I am sure, on purpose, Sir Dudley Hill, 1 Sir Hudley Dill,' and Miss Matilda Jesse, 'Miss Jatilda Mess.' 1831. November 19. Dined with Lord and Lady George Seymour, the Honourable William de Koos, Mr. Frederick Sey- mour, the Honourable William Temple (Lord Palmerston's brother), and Count Danniskiold. The Count is a Dane of high rank, an accomplished man, and one of the most elegant dancers in Europe. He speaks English admirably, and rarely makes a blunder. However, he made an amusing one last night. He was being bantered on having paid marked attention to one of the Miss C s, a young lady in the neighbourhood, reputed rich, but rather plain. On some one saying, You can't admire her looks, Count ! ' he replied, in a deprecating tone,, * Come, come you are a leetle hard upon me. She may not be beautiful, but, I must say, I tink she has a sweet expression in some of her eyes.' 1831. December 19. Dined at Miss Byng's. Waited some time for Sir John and Lady Kirkland. When they arrived, he brought a black eye with him. It seems on his road, seeing a man belabouring his wife cruelly, he jumped out to her rescue, but the moment he interfered actively in her cause, she fell on him and gave him a black eye in requital for his chivalry. 1831. December. Shortly after taking up my residence at 142 JOURNAL. [OIIAP. Hampton Court, I went to call on Mrs. Boehm, at her apart- ments in the palace. She was the widow of a very wealthy Russian merchant, who had retired from business, and had purchased the estate of Ottershaw. Their benevolence to tho poor, their reputation for hospitality, and their proximity to Oatlands, soon recommended them to the notice of the Duke and Duchess of York, who conceived great regard for them, and introduced them into the very highest circles. On being shown into the vacant drawing-room, and after admiring a very large full-length portrait of a handsome lady playing the harp, which I afterwards heard was meant for Mrs. Boehm's self in younger days, I observed an ornament in the centre of her table, remarkable rather for its material value than for any originality in its design. It was a pillar of solid gold ; I should think, of some twelve inches in height, with a square base, if I recollect aright. I was stooping to decypher the inscription, when its owner herself entered. Perceiving how I was engaged, she begged me to suspend any further investi- gation until she had told me its history. ' You must understand, Mr. Young, that the object you were looking at was presented to me by his Royal Highness the Prince Regent in commemoration of an event of great historical importance which occurred under my roof when I lived in St. James's Square. I allude to no less a fact than the first news of the success of our arms at Waterloo.' On my manifesting some curiosity to hear the details of a scene of such rare and exceptional interest, the good lady, nothing loth, with an air of pride at the recollection of departed glories, mingled with mortification at their collapse, proceeded with her narrative. ' Ah ! Mr. Young, very few of his Majesty's subjects ever had a more superb assembly collected together than I had on the night of the 21st of June, 1815. That dreadful night! Mr. Boehm had spared no cost to render it the most brilliant party of tho season ; but all to no purpose. Never did a party, promising so much, terminate so disastrously ! All our trouble, anxiety, and expense were utterly thrown away in consequence of what shall I say? Well, I must say it the unseasonable declaration of the Waterloo victory ! Of course, one was very glad to think one had beaten those horrid French, and all that sort of thing ; but still, I always shall think it would have been far better if Henry Percy had waited quietly till the morning, instead of bursting in upon us, as he did, in such indecent VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 145 haste ; and even if he had told the Prince alone, it would have been better ; for I have no doubt his Royal Highness would have shown consideration enough for my feelings not to have published the news till the next morning.' She then went on to give me a formidable list of the dis- tinguished persons who had reflected the lustre of their presence on her party ; laying special stress on the names of two or three Princes of the Blood Royal. In her somewhat discursive account, she stated that, while in the act of receiving her visitors to the dinner which preceded the ball, as she was standing by the Prince Regent, the groom of the chambers, in a loud and pompous voice, shouted forth * Their Royal Highnesses the Duke of Sussex and Prince Augustus of Sussex ! ' (since better known by the humbler title of Sir Augustus D'Este). On hearing this announcement, the Regent, with eyes flashing and colour heightened, turned his back on his brother of Sussex, and said to the Duke of York, who was standing next to him, * Frederick, tell Adolphus from me, that if he ever allows that young man to assume that title again, he and I do not speak to each other.' ' After dinner was over, and the ladies had gone upstairs, and the gentlemen had joined them, the ball guests began to arrive. They came with unusual punctuality, out of deference to the Regent's presence. After a proper interval, I walked up to the Prince, and asked if it was his Royal Highness's pleasure that the ball should open. The first quadrille was in the act of forming, and the Prince was walking up to the dais on which his seat was placed, when I saw every one without the slightest sense of decorum rushing to the windows, which had been left wide open because of the excessive sultriness of the weather. The music ceased and the dance was stopped ; for we heard nothing but the vociferous shouts of an enormous mob, who had just entered the Square, and were running by the side of a post-chaise and four, out of whose windows were hanging three nasty French eagles. In a second the door of the carriage was flung open, and, without waiting for the steps to be let down, out sprang Henry Percy such a dusty figure ! with a flag in each hand, pushing aside every one who happened to be in his way, darting up stairs, into the ball-room, stepping hastily up to the Regent, dropping on one knee, laying the flags at his feet, and pronouncing the words " Victory, Sir ! Victory ! " The Prince Regent, greatly overcome, went into an adjoining room to read the despatches ; after a whilo he returned, said a 144 JOURNAL. [CHAP. few sad words to us, sent for his carriage, and left the house. The royal brothers soon followed suit ; and in less than twenty minutes there was not a soul left in the ball-room but poor dear Mr. Boehm and myself. Such a scene of excitement, anxiety, and confusion never was witnessed before or since, I do believe f Even the band had gone, not only without uttering a word of apology, but even without taking a mouthful to eat. The splendid supper which had been provided for our guests stood in the dining-room untouched. Ladies of the highest rank, who had not ordered their carriages till four o'clock a.m., rushed away, like maniacs, in their muslins and satin shoes, across the Square ; some accompanied by gentlemen, others without escort of any kind; all impatient to learn the fate of those dear to them ; many jumping into the first stray hackney-coaches they fell in with, and hurrying on to the Foreign Office or Horse Guards, eager to get a sight of the List of Killed and Wounded.' At first sight there may appear to be a discrepancy between the statement of the Dowager Countess Brownlow, in her Re- miniscences, and Mrs. Boehrn's to me ; but they are by no means incompatible with each other. The arrival of the chaise at Mrs. Boehm's door had taken place before Lady Brownlow received the message from her aunt, Lady Castlereagh, to dress and join her. When she arrived, therefore, the sensation in tho ball-room had taken place, and the Prince was in the next room listening to the despatches. He returned, * came in and said a few sad words,' and retired. If, however, the difference of statement between my version and Lady Brownlow's, still appear to any irreconcileable, I can only say, from my knowledge of the clearness of Lady B.'s intellect, and the unfailing fidelity of her memory, her ladyship's account may be safely accepted in pre- ference to mine. How soon after the palmy days referred to, the Boehms fell into poverty I know not ; but, certain it is, that before the apartments in Hampton Court Palace were given them, Mr. Boehm built a cottage at Sidmouth, to which ho and his wifo retired, and which was afterwards rented by Bacon the sculptor, who commemorated the fact in tho following linos: Mrs. Boehm wrote a poem On the Sidmouth uir ; Mr. Boehm read the IXM-MI, And built a cottage tli' re. V.] Jl'LIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 145 Mr. Bacon, all forsaken, Wandered to the spot, Mrs. Bacon he has taken Partner of his lot. As they longer live, the stronger Their affection grows, Every season, they with reason Bless the spot they chose. 1831. July. I cannot resist mentioning certain incidents which occurred last Sunday and the two previous ones. At the western extremity of Hampton Court chapel there is a gallery, which is divided into three compartments : one being for peers, one for peeresses, and the centre one, which is the largest, for the royal family. Beneath this gallery is the ante- chapel, on both sides of which are ranged the. soldiers of the cavalry regiment which happens to be quartered in the barracks. In the body of the chapel the gentlemen are ranged on one side, the ladies on the other. Three Sundays ago, the weather being very hot, a handsome young lady, a Miss B y, not a resident in the palace, but living in the vicinity, fainted. Considerable commotion arising ,mong those near her, Sir Horace Seymour, the most powerful as well as the handsomest man in the place, walked across the chapel, raised the prostrate fair one in his arms, carried her to his apartments, deposited her on a sofa, left her to the charge of his housekeeper, and straightway returned to his seat Strange to say, on the two following Sundays, a young lady fainted, and each time a different one ; and on each occasion, as if by prescriptive right, the same gallant knight performed the same kind office for the sufferers, and then returned to his devotions. On the last of these three fainting Sundays, Lady George Seymour, a very clever and high-spirited lady, the milk of whose kindly nature was getting soured by these periodical visitations, came to me in the vestry, after service, and said, * I say, Mr. Young, this nonsense must not be allowed to go on. This fashion for fainting will degenerate into an epidemic, if it is not put a determinate stop to. With your permission, I will affix, before next Sunday, this notice in the cloister, at the door of entrance : NOTICE. * Whereas a tendency to faint is becoming a prevalent in- finity among young ladies frequenting this chapel, notice is 146 JOURNAL. [CnAP. hereby given, that, for the future, ladies so affected will no longer be carried out by Sir Horace Seymour, by but Brans- combe the dustman.' I cannot say that this notice was ever carried out : but the threat of it getting wind, the desired effect was produced, and * the plagued was stayed.' Lord George Seymour, the father of the present Sir Hamilton Seymour, and his two nephews, Sir George and Sir Horace, have, and have long had, apartments in the palace. Mr. Frederick Seymour, the other brother, resides in Brighton. I doubt whether England can produce any three brothers of equal blood, bearing, breeding, and beauty. The combined sweetness and manliness of Sir George's coun- tenance is materially marred by a ghastly wound through lip and chin, received from a splinter while gallantly boarding an enemy's ship off St. Domingo; but it cannot obliterate the moral beauty of its expression. In spite of this disfigurement, he captivates every one who approaches him, not more by his high-breeding than by the benevolence of his manners, which are, after all, but the outward reflex of a truly noble and amiable disposition. Frederick Seymour, the youngest of the brothers, is, beyond all question, the handsomest of the three : ' His features clear, as by a chisel shaped, Made manhood godlike, as a Greek's of old.' Attached to neither of the services, military or naval, his name is less distinguished than that of either Sir George or Sir Horace, though there is no reason for supposing that he would have been a whit behind them in gallantry, if he had had the opportunity of displaying it. Sir Horace, critically speaking inferior to Sir George in ex- pression, and to Frederick in feature, in stature and in chivalric grandeur of deportment eclipses them both. In height, he was six feet four inches, and, like Poins, 'a proper fellow of his hands/ His mien was princely ; and his smile so gracious, and his reputation for daring so established, that he rarely entered a drawing-room without fluttering the pulses of that sex who are even more sensitive to bravery than to beauty. With George IV. ho was an extraordinary favourite. He entertained such an admiration for his handsome looks and figure, that, whenever he designed any alteration in the uniform of his regiments which was very often he always had the patterns fitted to his person. VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 147 And he had such an exalted estimate of his courage, and so little reliance on his own, that he delighted to have him near his person. He would submit to negligences, ignorances, over- sights, and shortcomings from him which he would not have tolerated from one of his own brothers. On one occasion, for instance, either at the Cottage at Virginia Water or at the Pavilion (I forget which), Seymour, in waltzing, knocked over a magnificent China jar of great price. To the astonishment of all present, instead of the Kegent's giving way to wrath, he merely put his hand gently on the offender's shoulder, smiled, and said with infinite good humour, ' My dear Horace, what a careless fellow you are ! ' He tried hard, on the eve of his coronation, to induce Mr. Dymoke, through the intercession of Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, to waive his rights as champion, in favour of his protege ; but to no purpose. The late Marquis of Anglesey, who had had abundant op- portunities of witnessing Horace Seymour's feats of personal prowess (for he had been his body aide-de-camp at Waterloo), declared one davat dinner, at Admiral Bowater's, that, in the final pursuit at Waterloo, at least, after the last great charge, he saw him, in imitation of the French (whose swordmanship, by- the-bye, he has often extolled to me), charge 'at point' and pink out of their saddles, by sheer force of arm and length of sword, six or seven cuirassiers, one after the other. The Marquis of Anglesey, then Earl of Uxbridge, at a parti- cular crisis in the battle of Waterloo, seeing the Cumberland regiment of Hanoverian hussars considerably in the rear on the Brussels road, ordered them forward, and posted them in a position as little exposed as possible. * But, as soon as the shot began to fly about them a little, the colonel and his whole regi- ment took themselves out of the field. Lord Uxbridge,' says Siborne, ' ordered Captain Horace Seymour (as he then was) to go to the colonel, and insist on his return. Colonel Hake told him he had no confidence in his men, who were mere volunteers, and that their horses were their own. The regiment continued moving to the rear, notwithstanding Captain Seymour's repeating the order to halt, and asking the second in command to save the honour and character of the corps by placing himself at its head, and fronting the men. Finding his remonstrances produced no effect, he laid hold of the bridle of the colonel's horse, and com- mented on his conduct in terms such as no man of honour could have been expected to listen to unmoved. This officer, however, appeared perfectly callous to any sense of shame, and far more L 2 148 JOURNAL. [CHAP. disposed to submit to these attacks upon his honour, than he had been to receive those of the enemy upon his person and his regiment. Upon rejoining the Earl of Uxbridge, and relating what had passed, Captain Seymour was again directed to proceed to the commanding officer, and to desire that, if he persevered in refusing to resume his position in the line, he would at least form the regiment across the high road out of fire. But even this order was disregarded, and the corps went altogether to the rear, spreading alarm and confusion all the way to Brussels.' Mr. Siborne is considered such high authority, that I suppose his statement may be relied upon ; though I have heard from a member of the family that Seymour caught hold of the recreant colonel by the collar, threw him out of his saddle, and offered to lead the men into action himself : but that they had been so infected by the cowardice of their colonel, that they instantly turned tail and galloped off to Brussels venire a terre. It is rather a singular coincidence that Sir Horace should have been the first to see Picton fall, and the first to hear from Lord Uxbridge's lips of the shot which rendered the amputation of his leg necessary. In stating the first of these circumstances, Siborne mentions that Picton's death, ' which was instantaneous, was first observed by the Earl of Uxbridge's aide-de-camp, Captain Horace Seymour, whom he was at the moment desiring to rally the Highlanders. Captain Seymour, whose own horse was just then falling, immediately called the attention of Picton's aide-de-camp, Captain Tyler, to the fact of the general having been wounded ; and in the next moment the hero's lifeless corpse was, with the assistance of a private soldier of the nearest regi- ment, borne off from his charger by that officer.' With regard to the circumstances attending Lord Uxbridge's wound, I find my recollection of Sir Horace's account of it to me again at variance with that of Siborne's statement. In saying this, however, I must repeat, that my memory has always been a very bad one ; and that, therefore, the representation of one, who has taken conscientious pains in verifying facts, as Siborne has done, is not to be impugned. My impression is, that Sir Horace told me it was late in the evening, after the Prussians had come up, and when he was riding off the field in company with Lord Uxbridge, that his companion said to him * I'm hit ! ' * Oh ! surely,' said Seymour, ' it is fancy.' ' No ; I am hit, and by a spent ball. Get off your horse, and judge for yourself.' Sir Horace then dismounted, and Lord Uxbridge guided his finger to the spot. ' Feel feel,' said VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 140 he ; and as Seymour did so, his finger went into a small hole, in which, he said, he could distinctly feel bits of bone grating against each other like so many small shells. With help, he lifted him from his saddle, and forthwith con- veyed him to the neighbouring village of Waterloo, where his leg was amputated. During the operation Lord Uxbridge indulged in jokes at his own expense ; saying, he should lose' ground in the esteem of the ladies by the loss of his leg ; ' for,' said ho, ' as legs go, it was not a bad one.' In one of my many rides with Sir Horace, I asked him if the pictures of Lord Uxbridge, with his drawn sword, charging at the head of his cavalry, and leading them into action, were to be considered as truthful, and to be taken au pied de la lettre. ' Yes,' said he. * But was it right for one in such a responsible position to put himself forward as he did?' 'No doubt,' ho replied, * strictly speaking, it was wrong. But the fact was, ho put himself into unnecessary peril ; not, I fear, so much from a desire to animate his followers by his example, as from weari- ness of life ; he was so miserable in his domestic relations. I will give you a proof of it. At one moment, when it was pour- ing with rain, he tore off the oil- skin cover from his busby, that his rank in the service, defined by the ornament in front, might make him a more conspicuous mark. Just before the great charge of [I think he said the Life Guards at GenappeJ, ho cried' out to me' in a fierce and reckless tone, " Now, Horace, which of us will be in among them first ? " He dug his spurs into his horse's side, and took the lead of us all.' Whether this was the charge of which Sir Andrew Barnard used to speak, I can- not say. But he it was who declared that, in one charge, he saw Sir Horace dash into the very centre of a dense body of cavalry, and, by the weight of his horse, the length of his sword, and the strength of his arm, cleave his way clean through them. On turning round to see where he was, he found himself alone in the enemy's lines. Of course he thought the game was all up with him. But, favoured by the smoko in which he was enveloped, he turned his horse's head before ho was observed ; and, resolving to sell his life dearly, charged through them again from behind. The enemy's troops, seeing him alone among them, at first were puzzled to know whether he were friend or foe : and, impressed by his handsome uniform, his stature and bearing, instinctively fell back, and made a lane for him to pass through. Whilo taking advantage of their doubts or their courtesy whichever it may have been he 150 JOURNAL. [CHAP. descried his friend D standing by some guns, a prisoner. It was the work of a second for Seymour, flinging back his left leg, and crying out ' Quick, quick ! jump ! I've a stirrup to spare/ to catch hold of D by the breech, throw him across the pommel o his saddle, as if he had been a sack of corn, and gallop off with him. Both escaped, as if by miracle, for many shots were fired at them, as soon as the French discovered their mistake. I heard Sir George Seymour tell the following story of his brother's bravery when I was once staying with him at Lord Yarborough's, at Appuldurcombe : 'On one of the four days, the 15th, 16th, 17th, or 18th, I cannot say which, there was, as if by common consent, as thorough a suspension of hostilities as if there had been a formal armistice. A stream ran between the opposing forces, to which the troops on either side eagerly repaired, for the purpose of slaking their raging thirst ; and those who had recently been engaged in deadly combat were good-humouredly chaffing each other, when a gigantic soldier came from out the French ranks, and challenged any man in the English to meet him in single combat. ' Do you hear that, Horace ? ' said one of a group of cavalry officers who were collected together. ' Yes, I hear it ! ' said he, with clenched teeth. In another second he had leaped his horse across the brook, dashed in among the enemy, and in the sight of both armies fought with and slain the boastful Goliath. This dauntless Paladin, where his affections were involved, was as gentle as a woman. When first I made his acquaint- ance, he had but recently lost his beautiful wife. No man ever suffered under bereavement more poignantly. For many weeks he was nearly beside himself. At her burial, his vio- lence was uncontrollable. He flung himself wildly on her coffin, and it took six strong men to drag him out of her grave. Long after her death he refused to see any but the members of his own family and myself. Although in his earlier days ho had a reputation for gallantry, which was not confined to the battle-field, he became, after marriage, the most loyal and devoted of husbands. If any surviving members of his family should chance to cast their eyes on these pages, I hope, in con- sideration of the lapse of nearly forty years, they will forgive me if I mention a little illustration of the tenderness of this beau gabreur. He, one day, thrust into my hand one of his boy's lesson books, on which there was indented a nail mark of their VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 151 mother's, which defined the limit of the task prescribed. I never shall forget the passion with which he kissed it, and then rushed to his bedroom to vent in solitude the anguish of his heart. Years after, when time, and faith, and resignation had blunted the keen edge of retrospection, Sir Horace was fortu- nate enough to gain the love of a second wife in the person of the present Dowager Lady Clinton. He died, I believe, in St. James's Place, London, leaving behind him one daughter and two sons. The daughter is the present Dowager Countess Spencer. The younger son is Admiral Beauchamp Seymour. The elder, who united in his person the beauty of his mother and the chivalry of his father, died a hero's death, in defending the prostrate body of Sir George Cathcart against the brutality of the Kussian soldiery at Inkermann. There was one other person at Hampton Court with whom I was brought into contact a man of considerable mark, from whom I received notice and hospitality, viz., the well-known Secretary of the Admiralty, John Wilson Croker. 1832. March. John Wilson Croker was a faithful public servant, but a passionate partisan. For one-and-twenty years he sat at the Admiralty Board, its influential and indefatigable secretary. For five-and-twenty years he was an active member of the senate ; prompt and effective in debate : a master of detail ; one of the pillars of the Tory party. For forty years he filled a prominent, if not an elevated position, in the world of letters, in which, though he had the reputation of met- ing hard measure to others, it was certainly measured to him again. Perhaps few men, who lived within the last half cen- tury, contrived to provoke a greater amount of personal hostility than Croker. He was a man of vast and versatile ability, of singular astuteness, of great powers of application, of a high sense of duty ; but possessed an asperity of temperament which caused him to take a pessimist view of everything which came within his keen but narrow scrutiny. Against the consistency of his political career I doubt if any- thing could be advanced by his bitterest antagonists ; ' He was constant as the Northern Star, Of whose tnie, fixt; and resting quality There was no fellow in the firmament ' of St. Stephen's. During a transition pariod, when even such men as the Iron Duke were forced to sacrifice their convictions, and bend to the pressure of imperious necessity, Croker stood 152 JOURNAL. [CHAP. firm as rock. Believing, as he honestly did, that reform, if carried, would be the inevitable precursor of revolution, ho adhered doggedly to the old traditional policy to which he had been attached ; and opposed, with might and main, the doctrines of progress, which he felt persuaded would tend to the sub- version of the monarchy, and the undermining of our most venerable institutions, especially the Church. I remember, in speaking of the perils of the Establishment, his saying, * C'est un vieux batiment, si on y touche, il croulera.' The virulence with which he assailed political opponents, and the merciless energy with which he slashed and tomahawkf.d the writings both of friends and foes in the pages of the Quar- terly , begot an accumulation of antipathy to him which would have crushed a man of ordinary sensibility ; but made only a transitory impression on his robust and impenetrable nature. The majority of the present generation, who have derived their impression of him either from Mr. Disraeli's able but sar- castic delineation of him under the character of Rigby, or else from the reports of those who have writhed under the lash of his incisive invective will naturally think of him as one of the least loveable of men. But, however, he may have abused his critical acumen to the pain and prejudice of others, in private life he exhibited qualities deserving of respect and admiration. To the poor and friendless he was generous : when not blinded by party feeling, he was conscientious ; in the face of perpetual opposition, he was courageous. He was a, jtender husband and an indulgent father. He had stuff enough in him for the making of a great statesman, though he hardly ever attained to that rank in public estimation. It is a notorious fact, that during the debates on the Reform question, he took the wind out of Peel's sails. The fact was, that shortly before the bill came into committee, Croker had been confined to his bed for many days by serious indisposition. During that time, as ho lay on his back, he studied the contents of every schedule, dissected them with anatomical precision, and sniffed out every unsavoury clause that could be objected to. The consequence was, that when he had risen from his bed, and found himself again on the floor of the House of Commons, he displayed sncli intimate knowledge of his subject, that Peel, who, from the multiplicity of his avocations, had not had leisure to dcvoto the same exclusive study to the question, gladly gave to him tho pas, and allowed him not only to bear the burden and the heat,. VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 153 but to win the honours of tho battle. He so signalized himself on this occasion by his adroitness, that he astonished the most rancorous of his opponents, and greatly enhanced his reputation with the leaders of his party. From that time Peel never neglected to consult him on every great question that came before him. I told him that I had heard as much, and asked him if it were true. ' Yes,' said he, * he always asks my advice, and never takes it.' From that time the Duke of Wellington gave him more and more of his confidence ; and on his coming to power, offered him high place in his administration ; but his health had been BO shattered by the extraordinary excitement and exertion which he had undergone during the Reform agita- tion, thut his wife extorted a promise from him that he would never accept office or sit in a reformed House of Commons. His dread of the consequences to the country through the admission of the Reform Bill was quite genuine, though, as the event has proved, greatly exaggerated. I heard him tell Theodore Hook and the late Mr. Jesse, at his own table, that he had warned Lord Palmerston,* the very last day he saw him in the House of Commons, of the probable fruits which he might expect to reap from the seed he had sown : in plain words, the consequences of what he designated as his unpatriotic conduct in having aided in the passing of tho Reform Bill through Parliament. ' Well, Palmerston, you have raised the whirlwind, but you will never live to ride on it, nor direct the storm which will follow. I leave this house for ever, a sadder, if not a wiser, man ! All I pray for is a few brief years of political peace before I lay my head on my pillow and give up the ghost. You will go on your way exulting for a while ;. but probably will be, one day, impeached, and -have to lay your head upon the block.' False prophet as he proved, his faith in his own predictions was sincere. I was one day dining with him at his house at Moulsey, when ho dilated at great length, and with much gloom, on the dis- astrous future he had augured for England to tho King. ' When. William tho Fourth,' he said, * was Duke of Clarence and Lord High Admiral, I was of course, as Secretary to the Admiralty, * Vide Sir H. Bulwer's Life of Palmerston,' vol. i., p. 364, wherein Croker says to Palmerston, '"Are you resolved or nut to vote for Parlia- mentary Iteform?" I said, "I am." "Well then," said he, "there's no use in talking to you any more on the subject. You and I, I am grieved to say, will never sit again on the same bench together." ' I quote this as confirmatory of the language I heard him use. 154 JOURNAL. [CHAP. Brought into frequent and intimate relations with him. I found him invariably frank and straightforward. He did not resent my being so too. You may remember for it is matter of noto- riety that I opposed him tooth and nail when he amused him- self at the public expense by squandering heavy sums on salutes, &c., &c.* One day, after he had succeeded to the throne, he sent for me, telling me that he wished to talk over the bill with me. I was greatly struck by the magnanimity with which he per- mitted me to speak my mind. Think of my having dared to say as follows : " Sire, when you yielded your high sanction to this bill, you admitted the principle of numerical representation in preference to representation according to property and intelli- gence. With all due deference to your Majesty, this was a lamentable error. In making this unreasonable concession to vulgar clamour, you played the part of the old Charlies, who, though salaried as the guardians of the public peace and the conservators of public property, were the very men to let in the thieves. Thus has your Majesty, the natural guardian of tho constitution, and the conservator of monarchical principles, by opening the door to a vicious and untried theory, let in the thieves. I see you smile, Sire. You may not live to see the consequences of your own acts, but they are none the less in- evitable. If I strike a defenceless woman on the breast, I may see no signs of my cruelty for years ; but in course of time my blow produces cancer, and she dies. And I conceive that when you affixed your sign manual to the Reform Bill, you, un- wittingly no doubt, struck so deadly a blow against the breast of poor Britannia, that, ere long, it will engender a political cancer which will gradually but surely eat out the very vitals of our beautiful constitution, republicanize our most venerable institutions, and upset the throne itself into the mud ! " I suspect few people now alive are aware of the commencement of Croker's career in London. Horace Smith, James's brother and one of the joint authors of Ecjected Addresses, told me that he, his brother, and Cumberland, formed the staff of the Morn- * He did all sorts of strange things, and incurred all kinds of foolish ex- penses. He insisted on going aboard every ship that went to sou l. ( i<>rc. uhe sailed : he was perpetually going down to Portsmouth and Plymouth to give colours to regiments and depots in garrison who wanted none, &c., &c. When the Duke had resigned, ho said, * I must say to you, < that in all the differences which have led to my re tin -incut, you arc the, only member of the board who has lchav,l to "UK- like :l gentleman.' Vide Lord Palmerston's Journal,' in pages 2 ( Jo and MS of his ' Lit .' l.y Sir Henry Bulwer. VI.J JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 155 ing Post when Colonel Mellish was its sole proprietor. On a certain quarter-day, when he was in the habit of meeting them at the office and paying them their salary, he took occasion to pass on them unqualified commendation for the great ability they had brought to bear upon his journal. He assured them that the circulation of the paper had quadrupled since their connection with it ; ' but but that he was, nevertheless, under the necessity of dispensing with their pens for the future.' The two Smiths, after this complimentary prelude, were so utterly unprepared for such a consummation, that they were tongue tied. Not so the testy Cumberland, who took care to make himself as clearly understood as if he had been the veritable Sir Fretful Plagiary in proprid persona. ' What,' he asked his employer, ' the D 1 do you mean ? In the same breath in which you laud your servants to the skies, and express your sense of obligation to them, you discharge them without even the usual month's warning ! ' Mellish, quite unmoved, replied * You must know, good Sirs, that I care for my paper, not for its principles, but as an invest- ment : and it stands to reason, that the heavier my outgoings, the less my profits. I do, as I have said, value your merits highly ; but not as highly as you charge me for them. Now, in future, I can command the services of a man, who will do the work of three for the wage of one.' * The deuce you can/ said Cumberland. ' He must be a phoenix. Where, pray, may this omniscient genius be met with ? ' ' In the next room ! I will send him to you.' As he left, a young man entered, with a, well-developed skull, n searching eye, and a dauntless address. ' So, Sir,' screamed out Cumberland, * you expect to be taken at your own valuation! You consider yourself, I am told, three times as able as any one of us ; for you undertake to do an amount of work, single-handed, which we have found enough for us all.' * I am not afraid,' said the young man, with imperturb- able sangfroid, 'of doing all that is required of me.' They all three then warned him of the tact, discretion, and knowledge of books and men required ; of the difficulties by which ho must expect to find an enterprise of such magnitude beset, &c., &c. They then began to sound his depth ; but on politics, belles lettres, political economy, even the drama, they found him far from shallow. Cumberland, transported out of himself by his modest assurance, snatched up his hat, smashed it on his head, rammed snuff incontinently up his nose, and then rushed by 156 JOURNAL. [CHAP. Mellish, who was in the adjoining room, swearing audibly, and raying as he left, * Confound the potato. He's so tough there's no peeling him ! ' The tough potato was John \Yilson Croker. 1832. April 26. This day married Elizabeth Ann Georgiana Willis, daughter of the late James Lcgge Willis, Esq., of Fresh- water House, and Atherfield, in the Isle of Wight. It is curious that his paternal ancestor, Sir Richard Willis, and his maternal ancestor,, the Hon. Colonel Leggc, were both devoted adherents of Charles the First (the latter voluntarily accompanying him to prison when he was confined in Carisbrook Castle) ; and that my paternal ancestor, Simon Mayne, whose signature to tho death warrant of Charles is now hanging in my study, should have helped, alas ! to execute him. 1832. April 27. Went abroad for six weeks with my wife. 1832. July 9. Mile. Mars played in London. I did not see her ; but I hear that, despite her charm and talent, she is too old to play the youthful characters she does. This reminds me of an anecdote I heard of her the other day, when in Paris. She was playing the part of Mile. Marie, in the play of . In the course of the dialogue she had to say, ' J'ai seize ans,' on which several persons in the pit hissed. She came forward, and curtsied, and said with, much feeling, * Messieurs et Mesdamcs, Mile. Marie a seize ans ; Mile. Mars helas ! a soixahte ans.' By- the-bye, Miss Louisa Cockburn, sister of the Lord Chief Justice, told us of a piece of ready wit, the other day, on the part of tho driver of a fiacre. On discharging him, he demurred at her payment; but finding her inexorable, became insolent. She threatened to take his number, on which he laughed in her face, exclaiming, * Eh bien ! Prenez mon numero : et mettez lo dans la lotterie, si 9a vous plait.' 1832. September 6. Sir Augustus D'Este has been dis- missed from the post of Equerry to the king ; and Sir Horace Seymour has been appointed in his stead. 1832. September 21. Sir Walter Scott is dead. The decay of his bodily and mental powers too perceptible when he was last in London with Lockhart, had prepared his friends for such an event ; and the dilapidation of his fortunes, in spite of his heroic efforts to retrieve them, almost reconcile one to it. 1832. October 5. My uncle told me to-day a curious fact. We were talking of the nervous system as a terra incognita, and the fine field it opened to a philosophically-minded man, wil- ling to devote himself exclusively to that branch of anatomy; and to show that high-wrought nervous susceptibility and true VI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 157 courage were compatible with each other, he mentioned that, years ago, he was dining in company Vith Sir Henry Cooke, when, being asked by him the nature of a certain operation, he took up an apple, and, to make his description the more intelligible, made a bold incision through the skin. Before he had got half through his illustration, Cooke had slid off his chair under the table in a swoon. On being brought to, he expressed himself as greatly ashamed of his effeminacy, which he could not under- stand, as, at Waterloo, after the battle was over, he had ridden up to a spot where bodies were lying up to his horse's hocks in every imaginable form of ghastly mutilation, and had merely noticed how magnificently the artillery had been planted, and how nobly it had kept its ground. The force of imagination, on seeing the apple cut, had affected his nerves far more seriously than the grim reality inflicted on the human frame. 1832. October 6. Lady Dacre, whom I met lately at her sister's, the Honourable Mrs. Talbot's, told me that my wife's father was a man not only of varied accomplishment, and a per- fect encyclopaedia of general knowledge, but also a man of con- siderable nerve. Instance the following anecdote : He was one day returning from Kingston through the Home Park, in which the residents in the Palace had permission to walk, when he found himself hotly pursued by a savage buffalo, the property of the Ranger. Mr. Willis had no stick with him, and had nothing to trust to but his own presence of mind. Luckily, he remembered having heard that a buffalo, if resolutely faced, and steadily regarded, would never run at a person. As soon, therefore, as the animal got near him, he turned round and looked him full in the eye. As he stopped, so did the buffalo. He then began slowly and cautiously to retreat, never once relaxing the fixity of his gaze. The more the assailed found the effect of his eye telling on his assailant, the bolder he grew; so that for nearly half a mile he kept falling back, yet without the slightest acceleration of his pace. For each step that the infuriated beast advanced, Mr. Willis made a corresponding retrograde movement. These artful dodges lasted till he felt his back come in contact with the pri- vate gate of the iron pallisades which separated the public gardens from the park. This was the most critical moment of all ; for his body was then within six feet of the brute's horns. Mr. Willis, with eye still riveted on his adversary, put his right hand into his trowser pocket, drew out from it his key, and, with infinite difficulty and after much random fumbling and bungling 158 JOURNAL. [CHAP. about the lock behind him, lie succeeded in turning it. When he had done so, he rushed towards the creature, setting up at the same time a terrific shout. The suddenness of the action, the change of tactics from the defensive to the offensive, and the unaccustomed noise, so startled the animal, that he turned round ; and before he could rally from his surprise, the gate had been opened, and Mr. Willis had locked it in his enemy's face. Some little time before I resided at Hampton Court, a still more ludicrous affair had taken place, in which a bull had been a very distinguished performer. A lady I knew well, Mrs. K. W , sister to a former Lady T , was walking on the road in Bushy Park, between the splendid avenue of chestnuts, when an over-driven bull rushed through the Teddington gate,, followed by a miscellaneous crowd of butchers' boys, with sticks and cleavers in their hands. Mrs. R. W was walking on in front, alike unconscious of what was behind and near her, and of the exceeding offence she was giving by her crimson shawl, when she found herself suddenly tossed in the air, and in another second enacting the difficult part of Europa at short notice. With singular presence of mind she flung her arms round his neck, and there clung until released from her perilous position at the gate of the barrack-yard (in front' of the Palace) by the sentry, who, with the help of his pursuers and their staves, brought him to bay, and made him stand and deliver up his fair captive. 1832. On October 6 of this year I was dining with Lord George Seymour, when I heard a story analogous to the Sir H. Cooke one. M. de la Ferrenays, the father of Mrs. Craven, the authoress of ' Re*cit d'une Soeur,' was French ambassador from Louis XVIII. at St. Petersburg, at the time of the assassina- tion of the Due de Berri. In honour of his memory a grand religious ceremonial was instituted, and all the diplomatic representatives of the great powers at St. Petersburg were expected to attend, to mark their detestation of the crime. A young man, of good family and considerable expectations, waa appointed to the diplomatic staff of the French ambassador. On his first appearance at dinner on the day of his arrival, the principal topic of conversation was the forthcoming fete about to be celebrated, if I am not mistaken, in the church of St. Isaac. The ambassador, turning affably to the young stranger, con- gratulated him on his good fortune in having arrived in time for the event. * I doubt,' said he, * if in any other court in Europe you can see a more august ceremonial than that at which you VII.J JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. will bo present next week. By-the-bye, don't forget that there is a seat set apart for you in iny box as one of my staff.' The young man bowed respectfully, but with an air of in- difference. The following day, at an interview with his chief concerning the contents of certain papers and letters which he had been desired to copy, he thus addressed him on retiring : * Monsieur, you were kind enough yesterday to promise me what most persons in my position would deem a great treat, viz., a seat in your box from which to witness the coming func- tion of which every one is talking. Will you think me very odd if I ask permission to absent myself on the occasion ? ' Ambassador. ' I should, indeed ! What possible reason can you assign for such caprice ? ' Attache. ' There will, I conceive, be military music. If so, I must be frank with you, Monsieur, at the risk of provoking your ridicule, or even of incurring your displeasure, I can- not be present. I have the strongest possible objection to all military music.' Ambassador. ' Oh, you object on religious grounds to martial music in the house of God, do you '? ' Attache. ' However inappropriate I may think military music in the house of God, my unwillingness to be present there arises from lower and more selfish motives. You will smile, Monsieur, when I tell you that I have an insuperable antipathy to the sound of a drum. I have lived so retired a life on my father's estate in the country, that I never heard it but once in my life, and that was the other day, after a night spent in Paris on my road hither. I had fully intended staying there some days, but while in bed at the Hotel Bristol I heard the tramp of a regi- ment of soldiers marching down the Rue CastigHone to the sound of military music. I rushed to the window to see them, when suddenly I heard the rappel. Owing, I presume, to some nervous sensibility peculiar to my organization, I felt a torture so excruciating that I despair of describing it. I staggered to my bed, a faintness came over me, and my respiration became so seriously affected that I thought I must have died on the spot. I rang the bell violently for help, and after taking some sal-volatile and brandy, recovered sufficiently to pack up my things, ask for my bill, pay it, and hasten hither as fast as I could. You can now make allowance for my weakness in wishing to escape the recurrence of a similar infliction a second time.' ICO JOURNAL. [CHAP. M. do la Fcrrcnays laughed heartily at what he had heard, niid declared that if he allowed him to yield to such weakness he should consider he was helping to niako him a confirmed hypochondriac. * My dear fellow,' he went on to say, ' did you ever tell your parents of this silly infirmity of yours ? ' * No, Monsieur.' 'Then I am sure they will applaud me for not countenancing such folly ; therefore I tell you distinctly I shall expect you to accompany me to the function.' The young man felt it his duty to bow to his chief's decision, and therefore determined at all hazards to go. As the great day drew nigh, he told his confreres of the serious apprehensions by which ho was beset ; but got no more consideration from them than from their principal. At last the dreaded day arrived. The pro- cession formed. Scats in the cathedral were set apart for ministers of state, the nobility, and the corps diplomatique. As the latter defiled by, the youngest attache, according to the laws of precedence, took the last and lowest seat. When every ono had been placed, space was kept by the military for the proces- sion, which was composed of ecclesiastics of different grades, princes, prelates, and officers of distinction. Suddenly, outside the western gate was heard the clang of cymbals, the blast of trumpets, and the rub-a-dub of the great drum. On hearing it the ambassador, with a smile of ironical significance, looked past his followers to see the effect produced on his sensitive protege. He was on the floor of the box dead ! On a post- mortem examination, it appeared that the shock to his finely- strung nervous system had caused a rupture of one of the valves of the heart. There was a slight error in the version of this story as given in the first edition. I fancied the ambassador had been the English one. I also forgot the fact of the Due de Berri's mur- der being the special cause of the function. The rectification of these mistakes is due to the kindness of Lady Isabella St. John, who had the anecdote from the. lips of M. de la Ferrenays himself. CHAPTER VII. 1832. OCTOBEB 7. Dr. B was calling on my uncle to-day in Brighton. The subject of conversation on the tapis was the lamentable defects of our police regulations compared with those of Paris. Dr. B said that he considered he owed his life VI.] JULIAS CHARLES YOUNG. 161 to the system of espionage prevalent in that town ; and told tho following tale in proof of it : Dr. B was a retired physician, who, having realised a handsome competency, dedicated much of his leisure to the cultivation of science. While engaged in a botanical tour through Switzerland, he received intelligence from Paris of the sudden death of one of his most valued friends. A letter from his widow informed him that he had been appointed, by her deceased husband, co-guardian and trustee with herself to her son and daughter. She expressed an earnest hope that, as soon as he conveniently could, he would join her, and give her the benefit of his counsel under very trying circumstances. Thus appealed to, he conceived he had no alternative but to set out for Paris without further delay. On applying at the Mes- sagerie, at Geneva, for a place in the diligence, he found every one both in the interieur and in the coupe bespoken, so that he was compelled to sit in the banquette with the conducteur, whose good-will he soon won by his affability and freedom from hauteur. The journey was accomplished without any impedi- ment until, as they were approaching the barriere at the entry into Paris, the conducteur, breaking off in the midst of a lively conversation with Dr. B , and directing his voice to tho 'insides,' halloed out, * Messieurs et Mesdames, preparez vos passeports.' Dr. B , in obedience to this summons, thrust his hand first into the breast pocket of his greatcoat, and then into the hind pockets of his frock, in search of his ; but, to his consternation, could find it nowhere. What had become of it he never was able to discover. He thought it might have dropped out of his greatcoat when he had flung it carelessly over the roof of the vehicle; but, whatever the cause of the misfortune, the effect was to involve him in a dilemma which might jeopardize his liberty. In his distress he thought it best to tell his companion what had befallen him, and throw himself on his good nature. On being appealed to, he told him that tho only chance by which ho could hope to escape tho notice of tho official at tho barriere would be by having recourse to the follow- ing ruse : 'Lie down,* said he, 'at the bottom of the banquette, under the leathern apron which has hitherto covered our knees ; and while I step down from my seat on the left side, and tho gen-d'arme is occupied in collecting passports from the pas- sengers in the interieur, creep out from under your covert on the right side, and mingle unhesitatingly with the crowd. I will engage the attention of the receiver of the passports till M 162 JOURNAL. [CHAP. you are out of sight. He will not suspect me of conniving to deceive him first, because I have never yet shown a disposition to do so ; secondly, because he would not think me such a fool as to run the risk of discharge and imprisonment for the sake of a total stranger.' Dr. B adopted the friendly suggestion, and found it successful. As soon as the diligence had cleared the barrier e, he jumped up again into his seat without any comment from the driver, who concluded that the conducteur would never have sanctioned his descent from his place unless ho had previously surrendered his passport. On reaching his destination Dr. B rewarded the guard munificently for his services, and promised never to betray him. After he had taken possession of his bedroom at his hotel ho had a hasty dinner, and then made the best of his way to the residence of his late friend's widow. He found her and her daughter in deep distress, though greatly comforted by his arrival. The mother, after furnishing him with details of her husband's last moments, disclosed to him the fruitful cause of her anxieties. The chief of them arose from her apprehensions as to the future of her only son a young man barely one-and- twenty, not deficient in good qualities, but likely to be seduced into evil courses through infirmity of purpose. She described him as having become negligent of his sister at the very time when she most needed his sympathy, and as having grown im- patient of maternal control. His deterioration of character she attributed to the influence of certain young men of high rank and low morale, who had acquired undue ascendency over him, and had inoculated him with a passion for play. She implored her co-trustee to exercise every influence he could bring to bear upon her wayward boy, to wean him from so ruinous and degrading a propensity. Dr. B , though conscious of the delicacy and difficulty of the task imposed upon him, consented to undertake it on one condition, viz., that she would not attempt to oppose the tactics he might choose to adopt, however incomprehensible they might seem, but confide in his discretion and good faith. To this proposition she assented, inviting him at the same time to dine with her next day, that he might have an opportunity of reviving acquaintance with the young man whom he had not seen for some years. The youth himself, aware of the high place Dr. B had filled in his father's esteem, and of the relation in which they now stood to each other viz., that of ward and guardian, TIL] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 163 Anticipated no great satisfaction from tho meeting. His reserve, however, rapidly melted away under the genial warmth of his Mentor's cordiality. When his mother and sister had left the dinner table, the Doctor entered into conversation with his young friend with a vivacity that fascinated him. He proposed that they should go the next night to the opera, and afterwards look in at Frascati's, the great gambling house of those days. As soon as the Doctor's back was turned the mother was surprised to hear her son launch forth loudly in his praise, declaring that he was a ' trump,' and that he no longer wondered at Ids father's partiality for him. Dr. B , having little reliance on the permanent eifect of moral lectures delivered by au old man to a young one of vicious tendencies, preferred to gain his confidence at first by affecting community of tastes with him, and pretending, afterwards, to be penetrated with remorse of conscience, trying by argument to induce him to join him in the abandonment of a habit, the consequences of which he took care to paint in appalling colours. With the object of Achieving so praiseworthy an end he was content, if necessary, to sacrifice fifty or sixty napoleons. The following night, after the opera, they sallied forth for tho gambling table. Dr. B rushed up to it with well feigned avidity, and staked his money freely, persuaded in his own mind that from his utter ignorance of games of chance he must soon be a N loser. To his amazement he met with an uninter- rupted flow of good fortune, so that when he rose at 3 A.M. from ilie table, to his own disconcertment and the envy of his com- panion, his trowser and coat pockets were so full of louis d'or that it was only by holding them together he kept them from rolling out upon the floor. When invited, rather peremptorily by the croupier, to remain, and give his adversaries their revenge, ho pleaded the lateness of the hour in excuse for not doing so, promising, however, to return the next evening without fail. He bade his young friend * good night,' jumped into a fiacre, him was of no earthly use to him ; that, in the faint hope of getting rid of it, he had placed it where I had found it ; and that in consequence of my inquisitive and officious disposition, lie had been compelled to pay for the recovery to this useless- article as much as would have purchased an entirely new pair.' About a month after he had left us, at Ainport, I happened to go to my wardrobe in search of an old pair of trowsers which. I reserved for gardening purposes. As I was putting them on, I felt that there was something in them. My first impres- sion was, that, when I had last worn them, I had left my purse in them. But, on inserting my hand into the pocket, I drew out an oddly-shaped object, neatly wrapped up in Bath note p;iper, with these words inscribed on the outside, in the quaint but vigorous handwriting I knew so well, * To be lost, if pos- VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. IS") ble.' On opening the little packet, I found inside it a circular nail-brush, worn to the bone. It would seem that, on looking over the articles of my wardrobe, he thought the trowsers )io had selected were too shabby for me ever to put on again, and therefore chose them for a hiding-place. But he was deceived. I made up another neat parcel for him, and directed it to his house in London. Unfortunately he was on a professional tour in the provinces, where it followed him ; till, by the time it reached him, the 'carriage' had amounted to some shillings. I was not long in receiving a letter of ironical thanks ' for my kind and dear attention.' I was penitent for having put him to- such expense, and I confessed my sin to him. Many years after, I was telling his son Charles of these amusing incidents, when he said, ' I can cap your story.' He- then told me, that once he and his father had an engagement with one of the East India Directors at the India Office. As they were approaching Blackfriars Bridge, the father said to the son, * We must stop a minute at the first draper's shop we come to, as I want to buy myself a new pair of gloves ; for I have mislaid the fellow to the one I have on my right hand.' As> soon as ho had effected his purchase, they proceeded on their way ; and, on reaching the bridge, the son observed his father looking before him and behind him, as if, having some felonious purpose in his mind, he wished to see that the coast was clear before he executed it. At last, when the traffic seemed for a moment to diminish, he leaned over the parapet of the bridge as if to notice the wherries and steamers on the river hurled over the odious glove, which was disturbing his serenity, and then limped off in an agitated and guilty manner, as though he were trying to evade the emissaries of justice. So eager was. he to get off the bridge, and thread his way unobserved through the crowd, that he outstripped his son; and just as he was- waiting for him, and was congratulating himself on having, for once, got rid of an obnoxious article, a breathless waterman ran up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, ' I beg your honour's pardon, but I think you dropped this hero glove in the river.' 'How how, Sir, do you know it to bo my glove?' 'Why, Sir, I was a sculling, and was just giving my boat a spurt under the arch of the bridge, when this here glove fell : and on looking up I see'd that the gentleman from whose hand it dropped had a white hat on with a black crapo round it ; so I pulled with all my might and main after you, and ran up the steps from the river-side, and I thought I never should have- 186 JOURNAL. rniAi'. catched you,' wiping his forehead with his sleeve as he spoko. Of course such disinterested civility had to be rewarded with a shilling, and the impoverished donor, like Lord Ullin's daughter, was ' left lamenting ! ' Again. During Mathews' visit to us at the end of October 1833, one of the sons of the nobleman (at whose gate, almost, we lived) dined with us ; and having an acute sense of fun, and thoroughly appreciating our guest's wit and humour, and learning iVorn us that the star of his genius always began to rise when that of ordinary mortals set (viz. at bed-time), he used every night after to drop in about eleven o'clock, for the pleasure of enjoying our visitor's incomparable society. These Nodes AmporiiancK, delightful as they were, and temperately as they were conducted (for potations were not required by way of stimulus), were very trying to me; for, about a week after our little party had broken up, the late hours to which I had been exposed, and the excess of laughter in which I had indulged, told upon me and I fell ill. The night before Mathews left Amport, he told us that he was going to Oxford the next day to give two or three entertainments ; and he implored my wife and myself so urgently to accompany him, that, in compassion to his antici- pated dejection, we consented. As we were only some twenty- five miles from Oxford, I undertook to drive him there in my phaeton. When the noble lord already alluded to found that my wife and myself were going to Oxford with Mathews, he begged permission to accompany us. As I had one vacant seat, I was only too glad to have so agreeable an addition to our party; and on the following morning we set off. From nine in the morning till six in the evening it poured with rain incessantly. Mathews sat in front with me ; Mrs. Young and her noble companion behind. We started about twelve o'clock, and baited two hours on the road. Mathews besought me to get him into Oxford by six p.m., as he was engaged to meet a large party at the Rev. Mr. Hose's, of Lincoln College, at seven. It was a curious fact, and one, so far, justifying Mathews' theory of his invariable ill-luck, that, though Lord F. P had merely a dreadnought on, my wife her ordinary cloak, and I a common greatcoat, Mathews, who was enveloped in waterproof wraps, in addition to a greatcoat and cloak, was the only one of the party who was soaked through and through. Fearing that, on his -arrival, he might be hurried, and, in order to save himself the trouble of unpacking his portmanteau in undue haste, he had taken the precaution of wrapping up the clothes he would VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 187 require for dinner in two towels. Boundless, therefore, was Lis disgust on unpinning his packet, which had lain at our feet protected, as we thought, alike from wind and rain by the thick leathern apron over our knees, to discover that his dress coat und kerseymere pantaloons were saturated with wet, and that the pattern of his sprigged velvet vest had been transferred to his shirt-front. When, therefore, he entered otir sitting- room at the Star Hotel, and observed the table laid for dinner, the clean cloth, the neatly-folded napkins, the glittering glass, and the blazing fire, he could not help contrasting our cosy condition with his own draggled plight, and began to reflect gloomily on the length of time his clothes would take to dry, and on the several disadvantages under which he would have to mako his rapid toilet; till, at last he vowed that 'Mr. Rose might go to Jericho, and all the heads of houses be drowned in the Eed Sea, before he would desert us.' It was in vain that we expostulated with him on the indecency of such behaviour ; in vain we depicted the cruel disappointment he would inflict on a gentleman who had paid him the compliment of asking the Yice-Chancellor and other men of University distinction to meet him. In vain we appealed to his self-interest, telling him that he would, by his rudeness, estrange his friend, and convert a patron into an enemy. The more we urged him to consider what he owed to others, the more obstinately he vowed he would not victimize himself for the sake of aquiring a reputa- tion for good manners. Dine with us he would. As we were, enjoying, with keen relish, our salmon and cucumber, the waiter entered, and thus addressed the culprit : * Please, Sir, here's a messenger from Mr. Rose of Lincoln, to say that his dinner is waiting for you.' ' My kind compliments to Mr. Rose of Lincoln,' was his rejoinder ; * I am sorry I can- not dine with him, as I am obliged to share the fortunes of three friends who have been nearly drowned. I dine with them. Tell him I have not a dry rag to cover my nakedness with, and that we are all four now steaming before the fire preparatory to .going to bed to nurse.' Every instant I sat in fear and trembling that wo should cither see the much- wronged gentleman in proprid persona, or have to receive a deputation from him, or else an angry note ; but fortunately our threatening evening passed off without a storm ; and as, after our meal, we drew together round the fire, and Mathews sipped his negus, and lolled bock in his armchair, hifl spirits rose, and * Richard was himself again/ 188 JOURNAL. [CHAP He hod an inveterate propensity to keep late hours ; and be was given to lie in bed till midday in consequence. If he were disturbed earlier, he would say he had been woke in the middle of the night. It was as good as a servant's place was worth if she called him before twelve o'clock. Knowing all this, it was greatly to the diversion of Lord F. P , Mrs. Voung, and my- self, that, the morning after our arrival, one of the waiters told us there was a messenger from Mr. Rose of Lincoln waiting in the hall to see Mathews. We desired him to be shown up, and then, pointing to Mathews' bedroom, which was on the same floor with our sitting-room, and well within our view, we advised him to rap at his door and give him the note with which he was entrusted. In the spirit of mischief, and longing for a scene, we- three ensconced ourselves behind our own door, impatient to witness the result. The messenger at first tapped humbly and hesitatingly. No answer. A second rap, and then a third, waxing louder each time. As the patience of the messenger was giving way, a strange figure, clad in a long nightshirt, with an extinguisher cotton nightcap on his head, and irrepressible fury in his visage, emerged from the room, and, with clenched fist, asked his visitor 'If he was weary of life? if he desired^ to be ruthlessly murdered ? ' &c., &c. * No, Sir/ Then how- dare you disturb me at this unearthly hour ? ' (N.B. 9.30 a.m.) He then slammed the door violently to, in a state of wrath implacable, and bolted himself in. Once more the poor * scout/ in undisguised trepidation, appealed to us for advice, as to what he should do next, adding, that his master had enjoined him strictly, on no consideration, to return without an answer. Greedy of more fun still, we insisted on his attending, above everything, to his own master's instructions ; and, disregarding Mathews' bluster, again to try his fortune, and not to leave it without receiving the answer required. With evident misgiving, he again crept up to the dreaded bedroom, and, after a free and frequent application of his knuckles to the panels of the door, finding he received no reply, he took heart, and halloed through the key-hole * I 'umbly ax, your pardon. Sir, but Mr. Rose of Lincoln says lie must have an answer.' The hero of my tale, exasperated beyond all bounds by this persecution, once more appeared, in the same question- able attire as before, and, indifferent to the titters of the waiters- and chambermaids who were flitting up and down the corridor, and unconscious that his friends were watching him, screamed out * Confound Mr. Rose of Lincoln, and all Mr. Rose of VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 189 Lincoln's friends, and all Mr. Rose of Lincoln's messengers! Mr. Rose of Lincoln must have an answer, eh ? Then let him get it by law. Does Mr. Rose of Lincoln think that I go to bed with a pen in my mouth, and ink in my ear, that I may be ready to answer, instantly, any note Mr. Rose of Lincoln may choose to write to me ? ' I forget whether we remained at Oxford more than two nights ; but, having first ascertained that he had made matters straight with Mr. Rose, we left with easy conscience. He did not return to Amport with us, but followed afterwards, in a day or two. After sleeping a night with us, he asked me if I would go with him to Salisbury on the morrow, where he was due for one night's entertainment. It was on our road across Salisbury Plain that the accident befell us which is told in Mrs. Mathews' memoirs of her husband. I never was more surprised than at reading, in the Morning Chronicle, two or three days afterwards, the particulars of our adventure. It seems that Mr. Hill, the original from whom John Poole took his Paul Pry, was sitting with Mrs. Mathews in Great Russell Street, when a letter from her husband was put into her hand. She begged permission to read it, and as, in doing so, she could not suppress a few ejacula- tions of surprise, he begged he might hear it. She was quite willing to gratify him, and, at his request, gave him permission to take it home and show it his wife. On that understanding he was allowed to take it ; but, instead of taking it home, he took it to the printer of the paper, with which he was connected, and inserted it in its columns. As many may never have read it, I shall presume to give my own version of the accident, which is much fuller in its details than the one given in Mrs. Mathews' Life of her husband. Before he left our house, I had promised Mathews, who could not bear being alone, to drive him to Salisbury, and keep him company while there. The distance from Amport to An- dover was five miles ; from Andover to Salisbury, by the road, eighteen ; but across the intervening Plain, fully three miles shorter. Now, although, under the pilotage of Lord W. and Lord George P , I had ridden that way two or three times, I had never driven it. To the rider nothing could bo more delightful than the long unbroken surface of untrodden turf; though the tameness of the surrounding scenery, and the absence of landmarks to steer by, made the route rather a difficult one to find. Before starting, I had serious misgivings that the frequent intersection of deep waggon-ruts, of the existence of which I was 190 JOURNAL. [CiiAl> quite aware, might put my charioteering powers to a severe test ; but the prospect of a * short cut ' was a temptation not to be withstood. For the first two or three miles we got on capitally ; but afterwards we encountered such a succession of formidable inequalities in the ground, that Mathews got nervous, and my horses became excited. Out of consideration for his hip-joint, I advised him to alight, and walk a few yards till wo had passed over the roughest part. This he was only too glad to do ; while I, throwing the reins over the splashboard, went to the horses* heads, and, by voice and hand, endeavoured to coax them gently over ftho uneven ground. However, in descending a sharp dip in the ground, which was succeeded by a rise as sudden, the pole sprang up, hit me a violent blow under the chin, and sent me spinning to the ground. On recovering my footing, I saw my carriage jolting and bumping along at the rate of twenty miles an hour, rendering any hope of my overtaking it, for a long time to come, an apparent impossibility. In utter dismay, I appealed to my friend for advice, but found him all but paralysed, and incapable of giving it. { Good heavens, Julian ! * he cried out, 'in that bag of mine, are, not merely all my clothes, but three hundred sovereigns in gold, the fruit of four " At Home's," and all that I have written of my autobiography. Eun! Run!' It was easy for him to say * Run/ but not so easy for me to do so ; for, owing to the extraordinary velocity with which the panic-stricken animals had darted off, and the undulation of the land over which they had passed, they were lost to sight in no time. The foremost difficulty which suggested itself to mo was hew, even if I recovered my carriage and horses, I was to find my dis- consolate companion again ; for, in consequence of the complete circumnavigation of the hill which the runaways had probably made, I knew I should find myself, before long, in a terra incognita. As Mathews could not walk ; I pointed to some miserable furze bushes, and told him to lie down under them, and not to stir until he saw mo again. He squatted down most submissively ; while, in attestation of my good faith, and, at tho same time, that I might run tho easier, I disencumbered myself of my great coat, flung it to him, and left it in pawn till I should return and redeem it. Away I darted, and ran and ran till I could run no more : and I was about to fling myself on the grass to regain my wind, and rest awhile, when I beheld, in the distance, four carriage wheels in tho air, and a pair of greys, de- VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 19 f taclicd from the vehicle, standing side by side, as if in one stall, trembling in every limb, sweating from every pore, and vet making no attempt to stir. I felt re-nerved at this sight, pursued my object, went up to my truant steeds, and captured them without any show of resistance on their part. They were thoroughly blown. They had been seen by a band of gipsies, encamped hard by, to charge a precipitous embankment which separated the Plain from the high road; but unable, from ex- haustion, to surmount it, they thought better of it, turned round, and, dashing down again into the valley, ran with such headlong fury against the stump of a blighted old pollard oak as to upsefr the phaeton, break the traces, snap the pole in twain, and scatter Mathews' precious treasures far and wide over the ground. My first anxiety was to rejoin their owner as quickly as possible ; for it was then half-past three o'clock, and I knew that he had to reach Salisbury, dress, order and eat his dinner, and be on the stage by seven p.m. I went, therefore, up to the gipsies, described how the accident had occurred, told them of the di- lemma in which I had left a lame gentleman a mile off, assured them that it was of the greatest importance that he should arrive in Salisbury by five o'clock, and begged them to spare somebody to lead one of the horses, while I rode the other in search of my friend. Seeing that they had a tent pitched in sight, I told them, with a frankness that most people would have deemed impru- dent, that the contents of the carpet-bag confided to their care was very precious to the proprietor, and that, if they would be kind enough to set up the carriage on its wheels, and protect my property, the instant I reached Salisbury I would return in a post-chaise with ropes to take the fractured phaeton in tow, and reward them handsomely for their trouble. They undertook to carry out my wishes, while I, jumping on one of the horses (with all its traces and trappings, and breech- ing, and collar, and pad upon him), and followed by my esquire on foot with the other, gallopped off to look for him who, I was certain, was for once anything but ' at home ' wherever ho might be. In my feverish impatience to overtake iny horses, I had for- gotten to take notice of the ground I passed over ; and as it was in a totally different direction from that I had been used to, it was no easy matter for me to retrace my route. Howcvrr. whichever way I went, my gipsy aide-de-camp had orders to keep mo well in sight. For some twenty minutes, which appeared an hour, I whooped and halloed at the top of my 192 JOURNAL [CHAP. voice, directing it north, south, east, and west ; but neither re- ceived answer nor beheld sign of living creature. Turn which way I might, there was nothing before mo but a wide expanse of dreary plain. The bray of a jackass, the bark of a watch-dog, the bleating of a stray sheep, even the quack of a duck, would have been as music in my ears. To contribute to my per- plexity, the skies began to assume a leaden and lowering hue, And sleet and flakes of snow to fall. Our stipulated trysting- place, the furze-bushes, could nowhere be seen, for the projecting brow of table-land on which I was. They were at the base of the hill, and I was on the summit. As I sat bewildered, on my horse, with my esquire behind me, I fancied I saw something stirring below me which resembled the fluttering of 4i corn-crake's wings, though they certainly seemed unusually long and unsteady, and the wind appeared to have extraordinary power over them. I made for the object, and, as I did so, I found, to my ineffable relief, that it was no bird which I had seen, but a white silk- handkerchief tied to a stick, and doing duty as a signal of distress. As I drew nearer to it, I saw my lost companion drop on his knees, and raise his hands to heaven in token of thanksgiving. No wonder. Had I not found him, he must have passed the livelong night in utter helplessness and solitude, and perhaps have fallen a victim to hunger, cold, and mental perturbation. When we met, I found Mathews almost speechless from agi- tation. He threw his arms around me, and was so extravagantly and comically demonstrative, that, in spite of all my sympathy for him, I could not refrain from laughter. I feared he would bo offended with me ; but was delighted to ascertain from his published letter that my ill-timed mirth was attributed to an 'hysterical affection.' As soon as I could persuade him to hearken to mo, I told him there was not a moment to be lost, that we hod three or four miles to go before wo could reach the high-road, and that manage we must, somehow or other, by hook or by crook, to get there in time to catch ' The Light Salisbury ' coach, and reach his quarters at the White Hart, by five p.m. On my further telling him that ho must get on the horse from which I had dismounted, and that I would lead it for him. ho said, 'My dear fellow, I never, in the prime of life, best r< do a bare-backed horse; how then can 1 do so now, old and crippled as I am?' I said no more; but, making my gipsy follower stund at the horse's bend, I went on all-fours by its side, and insisted on his stepping on my back, and holding by VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 193 the horse's mane, while I gradually raised myself up, so as to enable him to fling his leg over the animal. It was a weary and an anxious walk for both of us. However, as luck would have it, we had no sooner sighted the chalky road, than I saw my old acquaintance Matcham, driving ' The Light Salisbury ' towards us. I gave both my horses to the gipsy to lead leisurely to Salisbury, while I mounted on the outside the coach with my sorely harassed friend. He was in a most devout frame of mind, thanking God loudly and earnestly for His merciful deliverance from a miserable death, when a Dissenting minister behind him, learning from the coachman who he was, thought it a good opportunity for * improving the occasion,' and preached to him in such bad taste, and with such utter want of consideration for his feelings, that Mathews, humbled as he was, could not brook it, and told him his mind. * Until you opened upon me, I never felt more piously disposed in my life; but your harsh and ill-timed diatribe, has made me feel quite wickedly. Hold your canting tongue, or you 11 find me dangerous, Mr. Mawworm ! ' To finish my tale : As soon as I had seen Mathews comfort- ably seated at his dinner, I called for a post-chaise, drove to the scene of action, and was rather mortified to find that the gipsy family had not touched the carriage, though I had begged them to set it up again upon its wheels. On remonstrating with them, they very civilly said, 'Why, you see, Sir, if, in moving it, anything had gone wrong with the carriage, owing to some injury you had not detected, or if anything were missing, you'd ha' been sure to suspect the poor gipsies : so, on second thoughts, we considered 'twould be better to leave it as they leaves a dead body before a hinquest without moving or touching anything.' They then turned to with a will, in my presence, put the carriage on its legs again, helped me to cord it on to the hinder part of the post-chaise, and thrust inside Mathews' carpet-bag and portmanteau, and a few articles for the night, which I had put up for myself. I sprang into the chaise, wishing to get back and relieve Mathews' mind about his goods. I drew out my purse, and was going to take out money to give the gipsies, when one of them came up to me and said, ' Are you sure, Sir, that you have got everything belonging to you ? ' * Yes, yes ; thank you.' The man smiled, and, by way of answer, thrust into my hand my oilskin sponge-bag, which had fallen out of my hat-box, and which I had overlooked. ' Now, my good fellows,' said I, * what shall I give you ? You deserve something hand I'.M JOURNAL. [('MAP. some, and you shall have it. Will a couple of sovereigns satisfy you?' 'No, Sir, no!' they all cried out. 'We won't have nothing. You've paid us enough ! You've trusted us, gipsies as we are ! You've left your property in our keeping, and never cast a suspicious glance at it, when you came back, to see if we had been tampering with it.' I pressed them over and over again to reconsider their deter- mination, and consider my feelings. 'Well, Sir, we will ask one favour of you. Tell your friends that, whatever your glass and crockery and brush-selling tramps may be, a reed gipsy can be honest. Mathews was so struck with the conduct of these people, and so touched by it, that at the next Theatrical Fund dinner he took occasion to allude to it. It was a few days after our adventure that I received the following letter from him, from Exeter, where he was playing. ' Exeter, November 15, 1833. * MY VERT DEAR J. C. Y. What have. I done ? Did we not part friends ? Did you not promise to write to me ? Do you not imagine I am anxious to hear how our adventure ended ? and how you were received at home? and if I am forgiven for having allured you from your fireside ? Every morning at Weymouth I craned my neck after the postman, but no tidings. There must be some reason for this most cruel and unnatural conduct ; and know it I will. I shall not repeat my proposal about justice and honour as to damage. Verbum sat. I am still stout upon the point. ' Pray write to me at Plymouth, if not to acknowledge this, yet to say you have received a quarter of mutton and a brace of pheasants, which will be sent from hence by the subscription Exeter coach to Woodward's, Andover, where the coach arrives on Monday morning at five o'clock. It will be franked all the way. ' I am happy to say Charles is arrived safely at homo, in Li^li health and spirits, delighted with his trip ; lighter in heart and pocket than he went. My pictures are all warehoused safe under the same roof (Bazaar) where they were exhibited, which is a comfort to me. 'Weymouth was a poor business; but there were excellent, reasons for it. The manager had a crammed, packed, forced house on Monday, and kept my performance on Wednesday a profound secret. An amateur performance for Saturday, for VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 195 charity, was also hanging over my head. Dorchester the same receipts as Salisbury. Here 60/. the first night. Good box- plan for to-night. ' I have now said my say, and more than you deserve. I hope you will be sensible of my benignity. ' The mutton I have sent because they rave about it here. Some call it Oakhampton, some Dartmoor. "What's in a name ? Kindest regards to dear Mrs. Young and to dear Wynny ; and, with a true sincere appreciation of your affectionate attentions to me in calamity, believe me, ever gratefully and sincerely yours, 1 C. MATHEWS.' * Eleven o'clock p.m. I've kept this open to say, I had here, second night, 61Z. 18s. ; and I suppose, with a presentiment that I might have some addition to my most extraordinary and adventurous life, I had to-night another miraculous escape the second of the same nature. The drop that was taken up to dis- cover my bed, was half raised, when the windlass broke, and the roller came down with a tremendous impetus, and must have killed me, had not the fall been broken by the top of the bed. It still struck me with such force as to stun me, and the fright made me so faint and sick that there was no expectation of my going through another act. Again have I been providentially preserved and again am I grateful to God. For what am I re- served ? Oh, let me not think ! ' On the first night of one of his ' At Homes,' when the theatre was packed to , the very ceiling, and all his best frienda and adherents were there to support him, I witnessed a singular instance of his sensibility to the opinion of others. At the end of the first part of the entertainment, Manners Sutton, the Speaker (afterwards Lord Canterbury), Theodore Hook, Gen. Phipps, and others, went behind the scenes to congratulate him, and assure him that, as far as the piece had proceeded, it was an indubitable success. He accepted their compliments rather un- graciously. All they said, to buoy him up, only seemed the more to depress him. At first they could not make him out, till ho explained himself by blurting forth the truth. ' It is all very well, and very kind of you, who wish me success, to tell mo the piece is going well : I know better. It ain't " going well," and it can't he " going well " it must be hanging fire, or that man with the bald head, in the pit, in the front row, could not have been asleep the whole time I have been trying to amuse o2 19() JOURNAL. [('MAP. him 1 ' ' Oh,' said the Speaker, ' perhaps he is drunk.' * No, no 1 he ain't ; I've tried hard to " lay that flattering unction to my soul," but it won't do. I've watched the fellow, and when he opens his eyes, which he does now and then, be looks as sober as a judge, and as severe as one ; and then he deliberately closes them, as if he disliked the very sight of me. I tell you, all the laughter and applause of the whole house boxes, pit, and gallery put together weigh not a feather with me while that " pump " remains dead to my efforts to arouse him.' The call bell rang ; all his friends returned to their seats in front, and he to the stage. The second part opened with one of the rapid songs, in the composition of which James Smith, the author, excelled so much, and in the delivery of which no one ever equalled Mathews, except his son, who, in that respect, surpasses him. All the time he was singing it, as he paced from the right wing to the left, one saw his head jerking from side to side, as he moved either way, his eyes always directed to one spot, till, at the end of one of the stanzas, forgetful of the audience, and transported out of himself by the obstinate insensibility of the bald-pate, he fixed his eyes on him as if he were mesmerizing him, and, leaning over the lamps, in the very loudest key, shouted at him c Bo ! ' The man, startled, woke up, and observing that the singer looked at him, sang to him, and never took his eyes off him, he became flattered by the personal notice, began to listen, and then to laugh and laugh, at last, most heartily. From that instant, the actor's spirits rose, for he felt he had converted a stolid country bumpkin into an appreciative listener. After such a triumph, he went home, satisfied that his entertain- ment had been a complete success. This excessive sensibility to public opinion is not uncommon. The late Sir William Knighton told my uncle, George Young, that if George the Fourth went to the play, which he rarely did, and heard one hiss, though it were drowned in general and tumultuous applause, he went home miserable, and would lie awake all night, thinking only of that one note of disappro- bation. Curran, again, was so notoriously susceptible to inattention or weariness on the part of his hearers, that, on more than one occasion, advocates engaged against him, perceiving his powerful invectives were damaging their client's cause, would pay some man in the court to go into a conspicuous part of it and yawn visibly and audibly. The prescription always succeeded. The eloquent spirit would droop its wing and forsake him ; he would VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. Iy7 falter, forget the thread of his argument, and bring his perora- tion to an abrupt and unsatisfactory conclusion. Mathews was, one day, riding down Highgate Hill from his cottage, to rehearsal, when he met a post-chariot crawling up, with my father and another gentleman in it, who happened to be the late Lord Dacre. Mathews, not knowing him by sight, or even by name, asked my father, as he saw he was going into the country, if he was going down to Cassiobury, to Lord Essex's (where, at that time, he was a constant visitor). No/ replied my father, * I am on my way to " The Hoo" ' Who ? ' asked Mathews. * I'm going to stay a few days at Lord Dacre's,' was the answer. Mathews, imagining Young to be poking fun at him, by ennobling Bob Acres,* laughingly exclaimed, * I have half a mind to go with you. Mind you give my kind regards to Sir Lucius OTrigger, who is sure to be staying with him.' No man could have enjoyed the mistake more than the noble lord himself. Mathews had such an inordinate love of drollery in every form, that he would often engage very indifferent servants, if they had but originality to recommend them. I remember a gardener he had, a Lancashire man, who was a never-failing fund of amusement. I was on the lawn at the cottage at Mil- field Lane one day, when I overheard the following dia- logue. ' I say,' said the master, patting a huge Newfoundland by his side, * we shall have to put a muzzle on this brute. I am having so many complaints made about him from the neigh- bours, that I shall have to get rid of him. He worried Mrs. 's dog, I hear, the other day, and frightened two little children nearly to death.' ' Well, I doan't know aboot that ; but if you wants to get rid on't, I know one as 'ud like to have un ; for t'other day, as I was a-going by Muster Morris' labyratoury (laboratory), Duke St. Aubon's cam louping over t' edge, and he says, says he, "Who's dog be that?" So I says, says I, "'t is master's, Muster Mathews." "Would you sell un?" says be. "No," says I ; " but I dussay master would let you have a poop." "Oh, no," says he; " Doochess has poops enough of her own ! " * How,' asked Mathews, * did you know it tp be the Duke of St. Alban's?' * Vide Sheridan's play of The Rivals. 198 JOURNAL. [CHAP. 'How did I know it? How did I know it? Lor bless ye; any one might ha' knowed it was the duke. He had gotten a great gowd chain, wi lots o' thingumbobs hanging to it, round his neck, and it run all the way into his waistcoat pocket/ At one time he had a footman, whose boundless credulity principally recommended him to his notice. A title inspired him with awe, and having seen a nobleman, now and then, at his master's table, he took it for granted that ho was familiar witli half the peerage. The Duke of Sussex called one day to see the picture-gallery. On announcing his Royal Highness, Mathews fully expected that he would have gone off by spon- taneous combustion ; for he retreated backwards, puffed out Ins cheeks to their fullest powers of expansion, and then poised himself on one leg, like a bird, awaiting to see the effect pro- duced on his master by the appearance of such a visitor. Know- ing his weakness, Mathews used to tell all his intimates, when- ever they called, to be sure to present themselves under some assumed title. Thus Charles Kemble always announced himself as the Persian ambassador ; Fawcett called himself Sir Francis Burdett ; my father was the Duke of Wellington. This habit of jocular imposition once involved Mathews in an awkward scrape. He had no idea that there existed such a title as that of ' Ranelagh.' So that when the veritable noble- man of that name called one day on horseback at the door, and sent up a message by the manservant to say that ' Lord Ranelagh would be much obliged if Mr. Mathews would step down to him, as he could not dismount,' Mathews, convinced it was one of his chums under a feigned title, sent down word to say that Lord Ranelagh must be kind enough to put up his horse in the stables, and walk up, as he could not go out of doors, having a cold, and being particularly engaged at the time with Lord VauxhalL Lord Ranelagh could harly believe his ears when he received this familiar, flippant, and impertinent message. He rode oft' in a state of boiling indignation, and forthwith despatched a note to the offender, commenting severely on his impudence in daring to play upon his name. Of course, as soon as Mathews discovered his mistake, he wrote and explained it, and apologized for it amply. Mathews had often told Charles Kemblo of the great amuse- ment his manservant's peculiarities afforded him, but Kemblo said he had never been able to discover anything in him but crass stupidity. ' Ah,' said Mathews, * you can't conceive what VIII. 1 JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 199 a luxury it is to have a man under the same roof with you who will believe anything you tell him, however impossible it may be.' One warm summer's day, when Mathews had a dinner party at Highgate, and there were present, among others, Broderip, Theodore Hook, General Phipps, Manners Sutton (then Speaker of the House of Commons), and Charles Kcmblo, and dessert was laid out on the lawn, Mathews, without hinting his in- tention, rang the bell in the dining-room, and on its being answered, told the man to follow him to the stables while he gave the coachman certain directions in his presence. The instant Mathews reached the stable door, he called out for the coachman (who he knew was not there), looked in, and, before the manservant could overtake him, started back, and, in a voice of horror, cried out, ' Good heavens ! go back, go back and tell Mr. Kemble that his horse has cut his throat ! ' The simple goose, infected by his master's well-feigned panic, and never pausing to reflect on the absurdity of the thing, burst on to the lawn, and, with cheeks blanched with terror, roared out, * Mr. Kemble, Sir, you're wanted directly.' Seeing Kemble in no hurry to move, he repeated his appeal with in- creased emphasis, ' For heaven's sake, Sir, come ; your poor horse has cut his throat 1 ' From that time Kemble, the Persian ambassador, admitted fully that if his friend's servant was not funny himself, he could be the fruitful cause of fun to others. After Mathews' death, and long after his Life had been pub- lished by his widow, she wrote to me to say that she was writing ' an article for one of the magazines ; that she was sure I must recollect anecdotes of her husband, which, in the lapse of many years had escaped her memory, and she should be grateful to me if I would put on paper anything I coiild recollect not con- tained in the Life. I complied with her wish ; and she after- wards wrote and thanked me for what I had sent her, telling me it was printed and published. But, as I have never seen the periodical which contains it, I have no scruple in repeating the substance of my contribution, as, in so doing, I am plagiarizing from no one but myself. Whenever Mathews brought out a new * At Home,' he was sure to receive a summons to Windsor to produce it before (u Hi-go the Fourth. On one such occasion, after having given imitations of Lords Thurlo\v, Loughborough, Manstield, and Sheridan, he concluded with the most celebrated one of all, that 200 JOURNAL. |Vn AI' of John Philpot Curran. The felicity of his portraiture ol the first four, the King readily admitted, nodding his head in recognition of their resemblance to their originals, and now and then laughing so heartily as to cause the actor to pronounce him the most intelligent auditor he had ever had. Ho was, therefore, the more mortified after giving his chef-tf&uvre, to notice the King throw himself back in his chair, and over- hear him say to Lady Coningham, 'Very odd, I can't trace any resemblance to Curran at all.' He had scarcely uttered the words before he regretted it; for he perceived by the heightened complexion and depressed manner of the performer that his unfavourable stricture had been heard. As soon, therefore, as the entertainment was concluded, the King, with generous sympathy, went up to Mathews, shook him warmly by the hand, and, after presenting him with a watch, with his own portrait set in brilliants on the case, took him familiarly by the button, and thus addressed him : ' My dear Mathows, I fear you overheard a hasty remark I made to Lady Coning- ham. I say, advisedly, " a hasty remark," because the version you give of Curran, all those who know him best declare to be quite perfect ; and I ought, in justice to you, to con- fess that I never saw him but once, and therefore am hardly a fair judge of the merits of your impersonation. You sec, I think it very possible that, never having been in my pre- sence before, his manner under tho circumstances may have been unnaturally constrained. You will, perhaps, think it odd that I, who in my earlier days lived much and intimately with the Whigs, should never have seen him but once. Yet so it was. ' I always had had a great curiosity to know a man so renomme for his wit and other social qualities ; and, therefore, I asked my brother Frederick, " How I could best see Curran ? " He smiled and said, "Not much difficulty about it. Your Royal Highness has but to send him a summons to dinner through your Chamberlain, and the thing is done." This hint was acted on, and he came ; but on the whole ho was taciturn, and mal a son aise.' 'Oh, Sir,' replied Mathews, 'the imitation I gave you of Curran was of Curran in his forensic manner, not in his private capacity. Would your Majesty permit me to give you another imitation of him as he would appear at a dinner-table ? ' On receiving the King's sanction to do so, he threw himself with VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 201 such abandon into the mind, manner, wit, and waggery, of his original, that the King was in ecstacies. He then went up to Mathews, and resumed his chat. * I was about to tell you that, after my brother's suggestion, I said to him, " You shall make up the party for me ; only let the in- gredients mix well together." I don't think, between ourselves, that he executed his commission very well; for he asked too many men of the same profession each more or less jealous of the other. The consequence was, that the dinner was heavy. However, after the cloth was removed, I was determined to draw out the little ugly silent man I saw at the bottom of the table ; and, with that object in view, I proposed the health of <{ The Bar." To my unspeakable annoyance, up sprang, in reply, Councillor Ego.* He certainly made a very able speech, though one rather too redolent of self. He wound it up with some such words as these: "In concluding, he could only say that, descended as he was from a long and illustrious line of ancestry, he felt himself additionally ennobled on the day he was admitted to the rank of Barrister." I was not going to be thwarted of my purpose; and, therefore, the next toast I proposed was " Success to the Irish Bar." Then up sprang our little sallow- faced friend, and by his wit and humour, and graceful elocution made me laugh one minute and cry the next. He annihilated Erskine by the humility of his bearing ; and closed his speech, I recollect, as follows : " The noble Lord who has just sat down, distinguished as he is by his own personal merits, has told you, Sir, that, though ennobled by his birth, he feels addi- tionally so by his profession. Judge then, Sir, what must be my pride in a profession which has raised me, the son of a peasant, to the table of my Prince." ' I am now about to tell a story, in which Mathews plays but a Tery subordinate part ; and yet he is sufficiently connected with it to warrant my introducing it in this place. In the lovely village of Bonchurch, in the Isle of Wight, there is a charming cottage ornee, originally designed and built by a Mr. Surman, a solicitor, by him conveyed to the late Mr. Cartwright, the dentist ; and by him again sold to Captain Swinburne. The original owner of this property was a man gifted with an artistic eye. His taste was indisputable not limited to any * Viz., Lord Erskine, a brilliant advocate in the Law Courts, but a failure in the House of Commons. 202 JOURNAL. [CAP.. particular school, but catholic and comprehensive in its range. The cottage was a museum of curiosities, containing pictures of all dates and styles ; Brie a brae ; china of all kinds Chelsea, Dresden, Sevres, Crackling, &c. ; point lace ; virtu ; stained glass, and old Dutch plate. I have stayed there, in Mr. Cart- wright's time, two or three times, for several days, and can bear testimony to the refined taste and lavish cost visible at every turn, 'from garret to basement.' Was it desirable to have a grand piano from Broad wood's, or a harp from Erard's ? They were made of the choicest old oak carved after Albert Durer's designs. Were chandeliers wanted to light the room? They must be made of antique Venetian glass. Were salt-cellars needed for the table ? Four beautiful ones of unusual magni- tude were procured, representing the four seasons, each a capo ft opera of Benvenuto Cellini. Were toilet-covers essential for the bedroom dressing-tables? They were of the finest and oldest point lace, de France and de Genoa. All the appoint- ments throughout the establishment, the cookery, the upholstery, the wines, everything, in short, were first-class. Unfortunately, the means at the proprietor's command, though not insignificant, were not such as to justify such expenditure. The grounds could not be kept up with fewer than five gardeners. The conse- quence of all this reckless folly was, that the proprietor's prin- cipal was deeply dipped into. Possessed, as Mr. Surman was, of great knowledge of the world, everybody acquainted with him was surprised to think how, after indulging in such extravagant habits, he could anticipate anything but ruin. The explanation of the case, however, was simple. His family consisted of an only son and a ward, a young lady who, when she came of age, would be mistress of several thousands a year. The father had always lived so happily with the son, and the ward had always displayed such deference to her guardian, that he never doubted his power to bring about a union between them. That consummation, however devoutly to be wished, was not destined to be ac- complished; for, on the father's broaching the subject to his son, he discovered, when it was too late, that his affections were pre-engaged, and his troth had been already pledged. The father felt the intelligence as the direst blow that could have been inflicted on him. The cherished projects of a selfish life would be blighted, if the son remained firm of purpose; for the father had intended to give up the house and all control of' it to him and his ward, if they had married, trusting that, VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNJ. 203 if, with the surplus of his capital, he purchased an annuity, and paid a third of the household expenses, there would be no obstacle to his living with them. When he found that his son had a stronger will of his own than he supposed, he became angry, and raved and stormed and threatened, until a reaction took place, and he resolved to trust to time and the influence of affection to bring about the first desire of his heart. He tried a compromise. He entreated his son, at least, to promise not to marry the young lady to whom he was affianced until after the lapse of a year. To this he consented. I have heard and I heard it from the late Mr. Vernon,* who was likely to have known the truth that during the in- terim the most importunate appeals were made to induce the young man to break oif his engagement. But he was too honour- able, and his affections were too deeply compromised to do any- thing of the sort. It was about this period, I fancy near Mid- summer, 1831, that meeting Mathews, his wife and son, Surman invited them to go and stay with him, hoping, possibly, to neu- tralize his own dejection by their lively society. As it was Mathews' vacation he was only too glad of the opportunity afforded him of breathing sea air, and enjoying the tranquillity of the country. On the first evening of their arrival, they were happy to find that there was no party staying in the house. They enjoyed themselves so much, and were in such mad spirits, that it was with reluctance that they retired to their rooms for the night. As Charles who was the first to go, was about to jump into bed, Surman entered his room and said, ' My dear boy, I have come to tell you that my presence is required in London to-morrow. Your father is so touchy, that if I were to tell him, he would leave the house at once. I must therefore trust to your friendliness to explain matters to both your parents, and to assure them that nothing short of absolute duty should tear me away from them. I have given full in- structions to my butler and housekeeper to provide for your comfort in my absence ; and I trust, it will not bo more than four-and-twenty hours before I am back again.' Charles executed his delicate mission with tact, and recon- ciled his father and mother as best ho could to their anomalous * Tho Mr. Vernon, who left his splendid collection of pictures to the nation, was the intimate friend and confidant of Cartwright. p 2 204 JOURNAL. [CHAP. positioD, assuring them that their absent host would return the next day to perform the rites of hospitality in person. The next day came, and, another followed ; but they brought no Mr. Surman with them : so that the whole party, in high dudgeon at their treatment, took wing and fled to their friends Mr. and Mrs. Vine, at Puckaster Cove, a lovely spot some four miles distant from Bonchurch. They had hardly arrived there, when Mr. Surman returned, and finding his guests gone, started instantly on their track, and with hearty apologies for his rude- ness, and repeated assurances that nothing but matters of sternest importance would have detained him, conjured them, unless they wished him to forfeit his good name for ever, to come back. Reluctantly, and rather in compliance with the generous sugges- tion of the Vines, than from any wish of their own, they at last consented. A certain awkward sense of embarrassment weighed on the spirits of all ; but by degrees it wore off under the com- bined effects of generous wine, good cooking, and the geniality of their entertainer ; so that it was late before they went upstairs. At the very moment when young Mathews was about to put out his candle, Surman again entered his room and said, with an air of profound chagrin, ' My dear friend, I am half mad with shame and vexation! It would seem as if the Fates were in league against me ; and had conspired to prevent our enjoying ourselves together. I was so absorbed with the matters which took me to London in the first instance ; and, in the second, so put out at finding you gone when I returned, that I had quite forgotten, until I was reminded by my housekeeper, that I had promised to give away, to-morrow, one of my maids, who is to be married. It happens, our clergyman is from home, so I shall be obliged to ride fourteen or fifteen miles, i.e. to Newport, to obtain the services of a substitute ; and if I am to do this and be back in time for the marriage, before twelve, I must be off in the morning, on horseback, by four o'clock. Do, then, intercede for me with your father and mother, and tell them to expect me back to lunch.' Those were the last words he ever uttered to any one on the premises. He went, never returned ; and has never been heard of since. Unless he had a boat moored at the foot of his grounds, in which, under cover of night, he escaped, I cannot guess, nor have I ever seen any one who could, how he could have got away from the island without being discovered; for no man in it was better known. Tho first suspicion which arose in the minds of those who knew him VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 205 best was, that having become entangled in pecuniary straits, and being soured by his son's contemplated marriage to the utter ImJeversement of all his own plans, he had destroyed himself; but that impression was soon discarded, in consequence of information mysteriously enough conveyed by Surman himself to Mr. Cart wright in his own handwriting. We all of us know, by painful experience, the picture pre- sented by a fashionable dentist's room. Melancholy and miserable visitors rocking in their chairs ; some trying to assume an aspect of indifference to their pending doom ; others, horribly healthy people, whispering hollow words of consolation to their suffering friends ; others, with wild eyes, and faces flushed and swelled, and muffled, nervously watching the door each time the hard impassive butler opens it, hoping, yet fearing, that the summons is for them ; the table in the centre of the dining-room invariably strewed with magazines of remote antiquity, or stale literature of a scientific order, delusively intended as anodynes for the excited nerves of fevered patients. Well, on a certain evening, when the last act of the day's per- formances was over 'in the Burlington theatre, and when the scene-shifter, in other words the butler, was about to spread the cloth for the manager's dinner, he observed a large brown- paper parcel lying on a chair directed to that gentleman. How it got there, he was at a loss to divine. The only plausible con- jecture he could form was, that some one, accompanying a patient, had brought it under his cloak and deposited it on the chair before leaving the inquisition for the torture-room. As soon as the parcel was taken to Mr. Cart wright, he opened it, and found it contained many parchment documents and a letter from Surman addressed to himself. That letter reminded him that the writer owed him 8,OOOZ. (it had been lent to him on mortgage), and told him that, in consequence of the utter frustration of his hopes, and the annihilation of projects he had been maturing for years, he had resolved to leave kith, kin, and country for ever ; but, that, to be able to do so, he meant to appropriate the 8000Z. (which, with the relics of his crippled capital, would suffice his wants), and, in compensation for the money taken, give up to Cartwright the house and grounds at Bonchurch, with all the plate, wine, and furniture it contained. Of course, had he put up his property to auction, it would have realized four or five times the amount of the mortgage, inasmuch as he had laid out upon it 45,OOOJ. But it is pre- 206 JOURNAL. [CHAP. sumed that he could not bear the publicity of an auction, his object being to get away without his son's knowledge, or the notice of the world. To say nothing of the cruel injustice inflicted on his son, the giving up property of such value in lieu of a sum comparatively so insignificant, might appear to have been a signal stroke of good fortune for Mr. Cartwright, but it was not found to be so ; for it was a possession yielding no return, and involving great outlay. Indeed, the expense of keeping it up was so formidable, that Cartwright had not had it many months before he was anxious to dispose of it. I have stated that no one had ever heard of the missing man since his departure. I must correct myself, and say, that nothing certain has been heard of him to this hour ; though I am disposed to believe that, if a searching investigation had been instituted thirty years ago, some clue to his hiding-place might have been discovered : and I ground this remark on the following fact. When I was residing in Wiltshire, Richard Reynolds, a son of Frederick Reynolds, the dramatist, and a brother of the author of Miserrimus, came to visit me after two or three years' travel through South America, Egypt, and elsewhere. Among many other startling occurrences which he told me, he mentioned having met at Cairo, at the dinner-table of a wealthy Greek merchant, a man who was a perfect enigma to him so out of harmony with his costume and conduct were his looks and deportment. He was supposed to be an Oriental ; yet his face was of the Anglo-Saxon type, and his conversation more vivacious than usual with those of Eastern origin. On the other hand, his head was shaved, he wore a turban, was habited in flowing muslin trowsers and yellow morocco slippers, and spoke Arabic with the fluency of a native. The circumstances which provoked Reynolds' suspicions were these. Whenever ho (Reynolds) spoke English to a fellow countryman who sat near him, this ambiguous gentlemen would prick up his ears, thrust forward his head, and uncon- sciously show by the play of his face, that he understood every word that was spoken. Reynolds, however, was not long left in doubt on that head, for, after dinner, when every one else was engrossed with pipes and coffee, the object of his curiosity crossed over from the other side of the room, planted himself by his side, and, without introduction, entered into conver- sation with him. When he saw him approaching, he concluded VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 207 that ho would address him in the language of the country; but, to his astonishment, he began his conversation in English as idiomatic as his own. He asked Reynolds about the London theatres, and talked with keen interest of * Kitty Stephens/ Charles Kemble, and Mathews. Now, it is a singular coin- cidence that Surman was known to have been madly in love with the fair songstress, intimate with Charles Kemble and Mathews, and solicitor to one of the two great theatres. I enquired of my friend if he did not challenge him with being an Englishman : he said he did ; but that he told him at once, 4 it was no business of his what he was.' No one else would enlighten him : all he could learn about him was, that he had been in Cairo some years, followed no calling, and went by the name of ' Sinruaa. Bey.' When I heard the name, I told Eey- nolds the Bonchurch story, and he immediately fell in with my idea, that Sii-m&n Bey must be Mr. $wrman whose disappearance from the Isle of Wight had excited so much speculation in the minds of all who knew him. But, to return to my Mathewsiana. Mathews was once on a visit in Shropshire to Mr. Ormsby Gore. On the first morning after his arrival, when at breakfast, his entertainer expressed his regret at having to leave him to his own devices till dinner-time, as the assizes had begun, and he was summoned on the grand jury. 'If,' he added, 'you like to beat the home-covers, my gamekeeper and the dogs shall Attend you; or, if you prefer it, as you are not much of a walker, you can accompany the ladies in their afternoon's drive.' * Oh,' replied Mathews, ' if you wish to afford me a real treat, you will allow me to accompany you to Shrewsbury ; for there is no place I am so fond of attending as a court of justice ; and no place which affords a richer field for the study of character.' Mr. Gore declared he should be delighted to have his company, and would take care he should get well placed in the court, and have, moreover, a chair to sit down on. Mathews declined these considerate offers, saying that he much preferred mixing with the crowd, listening to their talk, jotting down in his commonplace book anything he might see or overhear worth remembering, and watching the faces of the criminals and witnesses. When he had mingled for some time with the herd of idlers directly or indirectly interested in the proceed- ings of the court, he elbowed his way into the very centre of 208 JOL'IiXAI.. [('HAP. the hall, just as the judge was taking his seat. He had not been there two minutes before the judge was seen making courteous signs to some one in the thick of the crowd beckon- ing to him to come up, and occupy the vacant seat by his side. Mathews, though he perceived that the judge's eye looked, and his finger pointed, in his direction, felt assured that thu summons could not be meant for him, as he had not the honour of knowing the great functionary ; therefore he looked behind him, to notify to any more probable person he might see that he was signalled to. The Judge (the excellent James Allan Parke), hopeless of making himself understood, scribbled on a small piece of paper these words, ' Judge Parke hopes Mr. Mathews will come and sit by him.' He then folded it up, put it into the notch of the long rod of one of the ushers, and ordered it to be delivered to its address. On opening it, Mathews told me he felt himself blush like a maiden at the compliment thus unexpectedly paid him. That he, a poor player, should bo singled out for such distinction by one of the judges of the land, and one known to be of strict piety and blameless life, gave him more intense gratification than the notice of his sovereign. It was evident that he had been recognized under the most flattering conditions, not as Mathews the comedian, but as Mathews the man, and that, too, by an eminent legal dignitary who probably had never entered ^the walls of a theatre. Threading his way through an obsequious multitude, who were duly impressed with his importance by the notice taken of him, and then, passing through a chamber full of country squires and neigh- bouring magnates, he mounted the judgment-seat, and humbly, yet proudly, took the place awarded to him. The Judge shook him cordially by the hand, as if he had been an old friend, put a list of the cases for trial before him, directed his special attention to one which, he said, would prove of painful and pathetic interest, and completed his civilities by placing a packet of sandwiches at his side. After the business of the day had terminated, Mathews, on his drive home, dilated at length on his enjoyment of his day, and grew wanton in commendation of the urbanity and condescension of Parke. Before dressing for (1 inner, he wrote to his wife an enthusiastic description of the honours conferred on him, telling her henceforth to mark the day in her almanack with a red letter. Two or three years after this memorable visit to Shropshire, he went into Monmouthshire, to stay with his friend Mr. VIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. While he and his host were over their wine and walnuts, the latter, looking up to the ceiling, and trying to recall some inci- dent which had escaped his memory, said, as if speaking to himself, 'Who was it? Who on earth was it that was here some time ago, and was talking of you ? I cannot think who it could have been. Oh, yes ; 1 remember now. It was Judge Parke. Did not you and he meet somewhere or other ? ' * Ah/ said Mathews, ' I am proud to say we did ! What a fascinating person he is. I think I never saw a man of such sterling bene- volence and such captivating manners.' By this time Mr. Rolls had recalled the circumstances that had slipped his recollection i so that, when Mathews began to indulge in a glowing eulogium on Parke, he could not repress a smile. This his thin-skinned guest was not slow to perceive ; and his withers began to wince- * Pray, 5 said he, ' did the good Judge say anything about mCy then, eh ? ' Well,' returned Rolls, ' if you will not be offended, I will tell you the truth. When he was here, he said to me, " I think, Rolls, you are a friend of Mathews the actor a man, I hear, with a dreadful propensity for taking people off. Conceive, then, my consternation, two years ago, at Shrewsbury, on seeing him directly in front of me, evidently with the intention of studying me, and showing me up ! Well ; what do you think I did ? Knowing that I should not be able to attend to my notes while the fellow was there, I sent a civil message to him, and invited him to come and sit by me : and thus, I trust, propi- tiated him, so that he will now have too much good feeling, I should think, ever to introduce me into his gallery of Legal Portraits." ' CHAPTER IX. DURING the autumn and winter of 1833, I was curate of Am- port, in Hants the period of the great agrarian disturbances, when 'Swing' was lording it over half England when hardly a day went by without the houses of country gentlemen being either attacked or threatened, and scarcely a night without the perpetration of some deed of violence, darkness itself being turned into day by the light of blazing ricks of grain. It was- 210 JOURNAL. [CHAP. very satisfactory, at that anxious time, to sec how readily menace and lawlessness succumbed to firmness and authority. I can illustrate this fact by three instances which occurred in our immediate neighbourhood. 1st. One morning some seventy or eighty people presented themselves at the gates of the Marquis of Winchester, threatening to demolish Amport House, unless they were promptly and liberally relieved. Lord William Paulet, one of Lord Win- chester's sons, quietly walked down to the gates, which were luckily locked, presented an old-fashioned horse-pistol at the crowd, and threatened to blow out the brains of the first intruder. They retreated en masse without a word. Again 2nd. Lady Pollen was alone in her house at Redenham, Sir John being out shooting. Her ponies were at the door, when, as she was in the act of stepping into her phaeton, the same riotous crew, who had made so cowardly a retreat from Amport appeared in front of the house, demanding alms and arms. Lady Pollen, at that time, had not heard of the occurrences at her friend's house ; and, without manifesting the slightest fear, said to the mob, as she took the reins from her groom's hand Oh, you are come to pay us a visit now, are you ? Well, you may be sure you are not welcome. I am now going to drive into Andover, where the magistrates are sitting, and I shall desire them to send the military after you as quickly as possible.' She whipped her high-mettled ponies and drove off; and, on turning her head shortly afterwards to see how matters were going, beheld every one scampering off as fast as he could. 3rd. Another really formidable body of rick-burners and machine-breakers appeared, about the same time, at Fifield, the old family residence of two elderly maiden ladies of the name of Penruddock. The walls of their hall, I fancy, were decorated with suits of antique armour, weapons, &c., &c., the surrender of which, together with money and drink, was violently insisted on by their unexpected visitors. The ladies possessed both courage and tact. The more violently the mob urged their demands, the more firmly they resisted them ; until, at last, when the scoun- drels seemed about to proceed to extremities, and they saw one man especially, of hideous and revolting aspect, inciting his companions to violence, Miss Betty, with a tact worthy of Talleyrand himself, went up to him, and thus addressed him : * You too, of all the people in the world ! I am not IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOU.VI. 211 surprised at these poor misguided creatures. They follow where they are led, But that such a good-looking man as you, with your intelligence, could condescend to incite them to deeds of violence, and attack two defenceless women, does astound me! You are the very man I should have looked up to for protection ! But I am mistaken in you. You are not the man I took you for! Never again will I trust to good looks ! ' Such an unusual compliment was irre- sistible ; there was no standing up against it. His chivalry was pricked, and, doffing his billy-cock hat, he said to her, ' Come, old lady, we ain't so bad as all that ! Only give us some beer. We would not harm a hair of your head ! ' ' No ; I know that/ was her good-humoured retort. ' You could not ; for I wear a wig ! ' This good-humoured sally set the dissentious rogues a-roaring with laughter, and turned the tide in her favour. They left her and her sister, for Tottenham,* without another word. The success of this well-timed joke, and well-turned flattery, reminds me of a similar instance of address which had a still happier result, and which was displayed during the French Revolution in the year 1789. It was told me by the late Mr. Masquerier the artist, who was in the Louvre when the head of the Princess Lamballe, on a pike, was thrust in at the window of the room in which he was painting. In one of the lowest and worst districts of Paris, where barricades innumerable had been erected and destroyed, re-erected and re-destroyed, and where a heterogeneous rabble of both sexes were rioting in the most revolting and brutal excesses, La Fayette appeared, and ordered a young artillery officer to prime and load two formidable cannon, which were drawn up at the head of a particular street. Before the word to * fire ' was given, the young man rode up to the General, who, he knew, was re- luctant to have recourse to extreme measures, and requested leave to say a few conciliatory words to the mob, and see if he could not persuade them to withdraw. The General told him it was hopeless to appeal to their reason. * No, Sir,' said the wise man, ' it is not to their reason, but to their vanity, I would appeal.' * Well, be quick about it ; and take all consequences on your own shoulders.' Biding up in the very front of the scum of the population, * The Marquis of Ailesbury's. 212 JOURNAL. [CiiAr. doffing his cocked hat with as much deference as if he were address- ing himself to the cream of the noblesse, he said, while pointing to the gims ' Les gens comme il faut auront la bonte* de se retirer ; car, j'ai ordrcs tirer sur la canaille.' None could brook the idea of being classed indiscriminately with la canaille ; all wished to be considered gens comme ilfaut. The consequence was, as the young man had anticipated, the street was cleared in no time. 1834. July 20. This day I received a letter telling me that the Lord Chancellor (Brougham) through Mrs. Meynell's kind intercession, had offered me the living of Baston, near Market Deeping, in Lincolnshire. Before accepting, I must go and look at it : for Lincolnshire is one of the last counties I affect. However, beggars must not be choosers ; and as it is my first, and may be my last, chance of preferment, I will not be dainty. 1834. July 22. Here I am at Baston. The country from Peterborough is ugly enough : but this village itself is pre- possessing. It consists not exactly of a street, but of a long wide road, bordered on each side with goodly farmhouses and neat cottages, the church and its yard standing prettily in the centre. Suspecting the salubrity of the district (for the village is situate on the very selvage of the Fens), I betook myself to the tombstones to see what tale they would tell. At first I was impressed by the records of longevity I read, till I bethought me that it did not follow that, because the soil suited the indi- genous, it should also suit the exotic. I wish I were not so much the slave of my eye ; but I cannot help it : such country as that I have galloped over to-day towards Spalding, does not prepossess me. Ugh ! a dead, Dutch-like flat, enlivened only by Cuyp-like groups of cattle, and broken by constantly-recurring dams and dykes, with here and there a stunted pollard, or a lanky poplar. I could not help thinking of Mariana in the Moated Grange. 1 Hard by, a poplar shook alway, All silver green with gimrlrd Itnrk ; For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding grey.' I fear my delicate wife's life hero will be ' dreary ' and ' aweary * too. After all, it is the work to be done that I ought to think of; and it is better to be here, among ditches encrusted with green duckweed, than in the densely-populated black country, IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUXG. 213 with its smoko and blasts and furnaces. The labourers seem well-conditioned and well-spoken, and the farmers most obliging. Well, in spite of fogs and fens, ducks and geese, ague and rheumatism, I shall accept, and thankfully, what has been offered me. 1834. July 23. Called on the squire, a colonel of militia, living in a rambling sort of a house without any pretension to architectural symmetry, but with a good large dining and drawing, and plenty of bed, rooms. I was received with blunt but kindly courtesy, and offers of hospitality ; but I could not stay to dine, though pressed to do so. 1834. August 14. Before going to Baston, to settle, I ran up to London for the purpose of buying a good harness horse. Attracted, the very day of my arrival, by a promising advertise- ment, I went the next morning to the address given, which was at a respectable mews between Tottenham Court Road and Bedford Square.* On asking to be shown the horse, I was intro- duced into a four-stall stable by a groom, who pointed it out to me, and asked me to wait a few minutes while he ran round the corner for the owner. I was glad to be left alone, as it afforded me the opportunity of seeing the horse in its natural condition ; going up to him and trying his wind ; turning him round in his stall, and looking at his eyes ; and examining his legs deliberately. He had not a splint, or windgall, or spavin, or blemish of any kind about him. In appearance he looked a hundred guinea horse. He was about 15 hands 3 in. bright bay, with black points shoulder lying well back head like a deer's light in the jowl deep in the brisket well ribbed home short in the canon joint legs as fine as a foal's good middle-piece and good open feet and deep heels. I felt, like most young men, confident in my own judgment : so that, as soon as the proprietor of the animal appeared, I said to him, * Don't say a word about the horse ! I have looked him over ; and all I want to see now is, how he moves. Put him into a trap of some kind, and let me try his paces.' In five minutes I was driving down the New Road, and then in Hyde Park. I never sat behind a freer or truer-actioncd horse. I was enchanted with it. On returning to the mews, I asked the price ; and thought there must be something amiss with the animal when I was only asked 60Z. for it. 1 thought I ought to try nevertheless, to get it for * Chcnics Mews, Francis Street. 214 JOURNAL. [CHAP. less ; and, after tho usual chaffering, wrote him out a cheque for 52Z. 10s. I told Mr. Tom Corby, the apparent owner and actual vendor of the horse, that, as I lived in the country, and should not be able to take him down with me till the morrow, I would send my father's groom for him in half an hour's time. I jumped into a cab, and sent off the man for him, giving him the address with great precision. In half an hour he came back with a puzzled look, and said, ' You've given me the wrong address, Sir. There ain't no horse in that 'ere stable as you sent me to, and no man of the name of Corby either.' I instantly repaired, with the groom, to the stables from which I had bought the horse. The two or three loiterers whom I saw in the yard declared they knew nothing about the horse, and pretended they had never heard of Corby. I went in quest of a policeman; and giving him minute instructions, told him to search for the scoundrel and bring him to me at my father's house. In the meanwhile, I drove to Eichard Tattersall's, who at once asked me the name of the offender. The instant I told him, he burst out laughing, saying, at the same time, * My dear Sir, you've been chaunted by the cleverest fellow at that game I know. Admiral Fleming was done in the same fashion by another equally-gifted rascal but yesterday.' I went home thoroughly chap-fallen. The next day the policeman came to me with the culprit, whom he had found in a public-house not many yards from the spot where I had tirst seen him. In my life, I never saw anything like tho con- summate assurance of the man. On asking him where my horso was, he smiled, 'picked his teeth with a straw, and, with the most imperturbable sang froid, replied, * Where is he ? why, where he is, at this moment, I can't exactly say ; but, if I'm not mistaken, he was sold three hours after you paid for him, down in Hertfordshire, to a Mr. Mr. I think his name was GREEN yours, I believe, is YOUNG ; and I expect, by the day after to- morrow, he'll be sold down again in Yorkshire, where they knows a good horse when they sees him, for a spanking sum. "Why, you only paid fifty guineas for him. Tho Hertfordshire swell gave 701. for him ; and I should not wonder if he fetches 100Z. in tho north.' Aghast at his unblushing effrontery, I broke out into irrepressible indignation, and told him a few hours should see him in prison. * Lor, Sir, that's bearing malice and hatred in your heart ! and you are a parson 1 That can't IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 215 bo right I If you send me to prison, you'll do me a deal of harm, and do yourself no good. And I'll tell you why : I'm what rude people call a man of straw ! Now, that 'oss was not mine, at all ; but I got a fiver from a friend to pretend as it was ! He was a pretty 'oss, wasn't he? As sound as a roach too! I should not think the real owner, first and last, could have mado less than 500Z. by him. Now, I calls that better pay than breeding for the turf, any day. Don't you ? ' Seeing I could make no impression on him, I went to a Mr. Raimondi, a lawyer, iii Great Portland Street, with whose help he was brought before one of the metropolitan courts (I forget which), and sentenced to prison for, I forget how long. After waiting some weeks in vain, for redress, I went up to town again, to consult my lawyer. On enquiring whether I was likely to recover any part of my money, and hearing from him 'not a farthing/ I asked him for. his account. It was, I think, 27Z. 10s. This, added to my purchase money (52Z. 10s.), made me the loser of 80/. This was experience ; but it was dearly bought. For three or four years, I never went up to town, during the season, without meeting the man who swindled me, always smartly dressed, and generally riding on a clever hack. When- ever he caught sight of me, he 1 would ride up coolly to the curbstone by my side, touch his hat a la Wellington, and thus address me : How do? How do? Quito well?' Then, answering himself as if I had answered him * Glad to hear it. That's right. Have not forgot your old friend Tom, I see. Bye-bye!' 1834. August 16. I cannot resign the curacy of Amport for three months, or take possession of my living before that time has expired. October 9. Dined and slept at Conholt, to meet Sir Henry Fane and Wadham Wyndham. This place was left to Mr. Pierrepont by his uncle, Sir William Meadows. Tom Assheton Smith gave me the following impromptu by Sir William Meadows on Lord Cornwallis having been voted a plum, after the conquest of Seringapatam, while he only was mado free of the city by the Grocers' Company : ' From Lendenhall the reasons (raisins) come Why Grocers made me free ; To you, my Lord, they vote a plum, But say'a fig for me/ '216 JOURNAL. [CHAP. 1834. October 20. Dined with Lord and Lady Winchester, Richard Pollens, Dukes, and the Hon. Mrs. Fitzroy. Lord W. told me that, years ago, ho was at a party at Lady Hertford's, at Manchester House, when a lady of high ton entered the room in the latest fashion from Paris, the gown being rather high in front, and extraordinarily low at the back, so as to expose the blade bones. Jekyll, who was there, and saw it, land was standing next to the noble marquis, at once delivered himself of this impromptu : * Les Elegantes, who used to baro Their snowy bosoms to the air, A new device have hit on : For now they wear their gowns so low, 'Tis thought they soon intend to show The very parts they sit on.' 1834. October 23. Dined at Eed Rice with Mr. and Mrs. Tunno : a smart party there. They have a German butler, who goes the round of the table, offering the guests, not one or other of two wines, but five ! The effect produced on the ear by his mode of offering a choice is something tremendous. He carries a bottle in each hand, being followed by a servant in livery with a silver tray, on which are three others, and he runs the gamut on the wines each wine being announced in a higher key. The last is delivered with the suddenness and noise of a pistol- shot, thus * Sherry, Champagne, MADEIRA, WHITE HER- MITAGE, HOCK!' This reminded me of Charles Mathews, junr., having once told me that he went into an eating-house to have lunch, and found the orders given by the visitors on the first floor were conveyed below to the kitchen through a tube. A gentleman came in and ordered a basin of ox-tail soup ; two others mock-turtle ; three more asked for pea-soup ; and one bouilli. The waiter, too busy to give the orders for each separately, gave them all together, with great rapidity, in this concentrated form, at the mouth of the tube : ' One ox two mocks three peas and a bully ! ' 1834. October 31. Dined and slept at Sir Alexander Malet's, at Wilbury. We committed a ludicrous error. On driving up to the door we thought there was a strange want of promptitude in answering our servant's ring ; and when the bell was answered, only half the door was opened to us. We got IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 217 out, told the servant to take our things to our rooms, and entered the library ; and, to our surprise, found Sir Alexander at length on the sofa, reading, and in his shooting-jacket. Afraid wo were late, we expressed our joy to find he had not yet gone to dress. * No,' said he, smiling ; ' you are in plenty of time. In fact, you are rather before the time. I may say you are a week before the time.' We had mistaken the date. Of course we apologized, and ordered our carriage round again ; but to our dismay it had gone back. Nothing could exceed the kindness of Lady Malet and Sir Alexander. It ended in our sleeping there, and enjoying ourselves infinitely more than if there had been a party. 1834. November 30. Wo have now been five weeks at Baston. There is no parsonage fit for one of the inferior clergy ; only a hovel which a labourer inhabits, and pays three pounds a year for : so that build I must. In the mean time we shall have to rent a very lowly dwelling for more than twelve months, besides being indebted to the squire of tlie place for a roof over our heads for two or three weeks to come. By- the-bye I had not been four-and- twenty hours in his house before I discovered that his father and my grandfather had been intimate friends. From the moment he found this out, he seemed to take as much interest in me and mine as if we had been blood-relations. I really must put on paper my recollections of him ; for, great as is the love I bear his memory, his originality was too striking to be passed over. In disposition no husbandman on his estate could be more unpretending. In the heart of his family no man could be more beloved. His chief infirmity was an utter inability to say 'no.' 4 His nature was so far from doing harm That he suspected none.' And yet it was a right manly nature, too, though compounded with a woman's tenderness. As a landlord he was generous and forbearing to the very acme of indiscretion. In his dealings with his fellow man he was always at a disadvantage ; for he was as ignorant of the world and its ways as if he had been * raised ' in the prairies of the far West. He was formed to be loved, and doomed to be imposed upon. His features were handsome ; but too sharply cut, and defi- Q 218 JOURNAL. [CHAP. cient in pliancy. His voice was an inharmonious treble, ap- proximating to a squeak; and his pronunciation of some letters, such as etween breakfast and dinner, he actually rode from Windsor to London and back more than forty miles and when he reached the Castle, though he evinced little fatigue, he betrayed immense excitement. The consequence is, he is relapsing into his old ways; and our only chance of warding off the worst is by timely precaution. For Heaven's sake, then, go down, without a moment's delay, and take possession of his person. I authorize you to do so, as Chancellor." I firmly, but respectfully, de- clined ; assigning as my reason, that I had long ago incurred the Queen's displeasure ; and that I owed it to my self-respect never again to expose myself to a repetition of the indignity 226 JOURNAL. [CHAP. which had been put upon me. " John," said he, " listen to reason. I take the responsibility of everything on my own shoulders. It is quite on the cards that, in consigning my master to your care, I may incense Her Majesty against myself ; but you do not suppose that I care one brass farthing for her displeasure while I have my own conscience to support me, and know that I am acting as I think best for the patient, the royal family, and the people. You ought to feel every whit as indif- ferent to anything that may bo said of you when you are acting in a spirit of loyal submission to constituted authority. Take possession, then, I repeat, of the royal person ; and scruple not to use the same remedies with the King which you would think it right to apply to any one else." Finding me proof against all his arguments, he walked away with an air of mortification,, saying, as he went, " Ah, well ; I see I must send some one else to you, whose words will have more weight with you than mine." I had not the slightest conception what he meant or to whom he alluded ; and I was not in the mood to ask him. But the next morning it was made clear enough ; for, as I was in the act of sitting down to my coffee and rolls in Bolton Street, I heard a carriage draw up at my door, aad in a second or two the servant entered my room, ushering in no less a personage than the Prince Regent. If I had seen a ghost I could not have been more surprised or confused ; for the last place in which we had met had been on the staircase at Windsor Castle, on which occasion he was graciously pleased to cut me dead. My embar- raRsment was in no way diminished by his walking up to me with a smiling countenance, and asking mo to give him some breakfast. The servant had no sooner withdrawn, to make the requisite preparations for the meal, than His Royal Highness, putting his hand, almost affectionately, on my knee, thus ad- dressed me : " Old friend and faithful servant, I have risen early from my bed, and made haste to see you, that I may havo the satisfaction of saying to you Pcccavi ! I find I havo done you injustice, and I want to make you amends. For some time you have found mo cold and distant in my deportment towards you. I havo been so intentionally, but mistakenly. The truth is, I have long felt very angry with you; and I will tell you why. The last time the King was under your surveillance, I was one day passing through the corri- dors that led to his room, when I was completely staggered by seeing a large board affixed to one of the sido walls, with IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 227 these words printed on it in large characters ' No one to pass- this way without permission from John Willis, M.D.' I am free to admit, I regarded this as an unauthorized act on your part, and therefore as one of unwarrantable presumption. Knowing the objection the Queen had to my seeing my father, I fancied there must be some understanding between Her Majesty and yourself as to my exclusion from his apartment, although I know the Queen is not particularly fond of you. The Chancellor, however, has explained everything to me. He assures me that the notice which offended me was never in- tended to apply to me or my brothers, but as a means of warning off the pages and servants, and, I may even add, the equerries, from too close proximity to the King's apartments, as they had not only been heard to talk freely, and too near to the door of the room in which he chiefly was, but had been actually dis- covered listening there. I acknowledge now that I formed my opinions too hastily ; and having said thus much, I trust for the future" we are to be friends." 4 Touched by his condescension I knelt down, kissed his hand, and attempted, though in broken accents, to falter forth my gratitude for his kindness, when we were interrupted by the untimely entrance of the servant with the breakfast. ' During the despatch of the meal, the Prince was playful and jocose, distilling political gossip and fashionable scandal in equal proportions from his lips. As soon, however, as the breakfast equipage had been removed, he desired me to draw my chair near to him, the better to disclose the real object of his visit. " John, the Chancellor has told you how uneasy we are about my father again. I am persuaded that, if we wish he should be spared, he must forthwith be placed under strict medical super- vision. And I need not assure you, there is no one to whom we could so confidently entrust such a serious responsibility as to yourself. Yet, I hear, you ride rusty, and refuse to do your duty as a loyal subject. Is it so ? " I then repeated my objections, and my reasons for them, almost in the very words which I had used with the Lord Chancellor. He interrupted me by saying, " Never mind the Queen. She is neither regnant nor Regent. Once for all, John, I ask you, as an old friend, to do ME a per- sonal favour." Observing that I delayed giving any answer, he put his finger waggishly to the side of his nose, adding, " And if, Sir, you are hard-hearted enough to refuse me, as a friend nay, as a suppliant why then, as your Prince, I command you, on your allegiance, to obey me." 228 JOURNAL. [CHAP. * I was not proof against an appeal so flatteringly put, and from such a quarter. In two hours' time I was posting to Windsor as quickly as four horses could take me. As I entered the Castle, some of the old servants, who knew me, looked surprised, but welcomed me; others shook their heads as I passed, and whispered to each other. I marched on without any attendance, and without interruption from any one, till I reached the foot of the grand staircase. As I was preparing to mount it, with the intention of seeking the King's room, my ear recog- nised his well-known voice humming a favourite air. As his step drew nearer, the singing was succeeded by whistling ; and, in another second, forth lie came upon the landing-place in his three-cornered hat, and in his Windsor uniform blue coat, scarlet cuffs and collars, with his star on his breast, buff chamois leather waistcoat, leathern breeches, top-boots ; with his whip in his hand, switching his legs as he advanced. His face, which, when he first appeared, was radiant with happiness and freedom from care, became livid, as soon as his eye fell upon me ; his lip quivered ; his eyes were suffused with tears ; he gasped and glared at me like a noble stag at bay ; he reeled, convulsively flung off his hat, dashed his whip to the ground, and, in accents of anguish, shrieked out, " John Willis again ! 'Oh, gracious God ! I see it all ! " and then fell heavily to the ground. I ran up to the landing-place whereon he lay, and applied some ammonia to his nostrils and temples. As he began to rally, he began to abuse me, calling me his enemy, &c., &c. I leaned over him and entreated him to believe that he had not, in his dominions, a more attached and devoted servant than myself. I assured him that those were his real enemies who tried to make him think that I was not. After a scene too distressing to recall now \\ithout distress, I induced him to rise, and, leaning on my arm, he repaired to his apartment. In five minutes he became, from nervous prostration, as weak as a baby. He sat down and wept bitterly, exclaiming, in heart- rending accents, " Oh, John ! John ! What can I do without doing Wrong? They forget my coronation oath; but I don't! Oh, my oath ! my oath ! my oath ! " Frequently, on subsequent occasions, ho reverted with such exquisite and poignant pain to his coronation oath, that Dr. Willis told mo he attributed his relapse entirely to Pitt's per- sistent but conscientious pressure on him oil the Roman Catholic claims. IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 22J> 1834. At dinner to-day, at Mr. 's, much talk of Talma. This reminds me that Talma had told my father that, after the siege of Toulon, Napoleon the First wrote to ask him for the loan of a few crowns. He lent him all the ready money he had ; and this readiness to help was never forgotten. On one occasion he sent for him into his dressing-room, and said to him the moment he entered, ' Moil cher, they tell me you are much in debt. Never mind ! Send in your bills to me ; I will pay them. Think no more of them, but give your mind to your art.' 1835. June. I was dining with a friend in Grosvenor Street, when the subject of spectra, ghosts, and second-sight, came on the tapis. I told one story which I had been told by my friend Mr. J. C , which ran thus : He was returning with a university chum to his college at Oxford, at the end of the Christmas vacation, on the outside of the latest coach from London. The snow, at the time, lay so deep on the surface of the ground, that the wheels of carriages and carts moved through it as noiselessly as if they had been muffled. The moon rode high in the heavens, and shone so brightly, that all the objects around were as distinctly visible as if it had been midday. Mr. C considered himself fortunate in having secured the box- seat for himself; and yet, although he shared the benefit of the coachman's leathern apron, and had on a greatcoat and cloak, a worsted comforter round his neck, and a flask of brandy in his side-pocket, he was half-starved with cold "before he reached his journey's end. As my friend sat, with his chin drooping over his chest, his hat pulled tightly over his rime-covered brows, his eyes blinking like an owl's from the combined effect of an east wind, which was blowing penknives and razors, and half -frozen snow-flakes, he was roused up from an almost irre- sistible inclination to fall asleep by a disagreeable consciousness of the coachman's paying more attention to the guard behind than to the horses in front. Suddenly, at a critical spot, when- four roads met, he begged the coachman to mind what he was about, or else expect to be reported. The fear of risk to lift and limb caused him to open his eyes and keep watch over the driver. Just as he was again about to remonstrate with him. on seeing him once more about to relapse and crack jokes with the guard, a warning note on the bugle was given by the guard to a man walking in the middle of the road, who evidently did not hear the approach of the coach, and who was dressed in a '230 JOURNAL. [CHAP. white smockfrock, ill suited to such inclement' weather, nnd carrying a stick over his right shoulder, with a small pack hang- ing from it. Mr. C had hardly caught sight of the man ere he saw one of the splinter bars, on the near side, strike his hip with such force as to knock him down. There had been a premonitory shout from one or two of the * outsides ; ' but the roaring of the wind, which they were facing, deadened the sound, and it came too late. In a second, every one on the top of the coach, as well as those inside, distinctly felt the coach lurch and heave over some object in the middle of the highway. The 'insides,' who had not seen the man, con- cluded that they had been driven over a heap of roadside mud- scrapings, which had been hardened by the action of the frost ; but those who had witnessed the lamentable catastrophe from the top of the coach were confident that it was the body of a human being and that human being the pedlar over which they had been driven. The coachman pulled up instan- taneously : all the outside passengers jumped down from their seats to render help. The first among them was the guard, who took one of the lamps out of the socket moonlight though it was the better to discern the extent of the mischief done. The next to alight was my friend Mr. C , who, when he told me the story, confessed he felt a revulsion at the thought of the crushed, mangled, blood-besprinkled body he should behold ; but he had hardly set his foot to the snow-clad earth, when he heard the guard almost yell out, * Good heavens ! there's no one hurt ! there's no one to be seen ! ' And sure enough, after the closest search, there was neither trace of human body, nor the slightest sign of any material object of any kind which could account for the heaving of the coach. On the travellers resuming their seats and proceeding on their journey, an indefinable shudder crept over them ; for they could neither resist the evidence of their senses, nor yet explain the supernatural phenomenon. The ' insides,' at first, tried hard to laugh away the impression on the minds of the * outsides ; f but gradually the disposition to ridicule gave way to silence, silence to reflection, and reflec- tion to a reverential sense of awe. In this mood they arrived at Wheatley, the last stage in the old coaching days, for changing horses before entering Oxford. There they found four fresh animals waiting for them, with their coats staring in spite of the rugs on their loins; and ostlers At their heads stamping with their feet, and beating their crossed IX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 231 arms against their ribs, and execrating the coachman for keeping them out in the cold. 'What on earth has been the matter, Old Snail? We knows the roads run heavy; but we knows that they don't run no heavier for you than for others. There is not one of the down coaches that have been so behind time as you have/ The injured coachman did not deign reply; but the guard, who, not having been censured, could afford to be communica- tive, told them the cause of their being so late. When they had heard what he had to tell, the ostler and the helper were seen to exchange looks of deep meaning, and to display a strong disposition to say something in their turn ; but the air was too biting, and the passengers too importunate in their demands on Jehu to 'make haste,' to admit of such an unseasonable interruption. However, it transpired, the next day, that while the horsekeepers had been waiting for the coach, and calculating the probabilities of an accident they held together the following dialogue : Head O8tler (loq.). ' I say, Bill, whatever can be the matter ? J Tis a owdacious sight beyond the time, to be sure. I've known the roads run a deal heavier than this, without such an un- kimmon delay. Can't make it out.' Under ostler. ' More can't I. Tis not as though 'twere market- day, or Christmas Eve. Then, what wi' turkeys and geese, and sausingers, and schoolboys, one could ha' understood it. I say, what's the day of the month ? It ain't nothing partickler, be it?' Head ostler. Oh, for the matter o' that, 'tis the 16th of Janivary. By-the-bye, Bill, your axing me the day of the month has put summut into my noddle. Though it ain't market-day, nor a holiday, yet it was this very day twelvemonth, and (looking at his watch) about half-an-hour earlier than it is now, that that there pedlar chap, who carried his wallet at his back, was mur- dered where the four cross-roads meet.' There are two gentlemen now alive who were present and on the coach when this almost incredible adventure took place. One of those gentlemen is my authority for the story. JOUKXAI. [CHAP. CHAPTER X. AUGUST 12, 1835. Yesterday I was dining out in Brunswick Square, when, in the course of an argument on the subject of physical development, it was asserted that the English, as a race, were physically deteriorating. There were many present who indignantly refuted the statement by citing cases, within their own knowledge, of supreme beauty, such as William Locke, Horace Pitt, the Seymours, &c., (fee. This reminds me that, some years ago, when a mere youth, I was taken by some friends to Egham races. The day, I recollect, was op- pressively hot. After the first heat, I stood up in the carriage for the purpose of stretching my cramped legs and of inhaling a little fresh air. While I was in the act of doing so, I noticed, at a distance, a group of aristocratic "young men eagerly engaged in conversation about the chances of the next race. I got out of the carriage and walked towards them, espe- cially attracted by the air of one who towered above the rest of his companions. There was something so peculiar in his dress as to stamp him, when surveyed from a distance, as a consum- mate fop, and nothing else. But, when I got near him, I en- tirely changed my mind, and thought that, if ever coxcombry were justifiable, it was assuredly in his person. He had on a white felt hat (quite a novelty in those days), and was dressed in a complete suit of nankeen nankeen frock, nankeen vest, nankeen pantaloons, and nankeen gaiters, drawn smoothly over very thin shoes. His coat was buttoned up, so that one saw his whole figure, and such a one I never beheld before or since. It was as faultless as any sculptured divinity of the antique : and his face was almost as perfect. Ho might have stood as model for the Apollo. There must bo many alive who will not think I have indulged in the language of exaggeration, when I mention that my hero was the late William Locke, of Norbury Park, brother to the. present Lady Wellscourt, whose beauty also, the theme of admiration, has been transferred to the canvas by Sir Thomas Lawrence. September 1836. The Kev. William Lisle Bowles, the par- son poet, is our neighbour. It was to the reading of his son- nets, when a youth, that Coleridge attributed his earliest poetic inspiration. Ho resides at the pretty village of Bremhill, which is within an easy walk both of Calne and of Bowood. X.] JL'LIAX CHAIiLES VOL'NG. 233 Ho is a clever, well-read, humorous, single-hearted, but ec- centric person morally as brave as a lion, physically as timid as a hare. In time past it was a matter of equal indifference to him whether he had to measure swords with Lord Byron, the merits of Pope the battle-field ; or to wrestle with deans and chapters, church patronage the bone of contention. But to confront a situation involving the slightest personal risk was beyond his powers of nerve. For instance, he never entered my doors without first sending his footman forward on a recon- noitring expedition, to ascertain that there was no stray dog or cat prowling about for his special discomfiture. One day, Lord Lansdowne, hearing that Bowles was going to Bath to attend a particular meeting, at which he himself meant to be present, offered him a seat in his barouche. Always happy in his lordship's company, he gladly accepted the accom- modation : but as the carriage drove up, and he entered it, ho was observed to become ghastly pale. He had seen that thcro were four horses to the carriage. He had hardly seated himself when one of them shied. He instantly exhibited the liveliest disquietude, first looked out of one window, then out of tho other, and never spoke a word until they reached Chippenhair, when, calling out to the postillions to stop, he burst open the carriage-door, and insisted on being let out. It was in vain Lord Lansdowne attempted to reassure him. Out he got, and followed in a one-horse fly, having first bribed the coach- man to drive at a snail's pace. On another occasion, i had an opportunity of witnessing a ludicrous display of his infirmity. Bo wood was full of guests, and Moore, Rogers, and Milman being among the number, Mr. and Mrs. Bowles were invited to meet them. Bowles was no sooner dressed, than, on entering the drawing-room, he walked up to Lady Lansdowne, and made some complaint or other to her, which caused her at once to leave the room. He forthwith followed her. In a few minutes they both returned. As Lady Lansdowne passed me, she said, ' Bless tho dear man, there is no pleasing him.' I did not know to what she alluded, until Bowles came up with a face of blank dismay, and asked me if I were going to sleep there. On my telling him that I was not, ho exclaimed, * I wish I wcro going home too. I shan't sleep a wink here. I was shown into a bedroom to dress in, in which I was intended to pass tho night ; but it was on tho ground-floor, where there was nothing whatever to prevent thieves from getting in and cutting my throat ! I have reinon- 234 stratc-J with Lady Lansdowne, and by way of rendering me easier in my mind, she has transferred me to a room so high, that, in case of fire, I shall be burnt to a cinder before I can be rescued ! ' He was so cowed by the prospect of the imaginary perils of ihe coming night, that his usual flow of conversation was re- duced to the lowest ebb, and he hardly ate a mouthful. It had been understood from the first between Lady Lansdowne and Mrs. Bowles, that, in consequence of the crowded state of the house, she should return to Bremhill at night, and leave her husband to the enjoyment of his bachelor's bed and the con- genial society of his friends. His nervous apprehensions, how- ever, got the better of his social propensities ; and, as the ladies were leaving the dining-room, he whispered to his wife, ' I won't stay. Go home with you I must, and will.' An hour or two after, as the carriage was coming round for Mrs. Bowles, from the stable-yard, heavy sulphurous clouds darkened the sky, a terrific thunder- clap, succeeded by a blinding flash of forked lightning, shook the nerves of the ladies, and at once deter- mined the terror-stricken husband again to change his mind. He told his wife that, as she was not afraid of the angry elements and he was, she had better start at once, and leave him to his fate. This she did ; and, after giving infinite trouble to his noble host and hostess by his childish fears and vacilla- tion of purpose, it was at last arranged that he should sleep in a room adjoining Rogers', with the door between the rooms left open, so that he might have the protection of his more valiant brother poet. He was once invited by the late excellent Dr. Law, Bishop of Bath and Wells, to stay at Banwell. As usual, the first thing he did, when he went to his room to dress for dinner, was to inspect his quarters, and see if he could detect any assailable point from which danger might be apprehended. He crept about warily, looked to the fastenings of the win- dows, tested the working of the door-locks, peeped into the closets, and then into a small adjoining dressing-room, in which there was a tent-bed, unmade. From that fact, and the absence of washstand, towel-horse, &c., &c., he concluded it was to be unoccupied. Out of this dressing-room (if I remember rightly what I was told by one of the Bishop's sons) there was a door of outlet on to a back stair. The idea of sleeping alone in a room so exposed to nocturnal assault on two sides so appalled the poor poet, that, when a maidservant brought him up his hot water, X.] JL'LIAX riIAKLK< yorx^'. 235 lie took her by the hand, and told her that, if she would consent to occupy the vacant bed in the adjoining room, he would give her a sovereign. Conceiving that he meant to insult her, she bounced out of the room, and told the Bishop that he must get some one else to wait on the nasty old clergyman who had just come, as he had made improper advances to her. The Bishop insisted on knowing what he had said : and on hearing his ipaisaima verba, told her that she had quite misconceived him, for all that he wanted was the protection of some one within ready call. ' I wish/ he added, ' that you and the under- housemaid would oblige me by taking up your quarters together in the room next to my timid friend.' You can place the bed against the door ; and, as it opens in on your side, you will be safe from any intrusion on his part, if you are silly enough to fear it ; and I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that if he should be taken ill in the night he will have some one near him.' It so happened that the Bishop forgot to tell his guest of the considerate arrangement he had made for him ; so that, on retiring at night to his chamber, still believing the dressing-room to be empty, ho locked, not only the door by which he entered his own room, but that of the smaller room. In the middle of the night he fancied ho heard footsteps in the direction of the back stairs. It then occurred to him that he had neglected to lock the outer door of the little room, which communicated with them. He jumped out of bed to rectify his oversight, and unlocked the door which communicated with the dressing-room. Oil trying to push it open, he felt a powerful resisting body opposed to him (viz., the maids' bed), and as he pushed he distinctly heard whisperings. This at once con- lirnied him in his conviction that there were thieves in the house. He ran back to the other door, bawling out * Murder ! Thieves ! ' with such stentorian energy, that the Bishop and all his family were roused out of their beds, though not frightened (for the Laws are all remarkably fearless) ; and it was long before their guest could be reconciled to his position, and induced to go again to bed. I should think it must have been long before he was invited again to Banwell. These instances of his constitutional timidity are not more diverting than others which display his remarkable absence of mind. My wife, Tom Moore, and I, and two or three others, were dining with him one day. He was holding forth on the wit of certain epilogues Garrick's among the number; and telling R 2 236 XAI, [Our. us of having heard Mrs. Siddons once deliver the prologue to a play which had been got up in behalf of the volunteers, in which there occurred these two absurd lines, 4 The volunteers, 7v\\nrk them again.' He w f ent once to dine and sleep at the Rev. William Money's, at Whetham. Mrs. Bowies' toilet being soon made she was in the drawing-room as soon as Mrs. Money herself; but Mr. Bowles, not having come down when the dinner-bell rang, his wife requested they would not wait for him, but go at once in to dinner. Soup and fish had been served, when a servant tapped at the door with a message, desiring Mrs. Bowles to step up to her husband, as she was wanted. On going to him she found him in a state of boiling indignation, with no tm\ on, with one leg in a black silk stocking, and the other bun-. ' Here, Madam,' lie cried out, ' that idiot of a maid of yours has put me up only one silk stocking for my two legs : the conse- quence is, I can't go downstairs to dinner, or have any dinner ;it all, unless some is sent up to me here.' ' Oh, my dear,' said his amiable wife, ' you need not stand on much ceremony with such old friends as the Moneys. Put on again the stockings which you have taken off, and come down in them. I will explain matters to the company.* lie took the hint, and was in the act JULIAN CHARLES YOUN'I. 237 of peeling off the black silk stocking, when he discovered that he had put two on the same leg. I do not ask any of my readers to give credence to the following additional illustration of his absence of mind, though there are many in his old neighbourhood who believe it im- plicitly ; and the man who told it me, the late Rev. Anthony Austin, Eector of Compton Bassett, insisted on it as a fact. A little distance out of Calne, on the road to Derry Hill, there used to be, and may be still, for aught I know to the con- trary, a turnpike. One very hot day in summer, Bowles, astride of his favourite old pony, with the reins dropped on its neck, was seen by three or four stone-breakers by the roadside, ab- sorbed in the perusal of a book. Although the rider and his pony thoroughly understood each other, each ministering to the other's infirmities, yet on this occasion, the former finding himself inconvenienced by the occasional stumbling of his veteran ally, and frequently interrupted by his meanderings to the roadside to graze, dismounted, tied him to a gate, walked on a few yards, seated himself on a verdant bank, and sur- rendered himself at discretion to the captivating influence of his book. When he had half digested the chapter he had been devouring, he arose, ruminated further on it, argued it out aloud with himself, opened the book again where he had left off, and, for- getting the pony altogether, sauntered leisurely up the hill, reading as he went, till he arrived at the turnpike-gate. On reaching this familiar spot, which he had been in the daily habit of passing through for years, with his eyes still riveted on his volume, he shouted out, with a lusty voice, * Gate,' then inserted his hand into his breeches pocket, took from it the toll, which he had already paid in going to Calne, and offered it to the gatekeeper. ' What is this for, Sir ? ' said he. 'Why, for my pony, you goose,' was the answer. 'But you have no pony Sir ; and if you had, you paid me already in the morning.' On hearing the man say he had no pony, Bowles cast down his eyes as if he had expected to see it between his legs ; then became strangely confused, and only through the suggestion of the man, was enabled to remember where ho had left the animal. I am boimd in justice to admit, that I remember the subject of this story being twitted with it in a large company, and posi- tively denying that there was a word of truth in it. But it is only fair to add, j>cr contra, that the turnpike-keeper and 23$ .IOMINAI.. [CHAP. the stone-breakers adhered stoutly to tlieir assertions ; ami general impression was, that their evidence was more to be relied on than that of one so exceptionally oblivious and dreamy as the hero of the tale himself. One more anecdote of Bowles, and I have done with him. When very old, and when his mental faculties were painfully on the wane, he was seated in his armchair at the window, in his prebendal house at Salisbury, when he perceived an unusual crowd of people of all sorts, tag, rag, and bobtail, hurrying with eager steps in one direction. He enquired of his attendant the cause of all this ferment, and was told it was the first day of the great assizes. On hear- ing this, he hung his head and betrayed symptoms of profound depression. Presently, with an abruptness that might have startled men of less sensibility, the loud blast of a trumpet was heard, * Good heavens ! ' he cried out, ' what is that ? ' His servant informed him that * the Judges were come.' He had no sooner heard this, than he fell to the ground, crying out in accents of piteous alarm, * Guilty ! Guilty ! ' Then turning his silvery head to the person nearest him, he said, * If my doom is sealed, and I am to go to prison, I implore you not to allow that solemn coxcomb F to attend me.' N.B. A clergyman against whom he had conceived an unaccountable antipathy. 1836. Tom Moore, I see, is, very partial to Bowles, in spite, perhaps, in consequence of, his waywardness and eccentricity. He is gentle and playful with him : indeed, he pets him. I must say Moore's tone, in conservation, is perfect. It appears to me to be as well-bred as if he had been born in the circle in which he moves, and in which he is treated by the highest as their peer. He is not devoid of self-complacency it would be odd if he were but it is not an offensive self-com- placency : it is innocent and innocuous. He knows his gifts ; and if he did not, all the fine ladies of London have done their best to enlighten him on that point. But he has a kind and feeling heart. Some men who have been * muched ' as he 1 have not been improved by it. The poison of asps is under their lips; their tongues are stings ; their language is gall nml wormwood. But though Moore loves praise (who does not?), he would rather award praise to his fellow man than blame. I do not think he would willingly calumniate or even disparage : if he could not speak well of a man ho would abstain from speaking ill of him. On the other hand unless I cruelly mis- judge him I do not fancy that he is a self-sufficing man.. X.] .tn.IAX CIIAULKS VOL'\.. 239 I doubt his being content, like Cowper, to live alone f in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade.' I doubt if he would have been happy even with his Bessie, if he had found himself tete-a-tete with her for a few months on the island of Juan Fernandez. His social instincts are too pronounced and too gregarious for seclusion to be otherwise than distasteful to him. He has been pointed at so long as a lion, and spied at so much as * a bright particular star ' in the firmament of fashion, that I doubt if the assurance of a posthumous reputa- tion, however permanent, would compensate him for an eclipse of contemporary popularity, however transient. The drawing- room is the sphere in which he shines the brightest. What with his singing and his conversational power, and his winning and deferential address, he must be, to gentlewomen, captivating. Two lines from Pope occur to me as very applicable to him : * Blest with a taste exact, yet unconfm'd, A know ledge lx>th of books and human kind.' As to the refinement of his taste there can be no question ; and as to his knowledge of men, his powers of observation, and the extensive range of his opportunities, there can be as little doubt. But, as to his knowledge of books, I am hardly competent to speak. I can't help suspecting his reading to be rather varied and desultory than systematic and profound. That his general stock of information is extensive, is undeniable; and that his powers of application, when there is a needs-be for their exercise, arc great, is equally true. That he was never more wholesomely happy than when engaged in such works as his History of Ireland, his Life of Sheridan, Byron, and Lord Edward Fitzgerald, with his Bessie by his side, and Bowood within an easy walk, I am disposed to believe. But, when ho has struck work, or has nothing on the stocks, and no engage- ment with Longman on hand, no man longs more for play than he. Without compulsory occupation, and with the Lansdowne family away, it is not long before the black cloud steals over his spirit, and settles there, till his unselfish wife suggests to him a run up to town as the best prescription for chasing away dull care. No one can read his poems, or see his deportment in female society, without feeling that his admiration, not exclusively for beauty, but for the sex, is intense. I verily believe that, were his doctor to prescribe for him a twelvemonth's course of rigid abstinence from female society, the result would be as injurious 240 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. to his health as it would bo for one addicted to dram-drinking to be ordered suddenly to take the teetotal pledge. Although fondly attached to his wife, and with none of the lower propensities which detracted so much from the nobler qualities of Byron, it cannot be denied that, for many a year, he lias lived in a state, more or less feverish, of chronic flirtation ; 'From beauty still t<> lioniity ranging, Iii every face he found a* dart.' The flame of his vanity has been so fanned and fed by women's tongues, that his spirit languishes without it ; and yet there is a naivete about his vanity, which, though it may cause a smile, does not nettle the amour propre of those to whom it is frankly exposed. I remember an instance of it in point. One morning, at breakfast, at Bowood, he mentioned that, when Lockhart was engaged in writing his fiither-in-law's life, he received a letter from him, requesting him to be kind enough to write, for pub- lication, his impression of Sir Walter Scott's ability as a poet and novelist, and his moral and social qualities as a man. He said he had had great pleasure in complying with Lockhart's wish; and had paid an ungrudging tribute of respect to the great and good man's memory: though he owned to having been much mortified at being unable to find an excuse for intro- ducing a word about himself. He mentioned that there was one circumstance connected with his visit to Scott of which he was longing to tell, but which, from a feeling that there ought to be no rival by the side of the principal figure on his canvas, he reluctantly withheld viz., the unparalleled reception awarded to himself at the Edinburgh theatre, when accompanying Walter Scott there. ' Although/ he said, * I merely went under Scott's wing, and as his guest, and though Scott at the time was the national idol, the moment we appeared, mine was the first name scouted forth. It spread like wildfire through the house. He vas nowhere; and I was cheered and applauded to the very <-cho. When the Life, however, came out, I was rewarded for liiy self-denial by finding that Lockhart himself had done ample justice to the scene.' Moore, unquestionably, was of the sanguine temperament, nnd, without disparagement to his manliness, as hysterical as a woman. That he was quickly moved to smiles, any one who has witnessed his surpassing sense of the ludicrous will readily acknowledge ; that he was as quickly moved to tears, the follow- iug incident will prove. 1838. January 9. Shortly after Lord Lansdowne had pro- X.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUXG. 241 scnted me to my little living on his estate, my wife and I were invited to dine and sleep at Bowood. As I was going to dress, our noble host met me on the stairs, and told me that he had just received a letter from the Duke and Duchess of Suther- land, offering themselves for that day. There was already a largo party in the house ; and it was the very first time that there had been any one there, except Miss Fox, since the la- mented death of the heir and hope of the family. It was, more- over, the first occasion on which his lovely young widow had appeared in mixed society since her loss. Lady Lansdowne, I was told, had had much difficulty in inducing her to appear at all. However, she took her place at table, and sat there, abstracted, eating nothing, saying nothing the very image of sorrow. Dessert over, the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing- room ; and one of the first of Lady Lansdowne's acts, on our entry, was to 'walk up to Moore, and entreat him to sing. The piano was wheeled into the middle of the room. He took up his post on the music-stool, and the Duchess of Sutherland planted herself on a chair by his side. Lady Lansdowne and licr daughter-in-law were opposite to the instrument, reclining on an ottoman. The rest of the company drew in, and contracted the circle, out of consideration for Moore; for all knew that though his voice was as sweet as a lute, it was limited in com- pass, and that, on that account, he preferred to have his auditors nestle round him. He happened to bo in good voice and high feather. He was evidently flattered by the marked attention with which the Duchess listened to him ; held his head higher than ever in the air, and sang song after song with faultless articulation and touching expression. All his ballads were more or less pathetic ; such, for instance, as, ' When through life un- blessed we roam/ * At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,' &c., &c. During an interval, when he was preluding and harmonizing on the instrument, the Duke of Sutherland crossed the room, and, coming up to Moore, asked him to sing a song for him, of which he had the most agreeable recollection. ' You sang it,' said he, * the first time I ever met you, years ago, at Middleton, at Lord Jersey's. It was something about bells.' Moore, looking up to the ceiling, as if trying to recollect what it could have been, ran his fingers over the keys, and began to play the air of ' Those evening bells.' But the Duke cried out, * No, it was not that.' After a moment's further reflection, he began the song the Duke was really thinking of: '2\-J. JOURNAL. [Our. 4 There 's a song of the olden time Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the notes of some village chime Which in youth we loved to hear.' When he had proceeded with the strain thus far, he happened to turn his head from the Duchess, and glance at the widow. The instant he saw her lovely, sorrow-stricken face, with an abrupt- ness that was fearful, he shrieked aloud, and fell flat on his face to the ground, in violent hysterics. Not a soul moved towards him, except Lord and Lady Lansdowne, who raised him witli difficulty from the ground, supported him into the adjoining room,' and closed the door. The most embarrassing silence reigned through the drawing-room a silence only broken by the alternate sobs and laughter of the poet from the next room. All felt that this scene had been provoked by the presence of the lady to whose bereavement every song had borne more or less of application, and especially the very song he was singing, which had been a special favourite of her deceased lord's. After a most distressing interval, the three absentees returned. Moore at once made his way up to the Duchess of Sutherland, and begged her and all the company present to make allowance for an overwrought poetic temperament, painfully acted upon by a train of melancholy associations, and allow him to redeem his character by singing something in a lighter and more joyous vein. He then began to sing 'Reason and Folly,' but his un- strung nerves had not yet recovered their tone ; and the host, dreading, from the tremulousness of his voice, a repetition of the scene which had taken place, closed the lid of the piano, put his arms round his friend's waist, and said, * Come, Moore, you shall sing no more to night. You have sung too much already.' To so low a pitch had the spirits of the whole company sunk, that, at a signal made by Lady Lansdowne, the ladies took up their candles and went off to bed ; and, early as it was, the gentlemen were not long in following their example. At breakfast the following morning, the contretemps of the pre- vious night was almost obliterated by the brilliancy of Moore's conversation. Would that I could recollect a tithe of it. I do recall one subject of discussion, because I happened to have taken an insignificant part in it ; and because by it I was disabused of an opinion I had long entertained, as it appeared, erroneously. Facility in composition had been our theme, and I had ventured to advance an opinion to the effect that, in poetry, the lines which will live longest, which have given tho X.] JL'LIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 243 greatest pleasure, and have become ' familiar as household words/ were those which had been thrown off with little premeditation. I mentioned my impression that the finest lines in Don Juan had been dashed off by Lord Byron under the inspiration of gin-and- water ; and that the most striking lines in Christabel had been written by Coleridge under the exhilaration of opium. This, Moore said, was quite a mistake. He maintained that, though the primary thought, or figure of speech, might have been struck off the anvil of the brain under strong morbid excite- ment, yet that the development of the thought or the clothing of the figure was always the result of elaboration, and that, as a rule, one might feel sure that the lines which appeared, to a superficial reader, as having sprung spontaneously from the heart of the writer, were the product of the most scrupulous chiselling and polishing. He quoted, among others, Tom Campbell as the most finically fastidious of living poets. Eefe- rence to his manuscripts he said would show that some of his most celebrated lines, such as appeared to have been moulded at once in the glowing fancy of the poet, had really been hewn out by hard labour. There were instances he had himself seen of words altered no fewer than seven times. The last time I saw Moore was when I was staying in Stratton Street with Miss B. Coutts. This was shortly before his last illness. He called and lunched, and Miss Coutts asked him to stay and dine. Charles Dickens was there that day; and Moore, who had been buoyant and delightful before he came, became taciturn and sulky after. When Boz had gone, Moore, evidently contrasting his reputation with his own past celebrity, spoke to me with much chagrin of the fickleness of public opinion and the instability of literary reputation. He said, ' I dare say Dickens is pointed out as " Boz " wherever he goes. So was I once pointed out as " Tom Little." I can't say how sad I feel when I go to the opera now. I take up my lorgnette i see no one I know, or who knows me. Twenty years ago I flitted from box to box, like a butterfly from flower to flower. Go where I would, I was greeted with smiles. I could not pass through the lobby of a theatre without hearing people whisper as I passed, "That is Tom Moore." Now, no one knows me, and no one cares to know me. Tettc cst la vie, Heigho!' "244 JOURNAL. [Our. CHAPTER XL 1838. JANUARY 15. I am concerned at the general aspect of things in our parish. I find the peasantry becoming more and more querulous, defiant, and wrathful against their em- ployers, the farmers. I fear, before long, wo shall have this smouldering discontent blazing forth into open disaffection. Nor shall I wonder at it, however I may deplore it. We clergy tell the poor that * the labourer is worthy of his hire ;' but, query, is the hire sufficient for the labourer's wants ? The labour given in this parish, after deducting two hours for meals, lasts for ten hours : the pay is Is. 2d. per diem, or 7s., which is expected to suffice for a week. Poor fellows ! I have many a chat with them, and try to reconcile them to their lot ; but I find it difficult to answer their objections against the present order of things, or to inspire them with more hopeful views of the future. The fact is, there is too much justice in their mur- murs. They declare that the necessaries of life are compara- tively more heavily taxed than the luxuries ; that it never makes any sensible difference to them whether prices are high or low, for the price of meat always renders it out of their reach when at its lowest ; and that, though the baker never omits to raise the price of the quartern loaf when wheat is dear, he invariably neglects to reduce it proportionately when wheat is cheap. I grant that the wages in Wiltshire and Dorsetshire are lower than in other counties. But take those more favoured, and even then it is a perfect puzzle to me to understand how the labouring class I mean the labouring class with families contrive to live without incurring debt. Note. The above is taken from my journal written thirty-two years ago. Since 1838 the taxes on tea and sugar have been greatly reduced, and increased consideration for the poor has been shown by each successive government ; but still, I must think that the wages of the agricultural labourer are too low. My opinion is based on data derived from respectable sources in several parishes. The two following statements I select at random from many that I have by me. I took them down from the lips of two of the thriftiest and best-conducted families in the parish of Fairlight, near Hastings, when wages were not 7. per week, as at Lyneham, but 12*. XI.] J I'M AX CHARLES YOUNG. 245 The indispensable weekly expenses The indispensable weekly expense* of a man, with wife "and three of a man, a wife, and six cliil- children : dreu : s. d. s. d. Flour, 5 gal. at Is. Sd. 084 Flour, 7 gal. nt Is. Id. . 11 1 Unit 020 Rent .. . . 1 ( Firing 010 Firing .. . 1 Tea, 1J oz. 006 Tea, 1 oz. . . 004 Sugar 5J Sugar, 2 Ib. . . 007 Butter, i Ib. 006 Butter, Ib. . . 006 Cheese, j Ib. 006 Cheese, 1 Ib. . . 006 Snap 1J Snan. * Ih l.J Soda for wasl no* 001 Soda 1 Ib 001 L'amlh-d .. 1J 003 Caudles, | Ib. at 8d. . 006 Schooling 002 School, 2 children.. . 003 Yfust 1J Clnh 004 Yeast .. .. 1 JLO 14 01 16 11 Xu\v, in neither of these estimates is one farthing allowed for beer or animal food of any kind; for hat or cap, boots or shoes, stockings or socks, night-shirt or day-shirt, coat, gown, petticoat, or under garment, vest, trowsers, or those essentials of domestic life, needles and thread. Is it possible that the extra wages earned in harvest can defray the cost of these things ? I think not. These statements may be cavilled at. I may be told that, in spite of all I say to the contrary, married men with families do contrive to live on less than 12s. a week. I doubt it. It is true they may not be on the Union ; but, think you, reader, that they are not deep in the ledger of the village shop, and the grocer'*, iiiul draper's, and tailor's, and shoemaker's, in the neighbouring town ? 1838. January 17. ' Oh, my prophetic soul!' What I have been dreading has come to pass. The weather hav been unfavourable for agricultural operations, the farmers have turned off their able-bodied labourers; and what follows'? 1 1. o spread of discontent barns broken open, granaries rifled, ricks burnt, sheep stolen out of the folds by night, and daughter* <1 iiiidi-r the windows of their owners, the carcase and fleece carried off, tho head, with some insolent and threatening notice tied round it, left at the farmer's door. This morning I hear that Mr. Rumbold, one of our most substantial yeomen, on his return from Calne market, has been waylaid and shot at from behind a hedge in his own grounds. He has been severely, though not fatally, wounded. That murder was meant is evident; that it 246 JOURNAL [Cii.vr. failed of accomplishment is owing entirely to the marksman's want of skill. I visited the sufferer to-day, and tind that lie has not the faintest conception who his assailant could be ; nor can he assign any motive that any one could have had for wishing to take his life. 1838. January 18. I wrote this morning to Lord John Russell, as the Secretary for the Home Department, advertising him of the unsettled condition of the parish, the outrages that were being daily committed in the immediate neighbourhood, and the attempted murder on the 16th. I then called a vestry for the purpose of deliberating on the steps best to adopt in the emergency. The vestry unanimously decided that I should go up to London and seek an interview with the authorities at the Home Office. 1838. January 21. I received this morning a letter from the Under Secretary at the Home Office, informing me that orders had been despatched to Scotland Yard to send us down an enterprising detective Shackell. He arrived at five p.m., and I quartered him in the parsonage. 1838. January 22. Shackell was out all day alone, instituting searching inquiries and making himself familiar with certain suspicious localities frequented by the worst of our population. He returned as we were in the act of .kneeling down to family prayers, and joined us in them ; but before doing so, to my amusement, drew from his coat pocket a brace of pistols with spring daggers, and deposited them on the table. When we had risen from our knees, I asked him if he fancied he was in Ireland, that he thought it necessary to make so formidable a demonstration. He replied that, considering the disaffected state of the parish, and the fact of his arrival being well known, he thought it a necessary precaution to go armed ; but that lie did not like the idea of kneeling down in prayer witli loaded weapons in his pockets. He went on to say, ' Let me advise you, Sir, if you have any weapons, to see at once to their con- dition, for you may have need of them. I assure you, I have been struck, in going my rounds to-day, by the sullen reserve of the men I have questioned at the public-houses. There seems to be a strong feeling of sympathy for the would-be murderer, and very little for his victim. Moreover, as I entered your garden-gate just now, I saw two men skulking about under your palings, who, when I wished them "good night," gave me no answer. Perhaps they are only keeping an eye on my movements. But I ought to tell you that, from words I heard XI.] Jl/LIAN rilAKI.LS JOUNG. 247 drop to-day, I sec you have lost a good deal of your former popularity by having interfered, as they say, in what was no business of yours.' 1838. January 23. I accompanied Shackell in his rounds. He showed great intelligence, but gained none. We could elicit no fresh facts by a minute examination of the spot from whence the shot was fired ; for, at the time the attempt against the life of Mr. Rumbold was made, the snow lay deep on the ground ; so that what with a fresh fall in the night, succeeded by a hard frost, and the traffic of carts and waggons, all traces of the culprit's footsteps were effaced. 1838. January 25. The instant I arrived in town I waited on Colonel Rowan and on Shackell. 1838. January 29. I called on Sir Frederick Ro\ve, at Bow Street, on Mr. Phillips, Lord John Russell's secretary, on Lord Lansdowne, and Colonel Rowan. 1838. January 31. Went to see Du Potet, the mesmerist. I passed through a room in which were two or three persons in a state of unconsciousness. They reminded me of a story Horace Smith once told me. A country farmer went to Dr. Ashburner, to consult him. In his way to the inner room in which the Doctor was in the habit of receiving his ordinary patients, he had to pass through a front and back drawiug-rooin, in each of which were cataleptic subjects rigid as statues, and in extraordinary and unnatural postures. As soon as the honest yeoman saw the Doctor he made a clean breast of it, and confessed that whenever mesmeric effects had been reported to him * he had been a thorough sceptic ; but, after what he had seen, he had become a decided antisceptic' 1838. February 1. The upshot of my application at the Home Office is, that we are to be allowed two resident London policemen for twelvemonths, on condition that we defray all contingent expenses an impost our ratepayers, albeit reluctant to incur any fresh outlay, are too panic-stricken to refuse. Went to Bath in the afternoon, intending to take the baths for a few days. 1838. February 2. This day I walked to Beckford's Tower on Lansdowne. It is, in truth, a museum, wherein are deposited his largo and cherished collection of pictures, gems, virtu, and china, which, rare and valuable as they are, represent but the debris of the original treasures of FonthilL Afterwards I visited his private residence in Bath, which certainly displays a refine- ment of taste and a perception of harmony, proportion, and 218 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. colour, which tlic most fastidious Sybarite would find it difficult to impugn. I have been permitted access to certain of liis family papers, which have confirmed me in the impression I had before enter- tained viz., that there seldom has existed a man to whom so much was bequeathed, by whom so little was done for his fellow creatures. He lost his father, Alderman Beckford, when he was but seven years old ; and before he was half out of his teens he was in- formed that he was to succeed to his fabulous fortune. Fourteen years' minority, and the succession to two other large properties, augmented the sum total of his possessions to an amount so colossal, that on coming of age he was congratulated on being the richest commoner in the world. In boyhood he was much noticed by his relative the great Earl of Chatham ; and there being but a year's difference be- tween the age of his quondam friend's son and his own, and both being unusually precocious, he was fond of instituting comparisons between ' the two Williams,' and of predicting their future careers. At sixteen he was consigned to the tutelage of a certain Dr. Lettice, with whom, at eighteen, he went to Switzerland. A campagne near Geneva was taken, where he enjoyed frequent intercourse with Voltaire, Huber (the naturalist), and the other celebrities who dwelt on the borders of the Lake, and reflected the lustre of their names on a locality as remarkable for the grandeur as for the beauty of its scenery. The account of Beckford's stay in Switzerland might have had an attraction for the general reader in days when but little was known by the insular Englishman of the European con- tinent, but it lacks it now. It was, however, while in Switzer- land, and when only eighteen, that he wrote the Memoirs of Extraordinary Painters ; and commenced the rough draft of Vathek. At nineteen he published it. We must accept his own word for it, that it was written in three nights and two days ; and that during that time he never took off his cloth < , but contented himself with plunging his head in cold water, throwing himself on his bed for an hour or two, and surrender- ing himself to the vivid dreams which gave fresh colour to his waking thoughts. Of this work Byron has declared that he had an early admiration. He speaks of it as ' a work which, for correctness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, far surpasses all European imitations ; and bears XL] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 249 such marks of originality, that those who have visited the Fast will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it. His happy valley will not bear comparison with the Hall of Eblis.' How long Beckford remained in the Pays de Vaud does not appear. Suffice it to say that, in less than twelve months he had returned to Fontbill, where he was staying with his mother until he started on a tour through his own country. After visiting all the principal towns, the seats of several re- latives in the west of England, and the great hives of commercial industry in the midland and northern counties, he returned to London when Lord George Gordon's riots were at their height. As soon as his arrival in town was known to the King he was summoned to Court, and presented at a private audience by his father's great friend, Lord Thurlow. ]n the course of this interview with George the Third, a page entered and begged audience for an officer who had just been vigorously engaged in suppressing the riots. On his way to St. James's young Beckford's nerves had been keenly tried and his pity greatly excited by the sight of the dead and dying in the streets. On principle a thorough loyalist, and expecting to find in the monarch some manifestation of regret for the sufferings of the misguided multitude, he was horrified to see him hasten eagerly forward to meet the officer as he appeared at the door, and to hear him cry out at the same time, in the short, sharp, and snap- pish iteration peculiar to him 'Well! well! well! I hope you peppered them well ! peppered them well ! peppered them well! Eh? eh?' In spite of the condescension showed him by his sovereign, his daughter, the late Duchess of Hamilton, used to say that, to his dying day, he was unable to overcome the aversion he had conceived for him after the vindictive disposition he evinced on that occasion. At this period of his life, before the bloom of ingenuous youth had been dulled by the incense of adulation and the corrupting influences of wealth, he was, though effeminately romantic, amiable and unaffected ; and as he would lie for hours on his back, under the shade of his own trees, * chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies,' it was evident, from his habitual self- absorption, and the indifference with which he regarded the elaborate preparations making in his honour that his preference was for 'the life removed.' One result of these exclusive s 250 JOURNAL. [Cii.M. reflections was soon avowed. He declared his intention, as soon as he became his own master, of converting the grand, substan- tial, truly English mansion which had been erected only twenty years before, by his father, at incredible cost, into a building more consonant with his own peculiar taste, and partaking more of the oriental character. There had been originally a fine house on the same site when his father purchased the estate, although it had only attained to its ultimate scale and dignity under the auspices of Wyatt. Three noble avenues led up to it in different directions. It was ' enclosed in stately shrine Of growing trees ;' and not only of * growing trees/ but of trees venerable from their antiquity and magnitude. The park in which it stood was enclosed by a high stone wall, seven miles in circumference ; and was so ingeniously diversified by artistic planting, that a visitor might walk twenty miles, and never retrace his steps. Of the enormous size of the house, some idea may be formed when it is stated, that, at the fete given on his coming of age, three hundred persons were lodged under the roof, and six hundred dined daily in the hall. The multitudes who came from the surrounding towns and villages were entertained in tents and marquees. It was from his recollection of the sceno presented at that time in the grand old hall, that his conception of that of Eblis took its rise. Soon after attaining his majority, he started on what was j then called the grand tour. His suite consisted of a musician to \ play to him, of a doctor to watch over his health, of an artist to paint and copy for him, and of Dr. Lettico to aid him in ; literary research. He was followed by six or seven carriages, \ a proportionate number of fourgons for the luggage of such a retinue, and a stud of first-class horses. Ho first made for Venice, by way of the Tyrol, and reached it by moonlight in a gondola. On setting foot on the piazctta, his sense of enjoy- ment was so intense that ho could only give vent to it in tears. | Abruptly breaking away from his party, and without giving any of them a hint of his purpose, ho jumped into the first gondola he came near, and, captivated as well as enervated by his sen- sations, told the boatmen to convey him to one of the least fre- quented of the islands in the Adriatic, where he might remain a while, safe from intrusion, and give the reins to his over- wrought imagination. As soon as he had left the boat, he told XI.l JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 251 the gondoliers to go to sleep if they liked, but to remain where they were till he returned. It was near midnight before he was discovered by Dr. Lettice, and then only through the help of some sailors, who had watched the course which Beckford's gondola had taken. He found him alone, wrapped in visionary speculations, which he did not thank him for disturbing. He afterwards confessed to him that the combined effects of the cli- mate, the scenery, and the associations, classical, poetical, his- torical, pictorial, and romantic, had wrought so powerfully on his brain, that he believed that but for the timely relief of tears, he should have gone mad. The game effect was sub- sequently produced upon him by his first evening in Rome, and his first sight of Cintra and Vallombrosa. He used to say, in aftor years, that in those few nights he had lived through years of feeling. Venice was a place so entirely after his own fancy, that he lingered there long : never so happy as when, at full length, with closed eyes, he was floating lazily across the lagunes in his gondola, and yielding to the balmy influences of the atmosphere till the gathering shades of evening warned him to go home and dine, and to hurry to the opera to listen to the dulcet notes of Paccharetti. He found himself soon so beset with invitations from the leaders of ton in the place, that, society becoming irk- some to him, he tore himself away from its exactions, and hur- ried on to Rome. On first reaching the heights of Monterosi, and beholding the dome of St. Peter's, he flung himself prostrate on the ground in speechless rapture. It was late in the evening when he entered the town itself; and on reaching the Piazza del Popolo, leaving all concern about luggage and passports to his followers, and calling up one of his grooms with a led horse, he flung himself into his saddle, and, attended by his courier, galloped off to the object of his longing. He reached St. Peters as the great doors were being closed. Extending a wcll-nlkd purse to the sacristan, he told him that every farthing in it should be his if he would but sutler him to remain in the mighty temple alone for a couple of hours. The man stared, scrupled but consented. Beckford begged to bo locked in, but took the precaution, ad interim, of returning his purse to his pocket. As he entered the vast building and heard the doors close behind him, and found the twilight deepening round him, his teeming brain ran -riot. The odour of incense still clung to the walls, light still twinkled round the high altar. With stealthy steps and breath suspended he wandered slowly s 2 JOUKNAL FCiiAP. from chapel to chaprl. Much which lie wished to see was hidden from his view by the intervening shadows of the lofty pillars; when joy beyond his fondest hopes ! the clear full moon arose and shed her silvery beams athwart the greater part of the interior. He could scarcely believe that two hours had passed, when he was reminded of the fact by the entrance of the door- keeper, to whom he gladly tendered the promised guerdon, and who was so well satisfied with his bargain that he gave his patron carte blanche to repeat his visits whenever he was disposed a privilege of which he was not slow to avail himself. He would often remain there from midnight till dawn of day with no other seat to rest on than the steps of the high altar. After devoting considerable time to the careful exploration of the antiquities of Rome, he went on to Naples. He was en- chanted with it, of course, but still, amid all the attractions of that lovely city, he pined for his first love Venice. Thither he returned ; and while thinking seriously of a prolonged stay, an urgent summons to enter public life compelled him once more to return to England; though, at that time, the solici- tations of his friends and relatives failed to shake him in his resolution to decline the preferred representation of the borough of Hendon. Having no ambition to enter on the stormy arena of politics, which were then agitating the senate, he retired to Bath, where he met with Lady Margaret Gordon, his own cousin. He quickly became intimate with her loved, and married her. After presenting her at Court, and paying the necessary round of complimentary visits to his friends, he turned his back on London, and repaired, with his bride, to the favourite haunts of his early youth, pitching his tent at Melhabeau de la Tour, at Evian, and living in blissful retire- ment. It was there his first daughter was born ; and tin re fifteen months later, after giving birth to another girl, that his wife died. Shortly after, in quest of new scenes, and in the hope of alle- viating his grief for his loss, and accompanied by Dr. Lettice, his * guide, philosopher, and friend,' he betook himself to Por- tugal, having previously sent his two children to Fonthill to bo under his mother's care. He soon found wholesome distraction in building his well- known house at Cintra, IJa Mathao. There he had ample scope for tho indulgence of his extravagant pas- sion for Eastern architecture: with which the exquisite climate, and the almost tropical vegetation, were tin 'roughly in keeping. The recollection of his luxurious manner of life was still green, when Byron made Lis pilgrimage there. XL] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 253 'On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, Are domes, where, whilom, kings did make repair; But n->\v. the wild flowers round them only breathe: V. t ruin'd .splendour still is lingering there, And yonder towers the prince's palace fair. There thou, too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son, Once formed thy Paradise, as not aware AN' IK -u wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.' The scale of his establishment, and of his general expenditure, surpassed anything that had ever been witnessed in that country. The consequence was, that he was overwhelmed with applications from the proudest magnates in the land for permission to visit him. With the Marquis di Marialva, the prime minister, and also with the Grand Inquisitor, he cemented a cordial friendship. One day Marialva called him aside, and told him that lie was anxious to take him to some curious old Moorish remains, which stood in a situation singularly picturesque and sequestered. Having readily consented to go, early the next morning they started together on their expedition. When they drew near to the spot, Marialva desired his companion to order his numerous attendants to remain where they were, while they withdrew by themselves. In a few minutes they came upon the buildings, which were sufficiently striking to excite Beckford's admiration ; but while he was examining them, Marialva, with- out any perceptible motive, abruptly whispered to him, ' Seem to be drawing. Pretend to be drawing.' Fortunately, Beckford had his sketch-book in his hand, and was in the act of taking a view (which, by-the-bye, long after hung in the Duchess of Hamilton's boudoir at Easton Park), when a door in the building opened, and a tall thin young man, with a fine intelligent countenance, and an uiidefinable grace of movement, came forward and stood before the presumed artist. His mien was so full of majesty that Beckford, convinced he was no ordinary personage, and concluding that ho wished to main- tain his incognito, merely returned his salutation, and offered him a seat, while he went on with his drawing. It was not long before ho found himself drawn into conversation with him. One topic followed another in rapid succession, and the political condition of England, France, Italy, Spain, and, finally, Portugal itself, was freely discussed. Home questions were put. and counsel sought of Beckford, on subjects of such delicacy as to require both courage and presence of mind to answer. His enthusiastic disposition however being piqued by 254 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. the singularity of the interview; and, being also partial to the people of the country, from whom he had received much re- spect, he uttered the honest sentiments of his heart about them without reserve. The stranger was so captivated with the liberality of his opinions that he threw off all further disguise, and made himself known to him as the Prince of the Brazils. He had heard so much about the Englishman that ho had hit upon this expe- dient as a means of knowing him without himself being known. From that hour they became fast friends. After visiting every place in Portugal and Spain which pos- sessed objects in art or nature worth the seeing, he returned to England, more than ever bent on building the abbey at FonthilL His original idea was not to reside in it, but to erect for his own use a modest retreat hard by. While the new building was in course of erection he went to Paris, where he remained during more than twelve months of the Revolution. He remained equally undismayed by Jacobins or Girondists, taking no part in the political feuds which dis- turbed other men's minds, and maintaining a dignified atti- tude of reserve. Strange to say, at a time when the worst passions of human nature were let loose and anarchy usurped the place of law, he lived on terms of equal good-will with the Duke of Orleans and with Mirabeau. It was in the year 1793, when men of peace could once more move about Paris without fear, that Beckford was induced to go and see a very remarkable lion, which no man could tame ; and which, from his exceeding ferocity, was a terror to all be- holders. The instant Beckford entered the place in which he was confined, his angry roars ceased ; he approached the bars of the cage where Beckford stood, and rubbed himself caressingly against them. Every one present was struck with the strange phenomenon, and watched the actors narrowly. The keeper went up to Beckford, and said ho was sure that if he would enter the den with him the lion would not harm him. Although curious to make the experiment, he had no idea of making an exhibition of himself : so he told the keeper if he would wait till the hour of closing, ho would not hesitate to enter the cage in his company. When the general public were dismissed, and Beckford walked towards the cage, the lion stood still, narrowly scrutinizing his movements. Beckford fixed his eyes steadily on him; the lion returned an equally steadfast gaze. After mutual investigation, the lion having taken his visitor's measure, XI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 255 and seeing that he did not quail before him, went up to him, lay on his back, fondled him, aiid putting forth his tongue, licked his hands till the skin was nearly rubbed off. Luckily no blood was drawn. From that day, go when he might, Beckford was sure of an affectionate welcome from the king of beasts. The good understanding existing between the lion and the Englishman became a subject of court gossip ; and many j-ears after, when Charles the Tenth was residing at Holyrood, he asked the Duchess of Hamilton whether her father still possessed the same power of eye over wild beasts which he hud displayed in the case of ferocious lions. He continued in the French capital till after the death of Louis XVIII., making acquaintance with all the most con- spicuous persons of that day : among the number, with Madamo de Stae'l, whose talents he appreciated more highly than he did her morals. On his return to Fonthill, he dedicated himself in earnest to the realization of the projects he had long con- ceived, and which had grown with his growth and strength- ened with his strength. When he was residing at Naples, he had received much civility from Sir William Hamilton ; therefore, when he, his lady, and the illustrious Nelson, volunteered him a visit in the course of the ensuing winter, he resolved to commemorate it by a grand fete. Nearly 700 workmen were employed in carrying out his plans. Torches were burning all night to enable successive gangs of workmen to continue their labours uninterruptedly. The consequence was, that in little more than two months the abbey had so far advanced as to be a model of architectural beauty. From one point in the grounds it was visible in all its grandeur its turrets, gurgoyles, pediments, and pinnacles imparting to it the more salient features of an enormous monastery. The hall was spacious and lofty ; the tower, which was in the centre of the building, was visible at a distance of forty miles. Three wings stretched from it, cast- ward, northward, and southward each totally unlike the other, yet each constituting in itself an elegant and commodious resi- dence. The splendour of its furniture and decorations, with its inexhaustible treasures of art, earned for it the designation of * The Wonder of the West.' The illustrious naval hero was received in the town of Hendon with an ovation worthy of him : the anxiety of the townspeople io get a glimpse of him beggaring description. When the company invited had taken their seats in the old 256 JOURNAL [CiiAP. hull, tlio scene was reported to have been singularly imposing. Every one was kept in profound ignorance of what awaited them, the work having been carried on behind an immense screen of timber, so that no one might know of the progress of the works. To his guests, who begged that they might be allowed to visit t:ic abbey, the erection of which had already created general curiosity, Mr. Bcckford replied, * that they should certainly see whatever there was deserving of notice before they took their departure.' The next day he was busy superintending opera- tions ; for his ambition was to give them a fete cliampctre, which they should not easily forget. When the day arrived, and twi- light deepened, numerous carriages drove up to the door, fol- lowed by a cavalcade of horsemen, in procession, in conformity with the directions of a printed programme. The visitors, un- prepared 1 for the coming event, chatted gaily as they drove or rode towards one of the grand avenues already mentioned : when at a sharp turn in the road, every carriage stopped, and one long, loud, ringing shout of amazement and delight burst from every throat. The enormous body of visitors found them- selves, in an instant, transported as by magic to a fairy scene. Through the far stretching woods of pine glittered myriads on myriads of variegated lamps, forming vast vistas of light, and defining the distant perspective as clearly as in sunshine. Flambeaux in profusion were carried about by bearers stationed wherever they were most needed. The Wiltshire Volunteers,, handsomely accoutred, were drawn up on either side. Bauds of music, studiously kept out of sight, and placed at intervals along the route, played inspiring marches; the whole effect being heightened by the deep roll of numerous drums, so placed in the hollows of the hills as to ensure the effect of their reverberation on every side. The profound darkness of the night, the many-tinted lamps, some in motion, some stationary, here reflected on the bayonets and helmets of the soldiery, there seen through coloured glass, and so arranged as to shed rainbow hues on every surrounding object the music, now silencing the hubbub with its dying full, now waking the dormant echoes into life by its martial clangour, riveted to the spot the lover of striking contrasts. Gradually the procession drew near to the abbey itself, the tracery of its splendid architecture being relieved by deep shadow, and the inequalities of the building being marked out by myriads of lights, revealing to the wondering eyes XL] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 257 of the spectators battlement and turret and flying buttress. No grander feature was there in the whole edifice than the tower y shooting up three hundred feet, the upper part lost in total eclipse. Reared above the main entrance fluttered the national banner, and by its side the Admiral's flag, as they flapped in the night breezes, to displaying their massive folds in concert. All present stood entranced. The moment the abbey was fully unveiled, every one, animated by a common impulse, sprang from their carriages and walked towards it. And when the 'conquering hero,' attended by his host, entered the walls, the organ thundered forth a pealing sound of welcome, which shook the edifice to its foundations; while notes of triumph resounded through the galleries and corridors around. From the abbey they adjourned to the grand hall, which had been arranged for the banquet. An entire service of silver and agate of mediaeval pattern was laden with the fare of other days. On the beaufet were piled heavy masses of gold and silver plate. On the board, and against the walls of the room, stood wax candles six feet high, in silver sconces ; while huge blazing logs of cedar, dried and prepared for the occasion, and con- stantly renewed, contributed to the material comfort. The banquet ended, and the guests well-nigh surfeited with the fanciftd and gorgeous display they had witnessed, they were desired to pass up the grand staircase, on each side of which stood, at intervals, men dressed as monks, carrying waxen flambeaux in their hands. The company were* first ushered into a suite of sumptuous apartments, hung with gold-coloured satin damask, (in which were ebony cabinets of inestimable value, inlaid with precious stones, and filled with treasures collected from many lands) then through a gallery two hundred and eighty-five feet long, into the library, which was filled with choice books and rare manuscripts, and fitted up with consummate taste, the hangings of crimson velvet being embroidered with arabesques of gold, the carpets of the same colour the windows of old stained glass, bordered with the most graceful designs. At last the guests reached the oratory, where a lamp of gold was dimly burning by itself, shedding just light enough to display to advantage, in a niche studded with mosaics and jewels of great price, a statue of St. Anthony by Rossi. Here, again, the illusion of the monastery was well maintained. Large candclabras, in stands of ebony inlaid with gold, and multi- plied by huge pier-glasses, formed an exquisite perspective, and enhanced the surpassing brilliancy of the scene. When the entire company was collected in this marvellous gallery, a 258 JOURNAL [CiiAP. stream of solemn music came floating through the air, from a quarter unknown and unsuspected. (Beckford always thought the effect of music heard under such circumstances irresistible). Only eighteen months before his death, when eighty-seven years of age, he was wont to speak with rapture of a scene at which he had been present in one of his juvenile explora- tions. He had accidentally strayed into a grand but very sombre cathedral : the choir was chanting a solemn requiem for the dead; priests, motionless as statues, were grouped around a catafalque ; lofty candles, lighted, surrounded the altar. There was a long pause for meditation, and then, from an unseen direction, voices of inconceivable sweetness wailed forth a funeral hymn. The priests themselves grew pale as they sang their parts, in response. * As for me,* he used to say, 1 my heart's blood curdled in my veins ; and, to my dying hour, the mere mention of that cathedral, and the hymn I heard there, will thrill to my inmost soul.' But to return to our subject, and finish this crude sketch of a fete which, for a long time, conferred on Fonthill an exceptional celebrity. After gazing their fill on the multiplicity of sights that met them at every turn, the guests were directed to retire in a direction op- posite to that from which they had come. But, before they were allowed to depart, spiced wine, sherbet, lemonade, and iced water, in flagons of ruby-coloured glass, and caraffes of rose- water, and little cases of ottar of roses freshly imported from Shiraz, and choicest fruit in baskets of gold filagree, were handed round to them. It was long after midnight before the visitors could tear themselves away : though their host would not permit them to linger, lest they should retire with their impressions impaired by familiarity. So that, before the lamps began to wane, the several bands, accompanied by the mighty organ, struck up their most exhilarating strains ; and, as the night breeze wafted them through the air till distance drowned them, the guests left the abbey grounds scarce able to believe that they had not been enjoying an Arabian Night's Entertainment, instead of an English one.* * There is a story told, worth repeating, and which I hod nearly for- gotten, of two gentli-iu'-n having one day i-limlx d oyi-r th: high park wall, in ho]M.s of judging for themselves of th<; truth of the reputed oeauty of 1'ontliill Abbey. Th-y hud no sooner jumped to the ground than they met by the proprietor. who, instead of peremptorily ordering ihi-m off the premises, received them witli haughty urbanity, conducted them XI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 259 There is much in Beckford's life and character which might serve 'to point a moral and adorn a tale.' His father, shortly before his death, wrote thus to a friend : ' I have left my boy one of the finest houses in the country.* He took pride in thinking that he had done so. What a fall would that pride have sustained if ho could have foreseen that, regardless of all the thought, time, and money lavished on that splendid structure, his son's first act would have been to level it with the dust ; his second would have been to replace it by a fantastic one of his own devising, which would be destroyed by fire ; and his third to rear a still more ambitious edifice than either of the pre- ceding ones, the chief ornament of which would be its ruin. For, as if to typify the founder's own fate, it was the dispro- portioned height of the great tower which brought about the downfall of his house. And the owner himself, in like manner, being * exalted above measure,' in his youth, was laid so low in his old age, that it might be well said of him, ' This was the man that made not God his strength, but trusted in the abundance of his riches.' If sacred trusts ignobly used, even in this life, entail a penalty on the wrongdoer, assuredly the retribution which fell on William Bcckford was a righteous one. He had abundance of talent physical advantages of no common order a priceless wife the affection of two lovely daughters (one of them wedded to the head of a princely house) boundless wealth, and all the influence begotten of it power to obtain whatever could minister to his cupidity or his vanity the notice of kings, queens, princes, prelates, potentates, Oriental as well as Euro- pean distinction in the world of literature and art, as a suc- cessful author, an accomplished artist, an architect, an nrchro- ologist, a musician, a poet, and a virtuoso : and yet what has he left behind him ? what has he done for his fellow-creatures ? what did he do for those who were nearest and dearest to him ? Nil ! His performances fell immeasurably short of his pretensions ; he preferred the flower to the fruit ; ho confounded the dross with the ore ; ho adapted himself to the lax morality over his splendid, but solitary, dwelling, and afterwards set them down to a princely dinner. At ten o'clock at night they were re-conducted to the .spot where they had been met, and told that, as they had found the way in for themselves, they might find it out us best they could. By day it was a perfect labyrinth, and what it must have been by night may be surmised from the fact, that they were found on the following morning till groping their way in the woods. 260 JOfliNAL. [CllAP. of other nations, while he paid but scant respect to the whole- some prejudices of his own. Dogmatic and arbitrary in his criticisms upon art, the school to which he was devoted was the poorest ; for ho preferred the modern and the romantic to the antique and the classical. Although by no means insen- sible to the beauty of nature, objects in themselves sublime had infinitely less attraction for him than inferior ones which derived their charm from circumstance or fancy : hence he pre- ferred a Moorish tower to a Grecian temple. The character of his mind was preeminently histrionic. He revelled in scenic effect, and had a keener relish for the meretricious than for the simple and severe. No wonder, then, that, in spite of certain external claims on public notice, lacking, like his own proud tower, stability, he should have fallen prostrate among the ruins of his own magnificence. He had flashed on the world of fashion like a meteor ; and, like a meteor, had disappeared, as unnoticed and uncared for as if he had never existed. Had he been con- tent with the noble residence bequeathed to him by his father had he realized the solemn obligations entailed by the pos- session of great wealth had ho been endowed with more of filial piety, and disgraced by less of selfish sentimentality had he consulted the rightful claims of his descendants instead of his own gratification he might have enjoyed, in his old age, an approving conscience; and have learned, from happy ex- perience, that ' a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches ;' and, instead of leaving to his posterity a more than doubtful reputation, as a voluptuary and a sensualist, he might have been embalmed in the affections of his children's children as a good son, a good father, a good citizen, and a good Christian. 1838. April 16. On this date we left Lyneham for a three months' trip on the continent, during which time I kept no journal. And as no one will care to know the places I visited or the number of miles I covered in the time, I will restrict myself to the mention of two casualties, which, though they may fail to amuse, can hardly be said to fall within the ordinary experience of travellers. First, then, in crossing the Apennines, on our road to Flo- rence, we dined at one o'clock, at a very humble roadside inn, bearing the sign of *I tro Mauri.' In the one room, common to all travellers of whatever degree, was a young Irish gen- tleman, journeying alone and bound for Florence, where he was meaning to prosecute his studies of the 'fine arts.' He seemed XI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 2G1 as good-tempered as a stranger could be, alone in a foreign country, who was utterly ignorant of every tongue but Lis own. As a panacea for all the ills he might have to brave, he had pro- vided himself with one of the ' Familiar Phrase Books,' with which all who arc not linguists are familiar. The amusement we derived from his Hibernian pronuncia- tion of French and Italian, and his bungling substitution of French for Italian and Italian for German, was infinite. In giving, for instance, a hurried order to a servant for something which he wanted, he would run his eye down the German column in mistake for the Italian one ; so that the medley he made of the two languages pronouncing them as if they were English the bewildered looks of the servants, and his indig- nation at what he was pleased to consider their stupidity, instead of his own, afforded us ceaseless food for laughter. Here is a specimen : ' Je dis ! frau ! (non) douzelle ! wollcn sie la bonte pour prendre (non) pour apporter (I mean) but- tero.' t Being unable to make the maid understand that he wanted bread, he got furious, and, springing off his seat, shouted out, * Can't you comprenez ? Pane, you divil ! ' For some time we held ourselves aloof, not from any exclu- siveness, but because we knew that if we encouraged acquaint- ance with him we should be obliged to help him to ask for the necessaries of life ; and, though very indifferent linguists our- selves, wo should thus have deprived ourselves of much fun. All reserve between us, however, was broken down before nightfall by force of circumstances. As soon as we had had our siesta, and despatched our meal, we continued our journey, taking it for granted that wo should see no more of our Irish friend. We were travelling vctturino, and had a large roomy carriage, drawn by four black Nea- politan horses, which had just conveyed Mrs. Starke (whose guide-book was the great authority until John Murray's annihilated it) from Naples to Lodi, where she breathed her last. In our agreement with our driver, we had stipu- lated that we should remain a given number of days at Florence and Rome, before proceeding to Naples ; that we should sleep at certain places, and accomplish the inter- mediate distance between those cities in a specified time. Now, on this day, having left 'I tre Mauri' in the afternoon, our proper sleeping-place ought to have been at an inn ten or twelve miles short of Florence. But wo were so worried with the wretched accommodation we had met with on the road, that I 262 JOURNAL. [CHAP, offered our vetturlno a very handsome luono mano if he would push on and get us into Florence the same night. He under- took to do so, and certainly made an effort to keep his word. But, on reaching one of the bleakest, wildest spots I ever was in, ho pulled up at a revolting-looking pothouse, and assured us that his horses could not go a yard farther to please the Pope himself. We were forced therefore to alight ; and sorely out of heart we were at being ushered into our quarters ; for the house looked like a place of rendezvous for sots and brigands ; and we heard afterwards, on reaching Florence, that its looks did not belie it. However, we had nothing to do but to submit to our destiny. The building was utterly destitute of any kind of comfort. It consisted of a large smoky apartment, which served ' for parlour, and kitchen, and all,' some ramshackled outhouses for cattle, and two bedrooms for chance visitors like ourselves, which communicated with each other. The walls of these rooms were of roughcast without any colour or paper on them. The beds were stuffed with leaves of Indian corn ; the sheets were as rough as nutmeg-graters, and unbleached. The only articles in the room, besides the beds, were an unplaned deal table, and a pewter basin and ewer upon it. There was neither lock, nor bolt, nor hasp, nor latch, to either of the doors, i.e.j neither to the outer one, which led on to the stair, nor to the inner one, between the two chambers. My wife and I selected the inner room ; and, for the good of the house, ordered coffee. After waiting an hour for it with exemplary patience, we found it, when it came, to be a nauseous com- pound of horse-beans and chicory, served in a battered old pewter can without a nozzle. The bread was such as Germans give their horses: of goat's-milk cheese there was more than enough ; but cow's milk or butter were not attainable for love or money. I fear we made wry faces at everything, and determined to bury our cares under the bedclothes. Before, however, equipp- ing ourselves for the night, wo had to contend with one pre- liminary difficulty, viz., the securing our door against midnight intruders. However, by the help of our medicine chest and my portmanteau we contrived to keep it closed, though anything but shut. The loneliness of the situation, the absence of ordinary com- forts, the stench from a huge pig-stye under the windows ; the palpable perception of filth, and the strong suspicion of fleas ; the sour manners of the innkeeper, and the repellent looks of his XI.] JULIAN" CHARLES YOUNG. 263 wife, made us feel ill at ease. It was not long after barricading ourselves in, that we were made aware that the next room was tenanted ; nor was our relief small when we head the native accents of our Irish friend of ' I tre Mauri,' who, feeling prox- imity to English people, in the event of any serious dilemma, a desideratum, confessed to us next day that he had ordered his driver to follow in our wake, and stop wherever we did. I was about to get into bed and put out my candle, when I heard bony knuckles tapping at our door, and a tremulous voice addressing me in an undertone. * Whisper. Hark ye, Sir. You have not got a spare pistol about ye, have ye?' * What for ? ' I asked. ' Well, Sir, by my faith, I don't like the looks o' things here at all, at all. As I passed through the kitchen just now, if you'll believe me, there were three strapping chaps, in their clothes, lying on their stomachs a-top of the kitchen dresser, and pretending to be asleep. We are, Sir, but two ; and I've a shrewd suspicion that our rascally drivers are in league with these bloodthirsty ruffians, and have landed us here on purpose to rob us : so, Sir, we'd best be prepared for the worst. Have you such a thing in your room as a poker ? * 'No.' 'Have you a walking-stick in your carriage?' 'No/ ' Ah, then, ye'll surely have an umbrella ? ' ' No.' ' Then, Sir, ye may dipind we're in a mighty purty mess. 'Pon my life, we must stand by each other, and defind the lady. Ye're not going to sleep, are ye?' 'Yes.' 'Ah, then, ye're wrong. Don't take your clothes off, whatever ye do. I'll lie in mine, I know.' I wished him good night rather abruptly, and slipped into bed, not altogether devoid of apprehension myself. After a \vhilo I heard him calling lustily over the stairs (there was no bell), * Signora, duo cotelette, subito.' As I was dozing, I was roused up by hearing a gnashing of teeth and a rattling of knives and forks, which seemed to me to continue an unnatural length of time. At last, all was still. My fears were allayed, and I fell asleep and remained so till I was woke by the light of morning streaming in at my window. I got up and dressed, in high spirits at finding my head still upon my shoulders opened the door of separation between our neighbour and ourselves, and beheld him, fully dressed, on his bed, snoring hoavily, and lying on his back, with a large knife in one hand and a poker in the other. I expressed a hope, when he opened his eyes, that he had slept well in spite of his fears. * Not a wink,' he replied, ' till half an hour ago.' ' Well,' said I, ' you seemed to bo making a capital supper "26-i JOURNAL. [('HAP. lust night, if I may judge from the rattling of plates and knives tmd forks which I heard long after I had gone to bed.' ' Good supper is it, ye say ? I never ate a morsel of their execrable garbage. The very sight of it destroyed my appe- tite, and would have done so had 1 been ever so hungry. I ftsked for pork chops, not because I wanted them, but because I wanted the knife and fork to protect myself and you with. Ye may dipind upon it, 't was I that baulked them ! They saw I was wide awake and up to their tricks upon travellers, and was not the lad to fall an easy prey to their divilish devices. Then, again, they did not know whether you might have pistols in that portmanteau of yours, or not. In short, we've had an escape.' In spite of the forebodings of our fellow-traveller, the night had passed off without mischance of any kind. Incident the Second. Shortly after passing the Devil's Bridge, one of our carriage-wheels came to grief. With infinite difficulty, and by the help of a rope obligingly lent us by the driver of a retour waggon whom we met, the mutilated member was repaired, and we were enabled to reach Andermatt in safety. On arriving there, the village presented a singular contrast to those we had lately left. The whole Pays de Vaud had been as one orchard powdered with cherry-blossom; here everything was white with the snows of winter. The intermediate spaces between the two or three houses of the village were choked up with snow, compact and hard as stone, and level with the roofs. On applying at the two miserable inns, the Drei Konige and the Sonne for sledges over St. Gothard to Airolo, I was flatly refused by both. On my asking the landlords, separately, why they objected to take us, they told me it was not safe ; that they could not dream where I could have come from not to know that Mont Cenis was the only pass yet open into Italy ; that the sun of early spring was only then beginning to assert its power over their ice-bound route ; that avalanches were falling daily, and that they had only just heard from the Hospice on the sum- mit of St. Gothard, that five men had been swallowed up the day before in their attempts to cross it. I admitted the force of their objections, but nevertheless tried to overcome them. I told them I was resolved to go at all risks, even if I went with no companion but my wife, and no guide but my compass ; and that, as it was probable I should never have another chance of seeing Italy, I would double their usual pay if they would waive their scruples and take us. They were not proof against XI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 2()."> the bribe, and after hem-ing and haw-ing, and affecting to de- mur, they made the necessary preparations, and at last we started. Our style of travel was primitive enough. Two flat cart-shafts were laid on the ground parallel with each other, curved at the two extremities, both before and behind, and held together by three crosspieces, as sleepers on a railway are by girders. Midway between the shafts of my sledge, and on the cross- pieces, was tied my wife's trunk, with my portmanteau on the top of it. Astride this last-named article had I to sit, with my feet resting on the edges of the shafts. To enable me to pre- serve my equilibrium, a rope, fastened to the front of the shafts, was put into my hands to hold by. A man, with a leading- rein in his hand from the horse's mouth, ran by the side as charioteer and occasional drag. One decided advantage I had over my wife. My horse was in front of me, and if he were viciously disposed, or I saw any signs of danger, I had but to slip off my portmanteau on to a feather-bed of snow : whereas, she was powerless in any sWh predicament, being prostrate on a mattress (wrapped round her with cords), her arms and limbs as effectually confined as if she were a mummy. Her head was towards the horses' heels, and at their mercy ; and what made her plight the more serious was the fact of her being within three months of her confinement. On my remonstrating with our conductors, they told me that, if she was brave enough to cross the mountain in such weather, they were not brave enough to have the responsibility of conducting her, unless sin would implicitly conform to their wishes. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to submit. For five weary hours, during which neither tree nor rock nor object of any kind was visible, nothing but a boundless expanse of ice or snow, were we being pulled about and dragged hither and thither at one moment over Cols or the bed of a river, at another, over the frozen sources of the Rhine, or fifty feet above the Rhone or, again, over the river Reuss, with snowy mountain-peaks, 8000 or 10,000 feet in height overlooking us, with snow-flakes flying in our faces and nearly blinding us, and filling our mouths, until we reached the Hospice, a massive, rude building of bastard Italian architec- ture, presided over by two Capuchin friars. This Hospice, the successor of the one which had been swept away, in 1775, by an avalanche, and of another which had been gutted by the French while encamped on the spot in 1799-1800, is little better than a miserable cabaret for carters from Switzerland 2GG JOURNAL. [V,iAi>. and muleteers from Italy, who make it a half-way house, or place of rendezvous for commerce. All I recollect of it is, a company of rude, uncouth men, collected in it, and an odious smell pervading it, compounded of bad wine, Parmesan cheese, Bologna sausages, horsedung, and garlic. I had agreed with our conductors that they should halt two hours at the Hospice, to bait their horses and to refresh them- selves ; but when nearly three hours had elapsed, I asked them why they did not push on. Their answer was not encouraging : * You see, Sir, the caravan from Airolo has not arrived ; we fear it must have met with an avalanche ; and, unless it soon comes, we can't take you any farther ; for the track of their mules' feet is all the clue we have to go by.' He had hardly uttered these words, when we descried, about a mile off, a cavalcade of forty mules approaching, laden with bales of merchandize, led by some eight or nine drivers, dragging their way with difficulty through the snow round the side of a mountain gorge. In one minute my wife was again packed up, I was ordered to mount my rough steed, and off we set on our road to Airolo. We had not advanced half a mile when we met the coming caravan on a snow- clad bridle-path but four feet wide. When our drivers and theirs encountered, both sides seemed equally irritated by each other's interruption; yet neither dared utter a syllable lest the vibration in the air, occasioned by their voices, should launch an impending avalanche upon their heads. Even their gesticulations were tempered by their fears : yet as our pretensions to the right of road were inferior to theirs, because of their numerical superiority, wo had to cede to them the wall, as it were, and let them pass. The only way in which this could be done was by letting our horses and sledges stand, off the path, on the slope of an uncomfortable- looking precipice. Our situation was certainly precarious ; for while the string of heavily-laden beasts of burden were passing on their way, we were hanging over the verge with no other support than the buttress of our drivers' broad backs. As soon as the road was clear of obstruction, it became necessary to make play as fast as possible, lest the fast-falling snow should obliterate the tracks of the mules' footsteps. It would bo hopeless to attempt to describe the risks we ran, or the feats of involuntary agility I was compelled to perform, on our downward road to Airolo. I say I ; for my wife had become an integral part of the machine to which slio was attached, and was obliged to go wherever she was drawn: XI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 267 whereas I could drop off if not at pleasure, at all events, at will. The descent into Italy by this route in summer is now prac- iicablo enough, for the precipitous slopes have been greatly reduced by skilful engineering. But in spring the passage is tgtill attended with considerable danger, in consequence of the -deep snowdrifts ; and the exposure of the passes to tourmentes and avalanches of terrific violence. Nearly the entire route, from the Hospice of St. Gothard to within a short distance of Airolo, we were propelled down tortuous zigzag hanging ter- races, of which the turns were at angles so acute that all the warnings of my guide, and all my own displays of horsemanship, could not save me from making occasional somersaults, and nearly rolling down the slopes to the bottom. As to my luckless wife, I saw her whirled away in such .giddy, reckless, boisterous fashion, her face towards me, the back of her head towards her horse's heels, that I regarded her as irretrievably doomed to destruction. At one time I became BO alarmed that I shouted to my driver to tell hers to slacken speed. The answer to my appeal was the thrust of a horse-pistol in my face a plain intimation that I might expect its contents down my throat if I did not maintain a discreet reticence while careering through the most critical part of the Val Tremola. I must acknowledge that I never felt a greater sensation of relief in my life than when I once more saw Mother Earth lifting her honest brown face at me through her white veil of enow. The string of my tongue unloosed, I made up for past pri- vations, and halloed lustily to the sledge-drivers to halt. I 00 tons burden, given by the Admiralty for the experiment, riding at anchor, her flags flying from her masts, but not a XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 301 living crcaturo on board. Every precaution had been taken over iiight, aiid during the night, to guard against tampering or trickery. It was generally believed that, whenever the implement of destruction was fired, its effect for miles would be tremendous, and that the shock would be severe enough to imperil the safety of every frangible object on the Parade. Extraordinary precautions had been taken by nervous resi- dents, who dwelt in houses facing the sea, to remove their pier- glasses and chimney ornaments to their cellars or other places of security, and sanguine were the hopes of jobs to come cherished by the plumbers and glaziers. As the time appointed for the experiment drew nigh, tho silence, which reigned absolutely over 80,000 people, was very impressive. Every eye was strained in one direction, every tongue was spell-bound by a common curiosity, every breath was suspended by the same mixture of faith and unbelief, when, without the slightest premonitory indication of anything, and without sound of any kind, a stream of smoke was seen to pass along the sides of the victim vessel from stem to stern, and then it vanished the place thereof knew it no more. It had dropped noiselessly in the water, the gaudy pennons floating from her mainmast, the only vestige that remained to mark where she had lain. The silence with which" this instantaneous effect was brought about was so unexpected, that one's first sen- sation was bewilderment. There was an element moreover of solemnity in it ; and the good bishop, who had never taken his hand-telescope from his eye till the catastrophe took place, shut it to with a bang, and with tears on his cheeks exclaimed 4 Good heavens ! Fancy souls aboard ! ' Lord Brougham, who had been lying on his stomach with his lorgnette in his hand for half an hour, and who had from tho first, both in public and in private, denounced Warner's plan ns chimerical, was quite overcome, and with a candour that did him honour, went up to the inventor and expressed his iv^ret for his past obstinate incredulity. Lord Ingestrc, a per- sonal friend of Warner's and in possession of his secret, canio into the drawing-room and told Lady Harriet that, with as much of tho explosive material as he could carry in a pill-box, he could blow up half the East Cliff. 1845. January 12. I have been dipping into Moore's Life of Byron. In it I read these words: 'On tho day Miss Milbanke's letter of acceptance reached Byron, he was sitting at dinner, when "his gardener caiuo in and presented him with 302 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. his mother's wedding-ring, which she had lost many years before, and which the gardener had just found in digging up the mould under her window. Almost at the same moment, Miss Milbanke's letter arrived, and Lord Byron exclaimed, " If it contain a consent, I will bo married with this very ring." ' Vide Moore's Life of Byron, vol. i. p. 265. This extract reminds me of two stories, one of which bears a, strong analogy to the above. The partner of an old friend of mine, in good business, but overwhelmed by the heavy demands of a large family, was induced to accept for one of his sons a situation in a mercantile house in Australia. The night before the young man left this country, he called his favourite sister aside and presented her with a ring, with a stringent injunction that she should never take it off her finger on any pretext what- ever, as long as he was in the land of the living. He confessed to her that he was very superstitious about the loss of rings, and told her that, if they should never meet again, and she should survive him, he wished her to discontinue wearing that which he had given her, and to substitute for it a mourning one. ' But,' he added, ' we will hope to meet again in years to come, and that you will then be able to assure me that my little sou- Tenir has never been off your finger since I put it on.' Four months after the young man had sailed, his father came home at the usual hour to dinner, and was met in the hall by the daughter to whom her brother had given the ring. The father perceived that she had been weeping, and she in turn was struck by the exceeding dejection of his looks. Each charged the other with suppressing some secret cause of sorrow. At last they opened their hearts to each other. He had to tell of the wreck of the vessel in which his son had sailed. On his way home he had been reflecting how best to break tho sad intelligence to his family, when ho was thrown off his guard by the sight of his girl in tears. She, in turn, had to tell him that, while weeding in her little garden at the back of tho house, she had pricked her finger with a thorn the very finger on which she wore her brother's gift; that she had taken it off while trying to pick out the thorn with a needle, and had inad- vertently dropped it into a mass of mould which she had only just turned over with her spade. After long search she failed to find it; but, in its place, had picked up a rusty mouniin;; ring, on the inside of which were inscribed these words from Horace's well-known Ode, ' Ouis clcsiderio sit pudor . . . XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 303 As soon as sho learned the cause of her father's grief she ceased to fret for the ring she had lost, and, remembering her brother's last words, had the newly-found one cleaned, and adopted it in its stead. The other story to which I referred is less sensational than the preceding one, but sufficiently curious, too. Charles Mathews, the elder, went one fine summer's day to dine and sleep at Sir Thomas Farquhar's at Roehampton. Shortly after his arrival, his host proposed, as it wanted two hours to dinner, that they should take a turn on the common and get an appetite. They had not been gone ten minutes before Mathews missed the gold pin from his black neckcloth. He prized it greatly, not because of any value it possessed for others, but because there was set in it a beautiful miniature of his wife's eye. He was so much disconcerted by its loss that ho did not recover his equanimity the whole evening. The fol- lowing summer, exactly twelve months after, Sir Thomas Farquhar again invited him down, and again proposed an ante- prandial stroll. Having a disagreeable recollection of his misadventure of the year before, Mathews had half a mind to decline the walk ; but, not liking to oppose the wishes of his kind entertainer, he went, and had not gone a hundred yards on the heath when he saw an object glistening from the very centre of a thick furze-bush. On going up to it he discovered his missing treasure uninjured. The painting in the pin being protected by glass in front, and by a gold plate at the back, it had been effectually screened from rain and snow. 1845. April 5. Dined with Mr. Roper of the Wick. In the evening Miss Betty Penruddock (I can't help thinking of the Wheel of Fortune) came in, in the evening. She is the lady whose presence of mind and ready wit saved her house from being plundered at the time of the riots in 1833. Two days ago this cheerful, light-hearted old lady was paying a call on Mrs. Roper, when a circumstance occurred partaking of the tragical and farcical. If Miss Penruddock weighed an ounce, she weighed fifteen stone. She had a parrot, which was so great a pet that she could not bear to be separated from it. ' It did eat of her own meat, and drank of her own cup,' and lay in her pocket when she got out of her carriage to pay morning calls. By allotting to it such quarters, sho protected it from the cold, and the teasing of street boys, to which it would have been exposed if left in the carriage, and at the same time prevented the possibility of its asserting its independence by flying out of the carriage window. It so happened, that, on the occasion 304 JOURNAL. [Cii.vi-. of Miss Penrnddook'a last call, sho had embarked in a discussion with the lady of the house on a subject on which she felt keenly. In the warmth of argument she sprang up from the sofa, walla. 1 up to Mrs. Roper, and enforced what she had to say with ener- getic but good-humoured gesture ; then returned to the sofa, and flopped herself down with much empresscment. As she did so, Miss Stanley, Mrs. Roper's sister, who was sitting at one end of the sofa, fancied she heard a very discordant sound proceed from beneath Miss Betty, but supposed herself to be mistaken, as neither the lady herself nor any one else seemed to notice it. As Miss Penruddock rose to say 'Farewell' she dived into the depths of her pocket, with the intention of extracting a card from her case to leave on Mr. Roper. But as she drew it forth, she uttered an involuntary shriek, and brought out witk it her Poll-parrot, dead, and flat as a biffin. She had involun- tarily played the part of Coroner, and sat upon its body. 1845. April 18. Dined with Mr. Charles Craven. After dinner I was telling of a visit that had been paid in Paris to Alexis Didier, the clairvoyant, by Mrs. Dawson Darner, Lady Jane Peel, and James Adam Gordon of Knockespock, and the impression made on them all by his unaccountable revelations. Among other instances cited, I told of the extraordinary evidence- Colonel Gurwood had had of his powers, when he had seen him at the house of Monsieur Marcillet. I observed Mr. Frederick Seymour smiling at me incredulously, as I thought. 'I see you don't credit a word I am saying. I assure you I tell my story as my father told it me ; and he had it from Gurwood's- own lips very shortly after the event.' ' My dear Young,' said Mr. Frederick Seymour, * I haVe myself heard Gurwood tell tlte story exactly as you have told it, and when he told it me, I felt disposed to smile ; but if I had, so sincere was ho in his own belief, that he would have had mo out directly. Why I smiled just now was, first, to hear you gravely ascribing the revelation, of certain facts to supernatural causes, when I knew, perfectly well, the natural instrumentality by which ho acquired his knowledge of them; secondly, to think that a man of such vigorous intellect as Gurwood's should have lent himself BO- readily to such an imposture. ' You will allow, I am sure, that if a professed clairvoyant stoops to double-dealing in one instance, ho fairly lays himself open to the suspicion of having recourse to it in others. Now, I will supplement your story with an addendum which Gurwood never mentioned to any one out of his own family, and yet of which Alexis apprised him. You must know then, that in XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 305 his early days Gurwood was a great favourite and protege of Mrs. Fitzherbert. In after years they quarrelled : the breach never was healed, and they never met again. When, therefore, after Mrs. Fitzherbert's death, her will was opened, he was more surprised than her executors to find that she had bequeathed him a legacy of a thousand pounds. Of that fact Alexis re- minded him.' ' Well,' asked I, * and how could the man have gained his information ? ' * From Lord Hertford, Mrs. Fitzherbert's executor, who told me,' said Seymour, ' that, hearing from his friend Gurwood that he was going to see Alexis who was at the time the rage in Paris he primed the clairvoyant beforehand with his data.' 1845. July 20. Captain Forbes lunched with us. Before he came, I told our youngest boy, Gerald, that ho had been a very- gallant naval officer, and had seen much service. The lad's desire to see him was great. He had a scar across his face of which he evidently approved. When the Captain left us, we asked him what he thought of him. His answer wa& funny. Oh ! that scar in his face is all very well ; but if he can't show a few more gashes on his stomach and legs I would not give much for him.' 1845. i; October 3. I was passing a tete-a-tete evening with Miss Runnington, when who should drop in unannounced, but Lord Lyndhurst. I had often heard him in the Courts of Law as Sir Joseph Copley. I had often heard him in the House of Lords as Lord Lyndhurst. I had often admired his splendidly- developed brow beatling from beneath his wig, as he sat a silent listener to the banter of Brougham (at his side on the woolsack) * smiling in such a sort As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit, That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.' But here, in a small drawing-room divested of the trappings and the suits of office, in a brown scratch wig and a black frock coat, he abandoned himself to a reckless playfulness with his old friend, and for three hours conjured up so many all-but-for- gotten tales of her uncle and aunt, the late Sir Samuel and Lady Mary Shepherd, that he nearly threw her into hysterics. From the ordinarily set expression of his features I was not prepared to see so much play in them. It is easy to understand his repu- tation du salon, for it is evident that he has rare powers of fasci- nation, when he chooses to exert them. 1845. December 29. Dined with Charles Taylor in Bruns- 306 JOURNAL. [CHAP. wick Square. We were kept waiting for Sir Henry Webster, who made no apology for bis delay until after dinner, when he explained it. It seemed that, as he was driving to join the party in good time, in passing the battery, Dr. Hall, bare-headed, stopped his carriage, and begged him, for the love of God, to follow him into the house from which ho had just come out. On entering it, ho beheld a fearful spectacle poor Colonel Gurwood dead on the floor, by his own hand ; his lovely wife and daughters kneeling in frantic grief beside him. It was after such a scene that he came to dinner.* After dinner, the conversation turned on the vexed question, as to whether the Duke of Wellington had been taken by sur- prise at Waterloo, or not. After a lively and rather warm dis- cussion, antagonistic opinions being advanced on each side with equal confidence, I turned round to Sir Henry Webster, who was coolly peeling an orange, and taking no part in the con- troversy, and asked him if he had not been at Waterloo. c Ah,' said he, smiling, and raising his voice at the same time, * I have been amused at the groundless speculations hazarded by some of you gentlemen, when here sits one who knows as much about the facts which you have been arguing as any man in the world. I beg distinctly to declare, that the Duke of Wellington was not taken by surprise. The real state of the case was this : the Duke knew perfectly well that the possession of Brussels would be of primary importance to Napoleon, on account of the moral, military, and political advantages to be gained from it. lie knew, therefore, that Napoleon would make for it. The Duke's game was to anticipate him, and make Brussels his own head- quarters. He knew, also, that it was more than likely that Napoleon, by forced marches, would try to engage with the British forces before their strength had been increased by the addition of more of the allied troops. On the 15th, Napoleon had marched on Charleroi, and, at dawn, had unexpectedly fallen on the Prussians, and compelled them to fall back. Intelligence of the advance of the French was despatched at once to the Duke. At three o'clock, while he was eating an early dinner, the Prince of Orange galloped up to his hotel to tell him that the French were advancing by the valley of the Sambre on Brussels. He received the intelligence with his usual calm- ness. At five o'clock ho had matured his plan of operations, and had his orders to the chief commanding officers ready- * J5y ti tragical coincidence, the next year, in the same month, in tho same way, Sir Henry put an end to his own life. XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 307 written on cards, intending them to bo distributed, after supper, at the Duchess of Eichmond's ball. * Now, you may not perhaps know, gentlemen, that I was the Prince of Orange's aide-de-camp. The Prince had himself been actively engaged that day in helping the Prince of Saxe- Weimar (whose brigade of Netherlander had been driven in on Quatrc Bras) to defend the farm-house there. He had then ridden on to Brussels to see the Duke, and to attend the ball ; but, before doing so, he told me to remain where I was,* and bring him certain despatches which he expected, the instant they arrived. At ten o'clock , the minister, came to me, tell- ing me that the advanced guard of the Prussians had been driven in at Ligny; and ordering me, without a moment's delay, to convey the despatch he put into my hand to the Prince of Orange. " A horse ready-saddled awaits you at the door,'* he said, " and another has been sent on, half an hour ago, to a half-way house, to help you on the faster. Gallop every yard ! You will find your chief at the Duchess of Richmond's ball. Stand on no ceremony ; but insist on seeing the Prince at once." I was in my saddle without a second's delay ; and, thanks to a fine moon and two capital horses, had covered the ten miles I had to go within the hour! The Place at Brussels was all ablaze with light ; and such was the crowd of carriages, that I could not well make way through them on horseback; so I abandoned my steed to the first man I could got hold of, and made my way on foot to the porter's lodge. On my telling the Suisse I had despatches of moment for the Prince, he civilly asked me if I would wait five minutes; "for," said he, "thu Duchess has just given orders for the band to go upstairs, and the party are now about to rise. If you were to burst in sud- denly, it might alarm the ladies." On that consideration I con- sented to wait. I peeped in between the folding doors and saw the Duchess of Richmond taking the Prince of Orange's arm, and Lady Charlotte- Greville the Duke's, on their way to the ball-room. The moment they had reached the foot of the stairs, I hastened to the Prince's side and gave him the despatch. "Without looking at it, ho handed it behind him to the Duke, who quietly deposited it in his coat-pocket. The Prince made me a sign to remain in the hall. I did so. All the company passed by me, while I hid myself in a recess from observation for fear of being asked awkward questions. As soon as the last couple had mounted the premiere e(age, the Duke of Wellington * Whether it was at the farm of Qimtre Bros, or somewhere near, I forgot./. C. Y. 308 [CHAP. descended, and espying me, beckoned mo to him, and said, in ft low voice, " Webster ! Four horses instantly to the Prince of Orange's carriage for Waterloo ! " ' The very day after hearing this account, I went to lunch wlili Mr. and the late Lady Jane Peel, who, as the Duchess of Rich- mond's daughter, I knew to have been present ; and I asked h< T if she could recall distinctly the circumstances of that historic night. * Do you think,' she asked, ' that any one who was there* ever could forget the events of that night ? Well I remember what Sir Henry Webster has told you viz., the rising from, that supper-table, and all that followed immediately after it. I know I was in a state of wild delight the scene itself was so stirring, and the company so brilliant. I recollect, on reaching the ball-room after supper, I was scanning over my tablets, which were filled from top to bottom with the names of tho partners to whom I was engaged ; when, on raising my eyes, I became aware of a great preponderance of ladies in the room. White muslins and tarlatans abounded ; but the uniforms had " sensibly diminished." The enigma was soon solved. With- out fuss or parade, or tender adieux, the officers, anxious not to alarm the ladies, had quietly stolen out ; and before they had time to guess the nature of the news which had robbed them of their partners, and changed the festive aspect of the scene, they found themselves, instead of asking questions, holding their breath, while the musicians ceased to play; for the dub a-di?b of the drum, and the rolling of artillery- waggons, and the blast of the bugle, and the tramp of large masses of infantry, and the neigh- ing of cavalry horses, told them how near they were to the seat of war, and how imminently a great battle was impending.' 4 Ah ! then and there was liurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremMings of distress, And cheeks ull pale, which, but an hour turn, Blush'd at tin- p iai.se of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sigTis, Which ne'er might be repeiitrd : who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awi'ul morn could rise ! * While treating of Waterloo, it will not bo inopportune tf> mention an interesting circumstance which was told me by ono who professed to be in a condition to substantiate its truth. Louis XVIII., after Napoleon's escape from Elba, and shortly before the battle of Waterloo, wrote an autograph letter to Iho Duke of Wellington to consult him ns to the best place for his head-quarters. ! ' XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUXG. 309 The Duke, I am assured, with his usual sagacity and fore- thought, had advised his Majesty to put up at the principal hotel in Ghent for two sufficient reasons : lirst, because, in tho event of the defeat of the allies, he would not be far from the coast, from whence he could embark for England ; secondly, because, in the event of victory, he would be on the way to Varis, which when the roads were open he could easily reach by way of Tournay. In consequence of this sound advice, the king occupied the hotel suggested in the town ; and during the anxious days of the 15th, 16th, 17th, and 18th of June, in the year 1815, he endured his suspense with a calmness and equanimity for which fe\v of his own countrymen would have given him credit. The room he occupied during the day had in it a largo pro- jecting bay-window, so open to the street that any one interested in watching his movements from the opposite side could do so without difficulty. Such an one there was in a house directly facing the window designated. There a stranger sat for many hours ensconced behind a heavy curtain, with a keen gaze riveted on every movement of the monarch. Louis le Gros for the most part was engaged in reading or writing : but now and then he was seen to waddle his way towards the window and look out anxiously, as if expecting some one. Late in the evening he was reading a newspaper with his back to tho street. Pre- sently the;, eye of the vigilant observer was diverted from the object of his attention by tho sound of horses' feet. In another instant an orderly soldier was observed with an air of great ex- citement to pull up at the hotel-door, fling his bridle to tho first person at hand, and vanish rapidly through the postern. The sight that met the swarthy stranger's gaze told its own tale. There could be but one interpretation of it ; when ho saw the king throw away his paper, and fling himself unreservedly into the arms of the travel-soiled trooper. Tho self-appointed sentinel had planted himself in his post that he might be as in-ar as possible to the king, shrewdly guessing that whatever tho issue of the deadly struggle going on, he would be sure to receive priority of intelligence. Having witnessed the royal demonstrations of joy, he had no misgivings as to thej cause ; therefore, immediately thrusting a well filled purse into tho hands of the ostler, he jumped into a post-chaise and four which was awaiting him, and started, venire a terrc, for Ostend. Ho reached tho harbour just as tho Government packet, which was lying in tho offing, was about to leave for Dover. 310 JOURNAL. [CHAP. When ho was within a few yards of the vessel, he saw tho Right Hon. Vesey Fitzgerald before him, in the very act of stepping on board. As Mr. Fitzgerald made for the steerage end of the vessel, our stranger friend made for the forepart ; knowing well that if Fitzgerald once found him out, ho would want to accompany him to London ; and his great object was to reach tho Metropolis before any one else. Muffled up closely, therefore, in his cloak, he lay on a coil of ropes near the bowsprit, the better to escape notice. He suc- ceeded in doing so, and on reaching Dover was the first to spring on shore and rush to a place of rendezvous, where his servant and a carriage-and-four were awaiting him. At every stage on the road he had relays of horses, previously bespoken ; and before the news of the great victory was known by Govern- ment, Rothschild for he it was had realized an enormous sum of money. I have heard it said that not only Vesey Fitz- gerald, but Tom Assheton Smith also, was entrusted with des- patches from the Duke to Earl Bathurst, at the same timo that he conveyed Lord Fitzroy Somerset to England in his yacht, but this Mr. Smith always denied. 1846. May 20. I received an intimation from my father that he had had a letter from tho woman who suckled me when I was an infant, to say that she was about to leave Liverpool for Brighton, with no other object than to see me, and that ho hoped I should be kind to her. I felt anything but pleased at the prospect of the visit, as I could hardly believe that she would have undertaken such a journey out of purely disin- terested love for one she had not seen for forty years. I blush to acknowledge that I suspected it to be a cleverly-contrived ruse for obtaining money. I was disabused of such an unworthy impression as soon as I saw her : for I found that she was tho wife of a well-to-do ironmonger, and was better able to help me than I her. I never shall forget her visit. As soon as she set eyes on me, she sank into an armchair and nearly fainted. A second glance revived her. An irrepressible shudder then came over her, occasioned by unutterable disappointment in me. Though tho colour soon returned to her cheek, her limbs lite- rally shook for some time, from tho effects of previous agitation. The poor affectionate creature had nursed her love for her b;iby-charge and kept it warm within her heart for forty years : for forty years she had given the reins to her imagination, and conjured up an ideal imago of what ho ought to have been ; and when she saw a commonplace, corpulent individual of mature- years, who * belied the promise of his spring,' tho illusion of her XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 311 life was shattered to pieces. I was as kind to her as I could be ; my wife still more so : but, though she accepted our well- meant attentions civilly, there was an utter absence of cordiality towards us. She seemed to think she had been duped. Sho told mo that though she had the best of husbands, and the most dutiful of sons, yet that, until she saw me, I had occupied the first place in her heart. My gardener told mo that he had seen her coming up tho lane leading to my house, and that he conld not conceive what was tho matter with her, for that she stopped at one time as if taking breath, then leant against the wall, then reeled like a drunken woman. I must say I should like to know to what law in the economy of nature physiologists would ascribe this extraordinary tenacity of affection in one who had none of the ties of blood to explain it. Can it bo a question, not of blood, but of milk? The power of feeling pleasure or pain is innate, and common to every child. Instinct guides the child's lips to the mother's breast. Taste causes it to relish its milk. The presence of tho being, whether that being be a mother or a hireling, who gives it milk, is pleasurable. From loving milk the babe loves the giver of it. But, query is the act of imparting, or rather of having imparted, pleasure to the child sufficiently delightful to the nurse to explain a love as ardent as, and far more per- manent than, the love of passion ? From what could it have sprung in this instance? Not from instinct; or this strango sentiment would not have been peculiar to her. Not from gratitude ; for I had laid her under no obligation. Not from compassion ; for I had never laboured under any signal distress to draw it forth. Not from esteem; for I was lost to her before she could know anything of my qualities, good or bad. It certainly is passing strange. There is a mystery connected with nursing which I have never been able to fathom ! Why, for instance, is it that one so often sees a love on the part of foster-brothers, as well as in the foster-mother for her foster-child, equalling, and sometimes surpassing, that of mothers and brothers in blood ? Can it, in the case of foster- brothers, arise merely from tho simple fact of their having imbibed the same nutriment from tho same fount? Well, as one says when one despairs of guessing a riddle I give it up.' 1846. May 23. Last night I happened casually to mention to Miss Coutts and Mrs. Brown that I had never seen Charles JOURNAL. [CHAP. Dickens. Although Miss Coutts had a largo party to entertain, yet with that amiable consideration for her friends which is a feature in her character, she withdrew into an adjoining room and despatched a messenger to him with a note inviting him to lunch next day. Before we retired to bed an answer was received to say he would gladly come. 1846. May 29. I am delighted to have eaten, drunk, and chatted with ' Boz.' I have so often found the Brobdignagians of my fancy dwindle into Lilliputians when I have been ad- mitted to familiar intercourse with them, that, considering my unqualified admiration of ' Boz's ' writings, and the magni- tude of my expectations, it is something to say that I am not in the least disappointed with him. I longed to tell him of the life-long obligations he has laid me under; for there was a period in my life when sickness and sorrow, and their attendant handmaid anxiety, were constant inmates in my home, and in those sad days we used to look out for the post-bag which was to bring us the last number of ' Nickleby,' or ' Chuzzlewit,' or 'Dombey,' with all the eagerness with which an invalid listens for the doctor's footstep on the stair. No drug, no stimulant, ever wrought the wondrous effects that the sight of the green covers of each number did on our poor patient. At their advent, grief and pain would flee away ; and, in their stead, pleasant tears and ' laughter, holding both his sides,' would take their place. How we used to dread coming to the close of a number ! To what devices wo had recourse for spinning it out ! How, like greedy children smacking their lips with the keen sense of enjoyment over some dainty, we would linger over every racy morsel of humour, roll it over our tongues, and repeat it to each other for the sake of protracting our intellectual feast as long as possible. I hate to hear invidious comparisons made between the merits of Dickens and of Thackeray. Each has his excellences, and neither trenches on the domain of the other. For though they are both students of human nature, they approach her from dif- ferent sides. Thackeray writes in pure and idiomatic English ; and he has a deep insight into the foibles of his kind. But, though personally he has made many staunch friends, and all who know him love him well, yet he certainly does not take &s genial or as generous a view of men and women as Dickens. He sees men and manners with the jaundiced eye of a pessimist ; whereas his great competitor sees * good in everything,' and lias a heart boiling over with good-will to all mankind. None so XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUXG. 313 poor but ho can do him reverence ; nono so depraved in whom lie cannot detec^ some redeeming quality. Thackeray has an intimate knowledge of the hollo \vness, artificiality, and way- wardness of fashionable life ; and, from out the depths of his own experience, constructs imaginary lay figures, which he considers as typical representatives of a class. But Dickens's portraits, however antic they may seem, are yet drawn from real flesh and blood. Thackeray's picture-gallery is composed of recollections of men and women he has met with in pro- miscuous society. Dickens's portraits are studies from the life of those whom he has met with, not in Rotten Row, nor in the drawing-room, but whom he has rubbed against in the by-ways of the world, and who have attracted him by their in- dividuality. The characters in Dickens's writings which have been most severely criticised as exaggerated or distorted, are actual transcripts of bona fide originals. Why, who that knew her, could fail to recognize the original of Mrs. Leo Hunter ? In younger days I was at one or two of her parties in Portland J'lace. Who, that is familiar with Manchester, does not know the Cheery bio brothers ? Who, that is old enough to remember a certain inn in Holborn in coaching days, can forget the original of Sam Weller ? The original of Mrs. Gamp is not so generally known, but I know well the ladies who first introduced her to Dickens's notice. Dickens, of course, writes for his livelihood ; but it is not ex- clusively for profit, or even for fame : he generally has a moral purpose in view. He never panders to popular prejudices, but boldly rebukes vice in whatever rank of life ho finds it ; and takes a profound, and yet a practical, interest in the cause of the ignorant, the oppressed, and the debased. While I write, I am reminded of an anecdote which shows in a very strong light the extraordinary sway ho exercises over the hearts even of those * unused to the melting mood.' Mrs- Henry Siddons, a neighbour and intimate friend of the late Lord Jeflry, who had license of admission to his house at all hours unannounced, and come and go as she listed, opened his library door one day very gently to look if he was there, and saw enough at a glance to convince her that her visit was ill- timed. The hard critic of TJie Edinburgh was sitting in his chair, with his head on the table, in deep grief. As Mrs. H. Siddons was delicately retiring, in the hope that her entrance had been unnoticed, Jeffry raised his head, and kindly beckoned her back. Perceiving that his cheek was flushed and his eyes Y 314 JOURNAL. [CHAP. suffused with tears, she apologized for her intrusion, and begged permission to withdraw. When he found that she was seriously intending to leave him, he rose from his chair, took her by both hands, and led her to a seat. Lord Jeffry (loq.). 'Don't go, my dear friend. I shall be right again in another minute.' Mrs. H. Siddons. ' I had no idea that you had had any bad news or cause for grief, or I would not have come. Is any one dead?' Lord Jeffry. ' Yes, indeed. I 'm a great goose to have given way so ; but I could not help it. You '11 be sorry to hear that little Nelly, Boz's little Nelly, is dead. 1 The fact was, Jeffry had just received the last number then out of The Old Curiosity Shop, and had been thoroughly over- come by its pathos. Dickens began his career when a youth of nineteen, under his Tincle, John Henry Barrow, who started The Mirror of Parlia- ment, in opposition to Hansard. Hansard always compiled his reports from the morning newspapers, whereas Barrow engaged :a special staff of able reporters, sending each important oration in proof to its speaker for correction. When Stanley fulmi- nated his Philippic against O'Connell, it fell to young Dickens's turn to report the last third of it. The proof of the whole speech was forwarded to Mr. Stanley. He returned it to Barrow, with the remark, that the first two- thirds were so badly reported as to be unintelligible ; but that, if the gentleman who had so admirably reported the last third of his speech could be sent to him, he would speak the rest of it to him alone. Accord- ingly, at an hour appointed, young Dickens, note-book in hand, made his appearance at Mr. Stanley's. It was with evident hesitation that the servant ushered him into the library, the tables of which were covered with newspapers. Presently tho master of the house appeared, eyed the youth suspiciously, and said, ' I beg pardon, but I had hoped to see the gentleman who had reported part of my speech,' &c. 'Jam that gentleman,' retorted Dickens, turning red in the face, and feeling his dig- nity somewhat offended. 'Oh, indeed,' replied Mr. Stanley, pushing about tho papers, and turning his back to conceal an involuntary smile. It was not long before Sir James Graham stepped in, and then Stanley began his speech. At first he stood still, addressing one of the window curtains as 'Mr. Speaker.' Then he walked up and down the room, gesticu- lating and declaiming with all the fire and force he had shown XIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 315 in the House of Commons. Graham, with the newspaper before him followed, and occasionally checked him, when he had for- gotten some trifling point, or had transposed one proposition in the place of another. When the entire speech had been fully reported, Stanley returned the revise with Dickens's corrected edition of the parts of the speech which had been bungled, with a note to Barrow highly complimentary to the stripling reporter, and with a shadowy prediction of a great career for him in the future. Dickens had totally forgotten this incident, until, many years after, when he was invited to dine with Lord Derby for the first time. Having been shown with the other guests before dinner into the library, he felt a strange consciousness of having been in it before, for which he could not account. He was in a state of bewilderment about it all dinner-time; for he could not recall the particular circumstance which brought the report- ing adventure to his mind. But, at all events, something did, and he reminded his host of it. Lord Derby was delighted to recognize in his new friend his boy-reporter of former days, and to tell the story to a select few, who, with Dickens, had stayed behind after the rest of the company had departed. 1846. September 17. Miss Irving dined and stayed with us for a couple of days. She is a very amiable, pious, and culti- vated person, with considerable pretensions to beauty, which she inherits from her father, Edward Irving, celebrated in the past generation, at first, for his great powers as a pulpit orator, and subsequently, for his connection with * the Tongues ' ; and still better known to the present through Mrs. Oliphant's admir- rable Life of him, was a very notable personage. I have been told that, somewhere about the year 1811, he acted in Eyder's company in Kirkaldy, Fifeshire ; and that he was at that time devoted to the stage ; but that the obliquity of his vision, the strangeness of his dialect, and the awkwardness of his gait, exposed him to so much ridicule that he quitted the stage in disgust for the pulpit. I well remember his first appearance at the Scotch Church in Hatton Garden, and the unparalleled sensation he created. His renown as a preacher threw even that of his friend Chalmers into the shade. The most distinguished members in the senate might bo seen, Sunday after Sunday, struggling with each other in their efforts to obtain standing room. And yet it is a singular fact that when he officiated as Chalmers' assistant in the Tron Kirk, in Glasgow, ho failed to attract much notice. Y 2 316 JOURNAL. [CHAP. So little was he appreciated there that persons would leave the kirk as soon as ho mounted the pulpit, assigning as their excuse- for doing so, * Haister Irving gies the word the day : it's no our Doctor/ And yet, to a mixed audience, I should have thought ho- would have been far the more popular of the two; for, in addition to the poetry of his eloquence, to which the natives of a mountainous country are always particularly sensitive, he was richly endowed with those physical attributes to the impressive- ness of which few are insensible, and in which his rival was singularly deficient. In person he was the very ideal of a Covenanter. Apart from a squint, which occasionally imparted a sinister expression to his countenance, and which reminded one of Walter Scott's description of Balfour o' Burley ( 4 he skellied fearfully wi' one eye '), he was the most picturesque and imposing person I have ever seen. His profile was perfect ; his nose was Grecian ; his mouth beautifully chiselled ; his chin square; his complexion a transparent olive; his brow high ; his hair the colour of the raven's wing, rich, and falling in heavy waving masses down to his very shoulder-blades. His figure was superb. He had not the high-bred Cavalier carriage of person which distinguished Horace Seymour ; but he was quite as tall, with greater breadth of shoulder, an equally fino flank, and a very straight, muscular, and well-proportioned leg. He always wore a black frock-coat, knee-breeches, and black worsted stockings, without gaiters, and a low-crowned broad- brimmed hat. I followed him once through Kentish Town, up Highgate Hill, and saw him enter Oilman's door. He was evidently going to sit with Coleridge, who had a very great affection for him. While I was studying the grandeur of his proportions, I could not but observe that there was not a soul who passed him who did not stop to look at him. The abstraction of manner, perceptible even in his walk, the quaintness of his attire, and the originality of his whole appearance, predisposed the butchers' and bakers' boys to quiz him; but it was plain enough that when once they had looked him over they had abandoned their intention. His voice was full-bodied and sonorous ; his intonation, thoroughly Scotch as it was, rather enhanced the effect of his delivery than detracted from it. His gesture was free, spirited, yet not redundant. Those who do not mind how cold pulpit addresses are, provided dignity bo not sacrificed, would have called it theatrical; but it was natural to him, his action suiting the words, and its appropriate- XHI.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 317 ness helping to interpret them. There was no sawing of the arm, but a very rare and discreet use of that member, which ho reserved for great occasions, when he desired to arrest, or felt compelled to denunciate. I never saw anything, on the stage or off, on canvas or out of it, so awakening as the manner in which after having spoken of our Lord as the Fount of living waters, and after telling his auditory that one of the greatest requisites was thirst (after righteousness), and that all, without distinction of colour, class, or creed, were welcome to go to Him and drink he threw up both his long, nervous arms, the drapery of Lis gown hanging from them in ample toga-like folds, and cried out with the voice of a herald, and with a smile radiant with the sense of Divine benevolence in empowering him to deliver such a proclamation ' Ho ! every one that thirsteth, come ye 4o the waters.' The attitude was the attitude of Raphael's representation of Paul preaching on Mars' Hill; but it was freer, and far finer. What Paul's action or delivery may have been one cannot say ; but we know he had physical defects, which warrant one in assuming, without irreverence, that Irving's action and delivery were superior to his. Paul's ' bodily presence was weak :' Irving's bodily presence was a power. Paul's ' speech was contemptible :' Irving had the tongue of an Apollos. The first occasion on which I saw and heard him was on the third Sunday on which he preached in London. A great friend of his, and a devoted member of his congregation; one who iremained one of his steadfast adherents through evil and through .good report, to the close of his career, rented a pew in the Hatton Garden church, or chapel, whichever it was, and gave one a seat in it. After service she took me to him in the vestry, introduced me to him, and told him that I was destined for holy orders. He instantly desired her to withdraw, laid his hands upon my head, offered up a prayer for me, and, after a word of Idiidly counsel, gave me at parting his benediction. The last time I saw him was in Newman Street, where he was liolding forth with unimpaired vigour, not to a crowded congre- gation, but to empty benches. I heard the utterances that day, uncl very creepy they made me feel. Sir William Knighton told my uncle that, yielding to an impulse of curiosity, ho one day walked into Newman Street, and, to escape notice, stole up into the gallery, and entered a long pew, at the extreme end of which were two ladies kneeling in rapt devotion. After listening fur some time to one of the evangelists, preaching from Ezekiel, 318 JOURNAL. [CnAP. he was perfectly electrified by a portentous sound of unearthly character, whence proceeding he could not tell. It resembled a mighty rushing wind at first ; then it rose, and increased in volume ; then it fell, and became lulled to a gentle murmur ; then, again, from the midst novel sounds arose which might bo verbal, yet which were inarticulate and unintelligible. He looked above, below, around, to see from whence these strange noises issued, but in vain. The two ladies who were sitting at the end of the pew in which he was, and who seemed quite familiar with the routine of the service, ho thought he would ask to solve the mystery for him. But before addressing them he inspected them more narrowly, and observed that the younger of them was sitting with her eyes closed, and rigid as the Sphinx, but with her jugular vein palpitating violently. He drew nearer to her, and then for the first time discovered that the inexplicable utterance proceeded from her throat. Feeling as if he were in too close quarters with something uncanny, he took up his hat and precipitately withdrew. Justly or unjustly, as soon as Irving ' took up wi' the Tongues,' as I heard an auld Scotch wife say, he declined in public estimation, and was regarded generally as the victim of ' a strong delusion and a lie.' If the charge be just, it is inscrutably mysterious ; for he was singularly unworldly, God-fearing, and single-hearted. And I must say of his followers, of whom I have known several, that I know no body of religionists who have impressed me more with their Biblical scholarship, their profound know- ledge of prophecy, and their liberal disposition towards tho Church of England. They are all convinced that a special revelation was vouchsafed to them, at the time, of tho Gift of Tongues, but that it has done its work. I believe they deny no doctrine that tho Church of England holds, though they hold more than she asserts, and consider that we have lost an order. CHAPTER XIV. 184 G. NOVEMBER 2. I dined with Miss B. Coutts at tho Bedford Hotel, and met at dinner no less distinguished a person than Prince Louis Napoleon, who had recently escaped from liis imprisonment at Ham. There was a largo and rather brilliant party asked to meet him. Miss Coutts sat, XIV'.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 319 as she always does when she has a very large dinner party, in the centre of one side of the table, with the Prince at her right hand. As the most insignificant person present, I entered the room last, and sans dame. As I could not go below the salt, I made for the lowest place near to it ; but found every place but the chair next to Miss Coutts on the left already occupied. Sho beckoned me up, told me to fill the vacant seat, and presented me to the Prince. Sydney Smith used to say that he always found himself crumbling his bread, from nervousness, when ho was obliged to sit next a bishop. I was in much the same pre- dicament, from dread anticipation that, when the ladies ' with- drew, I should be thrown next the Prince, and might, if ho addressed me, be called on to expose my miserable French before the whole company. However, the Prince at once spoke to me in English, and, by his affability, put me and every one else completely at our ease. Little could any of us that evening have dreamed of tho brilliant destiny for which he was reserved. 1846. December 17. I was this day taken dangerously ill. I was confined to my bed for five weeks, and prohibited from taking duty for twelve months. May 4. Left England for the continent with friends. 1847. June 29. Eeturned to England. 1848. August 3. As I was walking from Southwick into .Brighton, I saw a phenomenon not common in our latitudes. It had been raining considerably before I left home ; but when I started it had ceased, though the skies still threatened more wet. On reaching Brunswick Terrace, I was much struck by the vivid contrast exhibited between the land and the sea view. Tho sky immediately over my head was a bright blue ; and tho houses, seen in perspective along the whole extent of the West Cliff, appeared unusually white, and bright and sparkling : the more so, from their contrast with the sky over tho sea, which was dark, lurid, and charged with electric fluid. In certain conditions of health, I have been unable to look at the sea, when under sunshine, without suffering from muscce volttantes : so that, on looking out seawards, and beholding a phe- nomenon I had never seen before, I began to suspect that an incipient sick head-ache was affecting my visual organs. That which I saw was a large column of water rising from the sea, quickly assuming the form of a gigantic pear, stalk downwards, gyrating and rotating; and at each revolution expanding in circumference, and, at the same time, rising higher and higher, as if attracted towards the slate-coloured clouds above. 320 ' JOURNAL. [CHAP. Distrustful as to the correctness of my own eyesight, 1 appealed to the flymen who were standing on the beach side of the parade. and asked them if they saw anything uncommon out at sen. They turned their heads to look, and at once assured mo that what I saw was not fancy, but fact, though what it was or what it meant they could not say. At that moment there came by a sailor, who quickly resolved our doubts. ' Why,' said he, * don't you know what that is? That's a waterspout. Very nasty things they be. We always fires at 'em when we're at sea : that disperses them. If one comes against a ship, the ship gets the worst of it, I promise ye ; and if it goes against that chain pier you'll see summut as will make ye stare. By Jupiter! it is making for the pier. No ! Yes ! No ! Hurrah ! She's just skimmed by the end of it. It has gone inland.' Where exactly it broke I never heard ; but it skimmed over the downs, and, in another second, we saw, in strong relief against the murky clouds, numberless white objects fluttering and flapping through the air like a flight of sea-mews ; and shortly after heard that, in its transit, it had torn up the stanchions of the booths erected on the course for the races, and rent the canvas into shreds. It was the tattered fragments floating wildly to and fro which wo had mistaken for a flight of birds. 1849. March 19. I have just heard of the unlooked-for death of an excellent and gifted man, James Morier, the author of Haji Baba. He was a general favourite, and will be greatly missed in Brighton society. It was but a few days ago that I was sitting next to him at dinner at Lady Henley's, and talking romping nonsense with him ; first, on the absurdities of Lavatcr's system ; then on the theory of Gall and Spurzheini. I told him that I had always, from a child, been unduly impressed by a bald head, and said I would give any filing to be able to enter a pulpit with such a phrenological development as his. c Ah ! ' said he, * you might like it, possibly, in the pulpit ; but I'll be hanged if you'd like it at the dinner-table, with nothing to protect you from the hot, beery, oniony breath of pampered flunkies. No, no. Thank your stars that you have a thatch to your skull to protect it from the indignities to which the bald- pate is subjected/ 1849. July 4. Taking duty at Gadshill for a change. Spent a delightful evening at Bonchurch with James White, Mr. Danby, Mr. and Mrs. John Leech, Charles Dickens, Mrs. Dickens, and Miss Hogarth. Dickens showed us one. or two capital conjuring tricks which he had just brought from Paris. XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUXG. 321 1849. July 26. Went to a bazaar at Lady Susan Harcourt's. The Queen and the Prince Consort were there. Heard a charm- ing story of one of the royal children, which I hope is true. "When last the Queen was about to be confined, the Prince Consort said to one of his little boys, * I think it very likely, my dear, that the Queen will soon present you with a little brother or sister. Which of the two would you prefer ? ' The child, pausing * Well, I think, if it is the same to mamma, I should prefer a pony.' 1849. August 7. Joined a pic-nic at Appuldurcombe, under Cook's Castle. Our party consisted of James White, John Leech, Mark Lemon, Dr. Lankester, Dr. Smith (Bible Dic- tionary), Mr. Danby, Captain and Mrs. Hawkins, Lord Maid on, Miss Peel, and, though last not least, Charles Dickens. Mark Lemon was very amusing : Dickens silent and observant of every thing and every body around him but husbanding his own powers. 1849. December 22. At dinner, or rather after dinner, yesterday, at Lady Cornwallis's, James Anderson told me, aside, of a tragical disaster in which he had once been con- cerned. He was walking along the East Cliff from his own house in Sussex Square, Kemp Town, towards the New Steyne, when he heard such a violent clattering of horse's hoofs that he could not help looking behind him to ascertain the cause. Oil doing so, he was alarmed to see approaching, at a terrific pace, a, powerful horse, with his head between his shoulders, and the bit between his teeth, tearing away with a very handsome young lady, whose hat had fallen off and whoso hair was hanging about her shoulders. In her rear was an elderly gentleman following on horseback, but judiciously keeping back at a moderate dis- tance, that the sound of his horse's hoofs might not frighten the runaway still further. Anderson, a powerful man, instead of running in front of the Lorse, as ignorant people are so apt to do, rushed into the road uii'l run fast in advance, and by the side, so as to be able to catch the animal by the curb, and, by one or two violent jerks of his strong arm, bring it suddenly on its haunches. As the young lady, jerked out of her saddle by the abrupt violence of the arrest, was falling to the ground he received her in his arms. A crowd of pedestrians who had witnessed the scene, and who liiiew the popular preacher by sight, ran up to congratulate him on the issue of his timely gallantry, ulicn, with a face blanched \rith horror, he pronounced her dead. She had ruptured a blood- 322 JOURNAL. [CHAP. vessel in the heart through intensity of terror. The shock to tho father when he caine up and heard the news may be conceived. The mention of Anderson's name reminds me of his going to dine with Dr. Hall on one occasion. The Doctor was dressing when he arrived. In the drawing-room he found a gentleman waiting, with whom he at once entered into conversation, and addressed, under the idea that he was familiar with Brighton ; but he was soon undeceived. " No. I never was in Brighton till to-day ; but, nevertheless, I have made acquaintance with a great local power,' said he. ' Who may that be ? ' asked Anderson. * Who he is I know not ; but I am certain wliat he is. It is that distinguished functionary the Master of the Ceremonies. It could be no one else. It was a gentleman attired point device, walking down the parade like Agag, " delicately." He pointed out his toes like a dancing-master, but carried his head like a potentate. As he passed the stand of flys he nodded approval, as if he owned them all. As he approached the little goat- carriages, he looked askance over the edge of his starched neckcloth and blandly smiled encouragement. Sure that in following him I was treading in the steps of greatness, I went on to the pier, and there I was confirmed in my conviction of his eminence ; for I observed him look first over the right side and then over the left, with an expression of serene satisfaction spreading over his countenance, which said, as plainly as if he had spoken to the sea aloud, " That is right. You are low-tide at present ; but never mind, in a couple of hours I shall make you high-tide again." ' At that instant Hall entered and begged to introduce to James Anderson l The Eev. Sydney Smith.' 1850. January 19. Dined with the Marquis of Ely a smart party. After dinner, when the ladies had withdrawn, Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, Sir Arthur Upton, and Mr. Beckett were engaged in an amicable but very animated discussion on the rights and wrongs of Ireland the secret societies existing the agrarian outrages perpetrated when our noble host told us that, not long ago, a gentleman of his county, with whom ho was acquainted, and who filled the position of a * squireen,' was driving home one moonlight night, about nine o'clock, in his dog-cart, from the neighbouring market-town, and, halting on the brow of a steep hill to give his horse wind, when ho descried a sturdy fellow in a rough frieze coat walking fast in front of him. On overtaking him, he asked him if he were going to tho town of S . At first tho man seemed disposed to resent the question ; but afterwards, on inspecting his XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 323 interrogator, to think better of it. He told him that he was an utter stranger in these parts, but that his object was to sleep at the town mentioned, ' provided he could get a bed there raison- able.' ' Are you aware,' asked the gentleman, ' that it is a good eight miles hence ? Why, my friend, by the time you get there the whole town will be asleep, and the two little inns will be shut up. You had better jump up in my trap. I live within two miles of S . I'll give you a shake-down under my roof for the night ; and, as early as you like to-morrow morning you can make your way to S .' The man, nothing loth to accept so advantageous an offer, jumped up with alacrity by the side of the gentleman. On the road, however, he abated nothing of his taciturnity, though he showed, by an acquiescent touch of his felt hat now and then, that ho was listening respectfully to what was said to him. Arrived at his residence, the gentleman ordered his man- servant to take the stranger to the kitchen fire, see that he had a good supper, and plenty of grog, and extemporize a bed for him in the servants' hall. During his meal the man became more social, and exhibited an inquisitive disposition, asking tho name of the place in which he was of the owner, who was so kind to him of the establishment he kept even of the situa- tion of the room in which he slept, &c., &c. Next morning, when the servant took up his master's hot water, ho asked him if he would see the man whom he had housed overnight, as he was anxious to say a word before start- ing again upon his road. ' Let him step up,' was the answer. In another minute the stranger entered, and, as he did so, deliberately locked the door and deposited the key in his pocket* Being angrily asked what he meant by taking such a liberty, he put his finger mysteriously but significantly to his lips, drew near to the bed, and delivered his testimony in theso alarming words: 'Whisht! whisht, Sir! I mane no harum. "T\vas only by way of a caution that I lockit the door: for we must have no eavesdroppers near, while I whisper to ye, bedad. Hark ye, Sir. It is not the first time I'm in this room, I pro- mise ye.' * The deuce it is not ! ' exclaimed the person ho addressed, 'when were you here before ? ' ' When was it, indid, indid ? No later than last night. Aye, when every sowl in the house was asleep ; when everything was still as death ; I struck ono of them matches I carry always wid me, and lighted a candle that was on the dresser. 324 JOURNAL. [CHAP. I whipped off my shoes (for I had lain down wid all my cL : on). I looked to the priming of my pocket-companion. 1 crept tip stairs. I turned the handle of this same door, without noise. I left it half-open, so that the candle left outside might light me in, and found myself standing where, bedad, I'm standing now. 'Was it for robbing you I was ? Not I. I'm no tief. I was for killing you outright. And why would I kill you ? Not becaso I hate you, but becase I love Ireland. Not becase its any harum ye'd done me, but becase yc'd been my country's oppressor. Ye'll not play me false, and I'll tell ye a secret. I'm a Kibbonman ! bound by a bloody oath never to stay my hand till the Saxon race is rooted out o' the land. We're all pledged to the good cause. We've a list of them as is doomed. Your name was the first, yesterday, on the paper. Lots was drawn: and it fell to me, worse luck, to be ordered to find you out, and do the job for ye. It was on my road, I was, to you, when you fell in wid me. I did not know who you was, nor where I was, till I had eaten your bread, and larncd from your people that I was in the house I was making for, and brought to it, and trated like a Christian, by the very man I was sent to murder. Ah, Sir ! indid, indid. I had about a tussle wid meself last night, when I found out how things was. As I stood within six inches of your throat, and heard the click of my pistol trigger, as I cocked it, and then listened to you, breathing so paceful in your sleep, a sick sweat cum over me, and something seemed to catch hold of my wrist as I raised my hand, and a voice seemed to whisper, " Ah ! sure ye're not the boy to shed innocent blood! This man took you in, and giv ye the sup and the bite, and made a bed for yo in the dark- ness ! " In a word, I guv in. I went down the way I cum up ; but I broke my oath, and I must bo off, lest, if I stay, I be tempted. Never mind me. I'm off to 'Mcriky, or I'll have the bullet, meant for ye, lodged in meself. What I cum to say is this: Look to yourself! Don't go out after dark. Get away from this place ; for there's plenty o' boys '11 do my work, and face jail or gallows before they'll bo aisy, so long as the Sasse- nach's foot's on Erin's soil.' This story insensibly led up to others of a more apocryphal character. The following, which I had heard when living in Germany, may or may not bo considered as deserving to bo classed in that category ; but I told it as it was told to me. Young Baron F lost his mother when he was but nine- teen years of ago. The misconduct of her husband was said to XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 325 have caused her death. It was not long after that her son dis- covered that his surviving parent had no affection for him ; hut preferred the companionship of roue's and gamblers. Having, therefore, no tie to home, he gladly accepted the offer of a com- iiii.-;sion in an Austrian regiment of Hussars, made to him by one who had loved his mother well. Not knowing where hi father was to be found, or when he might see him, he left a letter for him, explaining the step he had taken, and his motive for taking it, and at once repaired to head- quarters. After an absence of five years, during which he had been con- stantly engaged in active service, he felt an irrepressible curiosity to hear tidings of his father; and, with that object, having obtained a three weeks' leave of absence, he started for his former home, on horseback, attended by his orderly. On the second day's journey, while making for the village of S , where he purposed halting for the night, he found him- self overtaken by darkness in the very densest part of the Foret Noir. The shades of night were gathering fast, and horses and riders were giving unequivocal evidence of exhaustion, when the sight of a light glimmering through the trees revived their drooping spirits. They followed its guidance, and soon found themselves in front of a rude sort of cabaret, the door of which, after loud and frequent calls, was opened by a surly ill-favoured fellow, who seemed unwilling to admit them ; until, on bringing out a lantern, and seeing their uniform, and the superior quality of their horses, his scruples gave way and his tone altered. Giving his lantern to the groom, and pointing him to a wretched stable, he advised him to look to his animals, while he prepared something for his master's supper. The officer, prepossessed neither by the aspect of the place nor the man, told his servant, i 1 1 French, merely to take out the bits from the horses' mouths, feed them well, slacken the saddle-girths, look to the priming of ]n's pistols, lay himself down in the manger, and be ready to join him, on the instant, if he heard him call. As the proprietor of the house preceded him into his kitchen, the young Baron quickly drew his pistols from his holsters, secreted them in his belt (under cover of his cloak), and followed him. After seeing that his groom had his share of the eggs and bacon, brown bread, and Bavarian beer, which had been placed before himself, he expressed his wish to be shown his bed. Ho was escorted up a rickety stair, little better than a ladder, into a, room little better than a loft. Having taken a lamp of oil from the hand of his conductor, ho wished him ' good night,' and 326 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. forthwith began to examine his roosting-place. It was so dreary, denuded of furniture, and comfortless, that he had not the heart to divest himself of any of his clothing, but flung himself in his cloak on the bed. There he lay for some time, tossing and tumbling and fevered: when, in taking up and turning the pillow, for the purpose of adjusting it more comfortably to his head, he observed, to his horror, that one side of it was saturated with blood. Such a sight did not, of course, tend to allay his apprehen- sions. He therefore cocked his pistols, and laid them by his side, drew his sword, and put it within his reach, and leaned warily and watchfully on his elbow. The dim flickering flame of the lamp did not much add to the cheerful appearance of the room. All was silent as the grave for full two hours ; when, just as he was getting drowsy, and thinking of yielding to the balmy influence of sleep, he happened to open his eyes and see a portion of the flooring heave and rise. Noiselessly creeping from the bed, he stood, with sword in hand, watching a trap- door gently raised by a human hand. With the rapidity of lightning, and with all the strength of his arm, he smote it ! Down dropped the trap ! and the vault below echoed to a groan of anguish. Depositing his pistols in his belt, with the lamp in one hand, and his drawn sword in the other, the young man ran down the stairs, every instant expecting to be attacked, yet resolved to sell his life dearly. He reached the front door, unbarred it, and joined his servant without molestation. In a trice the horses were on their legs, the bits replaced, the saddle-girths tightened, and master and man on their backs, and off full gallop. When dawn broke, they had no conception where they were. Nine o'clock was striking as they entered a strange village. There they breakfasted, and found that their erratic wanderings of the morning and the previous night had taken them nearly thirty miles out of the road. This necessarily entailed upon them another night out ; though they spent it in secure and com- fortable quarters. It was nearly twelve o'clock on the third day when the young Baron descried the chimneys of his birthplace. There was no smoke rising from them ; there wore no labourers stirring about ; no sign of life within. Whether his father were dead, he knew not. Whether his patrimony had been squandered away or sold, ho knew not. As he drew near, his heart sank within him, for he saw decay stamped on everything around ; the trees he had XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 327 often sat under cut down ; the beautiful iron gates of the court- yard rusted and hanging from their hinges ; the pavement over- grown with grass and weeds; some of the windows broken or patched with pasted paper ; others with their outside shutters flapping against the wall under the wind's influence. But for the brighter look of one window, he would have concluded tho house to be untenanted. He knocked and thundered at the hall door, but obtained no answer. He and his man tied their horses by their bridles to the railings of the court, and were about to rush against the door and burst it open, when the servant saw a pallid, vicious face peering from the particular window men- tioned. Finding that no notice was vouchsafed them, they mado a forcible entry into the house, darted upstairs, and made for the room at which the human face, not divine but diabolical, had been seen. On entering it, the son found himself in presence of his father haggard, wan, and ill, and looking all the villain that he was. Nevertheless, he offered him his hand. It was rejected, and with a scowl of unutterable hatred, with a blas- phemous oath, and with a threatening gesture, he held up a bloody mutilated stump in his face, while with grinding teeth, he exclaimed, * There's your answer/ Briefly to end this strange eventful history : Baron F g, having, by his evil courses, reduced himself to abject penury, had joined a gang of lawless desperadoes, who were leagued together to rob and murder for their livelihood. On the night of the younger Baron's misadventure, the bulk of the band were out on some enterprise of darkness: and the only members remaining at the place of rendezvous were the entertainer and the would-be murderer. On the late and unexpected arrival of tho travellers, tho ci-devant Baron was in bed ; but, on his confederate's apprising him that there was a young man sleep- ing in the house who evidently had money, and reminding him, at tho same time, that it was his turn to dispose of any chanco traveller that fell into their toils, he readily undertook the task allotted him, little dreaming that his intended victim was his son. When tho tragic truth revealed itself to the horror-stricken young nobleman, he left the room in silence ; rejoined his servant without uttering a syllable of explanation ; returned to his regi- ment without ever alluding to his disgrace, and eagerly sought, and soon found, an honourable death in the next engagement which took place between Napoleon the First and the House of Austria. 1850. February 7. Wo dined with Mr. Laurence and Lady 328 JOURNAL. [CHAP, Jano Peel. Mr. Peel bad said to me on the 4th, when ho asked us, ' We shall be a small party, but your friend Rogers dines- with us.' On the 5th, I met Mr. Peel again, when he said, ' I am sorry to say you will n,ot meet Rogers to-morrow, for he has written to say that, when he accepted our invitation, it had quite escaped him that he had pledged himself to be present at Lady Olivia Ossulston's marriage.' I was, therefore, not a little sur- prised to meet him, after all. The party was a most agreeable one, as all in that house are sure to be ; but Rogers was out of humour. Whenever I meet him at smart houses, I observe he is shown as much attention as if he were the first person in the room. It is well known that, if he is in cue, he can make a. party go off well ; and that if he is crusty, he can set people by the ears : so that it becomes a matter of policy with those who care for his society to propitiate him by letting him take into dinner some lady, distinguished either for rank, or fashion, or beauty. On this occasion, with one exception (and she \vas otherwise bespoken), there was no very beautiful lady present. He was annoyed to find that the ]ady alluded to was not allotted to him ; and still more so to find that there were three or four very agreeable and cultivated gentlemen present, who could talk as well as himself. The consequence of these adverse cir- cumstances was, that he became sour and taciturn. During dinner he hardly opened his lips; but afterwards, when the ladies had withdrawn, our host, in his courteous and benevolent manner, thus addressed him * It was a most agreeable surprise to us to find from your note of this morning that you would dine here, in spite of Lady Olivia's marriage. How did it go off?' 'I was not at it. I meant to go; but came here instead ; for I have always said that I would rather any day go to a funeral than to a marriage, and therefore I came here '- meaning, politely, to convey to host and guests that it was a dull party : the very reverse of the truth. 1850. February 9. After dinner, at Mr. W. Beckett's, a- startling story was told me, first, by the Honourable Archie McDonald, secondly by Mrs. Morier. I did not tell the latter I had already heard it, as I wished to have the details im- pressed on my memory by repetition. There was no varia- tion whatever in the two versions. The story is too curious to pass over. I do not pledge myself to the accuracy of the narration, as far as words and language are concerned ; but I conceive the facts to be substantially correct. A lady of high rank, residing on the family estate in Ireland, XIV.] JULIAN CHARLIE YOUNG. advertised for a governess for her daughters. The advertise- ment was promptly answered by a French lady of character, a Mile. H . After a personal interview, equally satisfactory to both parties, the lady was engaged. She had not long been domesticated in the family circle, before she succeeded, not only in winning the confidence and esteem of all the female mem- bers of the family, but in inspiring the nephew of the lady of the house with a degree of admiration dangerous to his peace of mind. Being, however, a man of principle, and knowing that his means were not such as to justify his engaging himself to a portionless lady of inferior social position to his own, he resolved at once to nip his nascent passion in the bud, and neither by word, nor look, nor inflection of voice, betray the secret of his soul. After the lapse of some months, while the family were assem- bled round the breakfast-table, they were surprised by the abrupt entrance of the groom of the chambers, requesting to know if her ladyship were at home to visitors. She asked him his motive for such a question at such an hour. ' Because, my lady, I have just seen a carriage -and-f our coming down the coach road towards the house : and the livery of the servant in the rumble looks like a foreign one. As it certainly is not that of any of our own people, I thought it better to learn your ladyship's pleasure beforehand, that I might know what to say to indifferent callers.' ' Whoever it be, they must have come on some matter of im- portance, or they would not come at such an hour. Let them in, by all means,' said Lady E . Intense was the curiosity manifested by all the party to know v.lio the visitors could be, and what their object for coming at such an hour. They were not long kept in suspense ; for, in a few seconds, carriage-wheels were heard grating on the gravel under the windows ; and four smoking posters were seen dragging a heavy Berline to the front door. The hall bell was pulled violently ; a courier sprang from his seat, flung open tbc carriage door, and handed out two well-dressed persons. After a few minutes, the servant came into the breakfast-room, and announced that two gentlemen in the library wanted to see Mile. H the governess. Unaffectedly astonished at the summons, she jumped up from table with alacrity, and went into the library. After a protracted absence, she returned to the breakfast-room, where she found the ladies still waiting for her. With flushed cheeks and flurried manner, she begged Lady E to be kind enough to step into the library to speak to two friends z 330 JOURNAL. of hers, who had something of importance to communicate. Lady E at once complied with her request, while her pupils surrounded and assailed the governess with questions of all sorts. In no mood for cross-examination, she broke loose from .them, rushed up stairs, and locked herself in her room. On Lady E 's entering the library, both strangers advanced towards her, and bowed respectfully; while one of them, addressing her in French, apologized for their unseasonable intrusion, but expressed his conviction that she would overlook it when she was made to understand the important object of their visit. He then told her that Mile. H had delegated to him a duty which, of right, devolved on herself, but which she had not the moral courage to discharge, especially after the extraordinary kindness which had been shown her. * It behoves me, then, to tell your ladyship frankly that, in pretending to be dependent on her own exertions for her bread, Mile. H has imposed upon you, for she is as well born as yourself, and, for aught I know, as opulent. For any blame you may be disposed to impute to her, we are alone responsible. It was at our in- stance that she answered your ladyship's advertisement ; hoping that, under such a roof as yours, she would be secure from the persecution of an unscrupulous cousin, who conceived that she was endeavouring to supplant him in the good graces of a rela- tive, whose favour he had forfeited solely by his own misconduct. The old gentleman alluded to died only three or four days ago, and has bequeathed to her his all. She is now mistress of a noble chateau in the south of France, and has succeeded to an unencumbered rent-roll of 7000Z. a year. The object of our visit, as her trustees, is to announce that fact to Mile. H , and to apprise her, at the same time, that her presence is required imperatively this day month, to meet the avocat, the executors, and certain legatees interested more or less in her uncle's will.' Lady E , overwhelmed as she was by news which sounded more like fiction than fact, did not forget the rites of hospitality, but pressed her visitors to stay and take refreshment. This they declined, and with ample acknowledgments of her urbanity, withdrew, jumped into their carriage, and were driven away as rapidly as they came. As soon as they had quitted the house, Lady E hastened back to her nephew and daughters, and told them of the improved fortunes of Mile. H . The young ladies wero highly excited ; and, though rejoicing in the sudden prosperity XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 331 of one they had learned to value as a friend, were not without certain selfish regrets at the prospect of parting with such a treasure. The effect produced on the gentleman was not less marked. Disparity of station, and inadequacy of means, had alone prevented him from declaring his passion for the gover- ness ; but now that those obstacles were removed, he determined to avow his attachment. As I heard no details, I will not attempt to give them ; but will content myself with stating that, in the first instance, so far from receiving his advances with encourage- ment, she gave him to understand that she suspected her money had more attraction for him than her person, assigning as her reason for such impression, that he had shunned her while he thought her poor, but had sought her as soon as he found her rich. He assured her that he had loved her at first sight, but had been deterred, by honourable motives and means inadequate, from venturing on matrimony : that he had therefore purposely kept out of danger's way; but that, as to wishing to marry her for the sake of her money, it was a cruel imputation, which stung him to the quick, &c., &c. Before finishing all he had to say, he left the room, rushed to the stables, saddled a horse, mounted it, and rode to the neighbouring town in search of a Notary Public. After some hours' absence he returned, sought an interview with her alone, and thrust into the lady's hands a legal instrument, by which he conveyed to her, absolutely and unconditionally, every farthing he had in the world. ' There/ said he, 'you charged me with wooing you for your money's sake. I surrender into your keeping my few hundreds a year ; all I ask in return is your hand and heart. I do not, by this act, mean to buy your love, but rather to shew you that my own is pure and disinterested. I ask for no settlements. If I prove myself unworthy of you, your money will be in your own power. If I live to deserve your love, I am sure you will never let me want/ Fairly vanquished by such generosity, she yielded to his solicitations, and agreed to elope with hun. The honeymoon had hardly run its course, before the unhappy Benedict dis- covered that he had been entrapped by a penniless adventuress, who, finding that he had a moderate fortune, and seeing that, in spite of his reserve, she had captivated him, by the help of two confederates, and her own adroitness, had thus made herself mistress of his patrimony. The lady was one whose name had been before the public previously in connection with a tragedy in which she was supposed to have played a conspicuous part. z 2 332 JOU1INAL The ill-starred husband, in company with a few of his country- men, entered the regiment of B B 's, and sought to repair his desperate fortunes at tho sword's point in the Crimean War. 1850. March 4. Lunched with Mr. W. Beckett, to meet Don Miguel and Vicomte Queluz. In company with Colonel Waymouth, escorted them over the Pavilion, its stables, the Pier. For Lord Palmerston's opinion of Don Miguel, vide his Life, by Sir H. Bulwer. 1850. April 15. Dined with Mr. Hallam, the historian. A party. 1850. May 6. Dined with Admiral Meynell. Among the party was Captain Macquhae, the person who first saw the sea serpent, on August 6th, 1848. He gave us the whole account, with an air of great simplicity and truthfulness. Meynell said he had known him for years, and believed him incapable of exaggeration. Every officer on Macquhae's ship H.M.S. Dtc- dalus, saw the serpent as distinctly as he did, with their glasses first, afterwards, as it came close to them, with their naked eve. Supposing Macquhae himself to have been mistaken, one can hardly believe every officer on board his ship to have been so too. 1850. June 12. Lunched with Arthur Macleane, Principal of Brighton College, and George Long. Macleane gave me an amusing account of a scene he once witnessed with a monkey. He was on a visit to a friend in the Madras Presidency, when tho said friend was summoned to a more northern station on matters of moment. Before leaving, he said to Macleane : * My dear friend, I want to consign to your care a pet of mine, a female monkey. I have so high an opinion of her moral qualities, that I have appointed her as guardian over four little puppies, who are orphans. I hope, joking apart, that you will not mind my leaving her tied up in tho comer of the room in which you write.' As soon as his friend had taken his departure, a black servant entered the room in which Macleano was, and placed in one corner of it a large wooden stand, with a perch on it, and a broad ledge beneath it. My lady monkey was then formally introduced and installed into office. She jumped up on her seat, and looked around on every side with an air of no small importance. She was evidently fully sensible of tho responsi- bility involved in the guardianship of the pups. Macleane, though much engrossed with the matter in which he was en- gaged (ho was writing for the local paper, of which he was XIV.] JULIAN CIIAKLKS YOUNG. 333 editor), could not resist an occasional glance at the demure self-sufficiency of the monkey, and also at her grotesque mode of enforcing discipline on her refractory proteges. As she had business of her own to attend to viz., the demolition of sundry nuts, which had been put before her ; and, as she had no notion of allowing her meal to be interrupted by the freaks of her baby charges, she clapped the tail of one under her towards the north ; of another towards the south ; of another towards the east ; and of the fourth towards the west ; so that if any of them, wishing to indulge ' a truant disposition,' contrived, by wriggling, to extricate its tail from its imprisonment, it was promptly caught up, and slapped, and the tail replaced in its proper quarter. The next day, while Macleane was engaged in the same pursuit as before, a native servant, with a small hatchet in his hand, came to dock the ears and tails of the puppies. On his boldly withdrawing one of the little ones from the monkey's hind-quarters, she protested indignantly against his utter dis- regard of her authority. But when she saw the intruder, by way of answer, deliberately chop off its tail, obeying the instinct of self preservation, she caught up her own, abandoned her other three charges to their fate, and sprang on the architrave of the door, evidently thinking that, if tails were to be treated with so little ceremony as that, the sooner she secured her own the better. \\ hen Macleane was at Trinity College, Cambridge, he, one day, met the Marquis Spoleto, a teacher of Italian, and a refugee, and thus accosted him : ' Have you many pupils this term ? ' * Vel, I ave vone in Hebrew/ * Dear me,' said Macleane, ' I had no idea you knew Hebrew.' ' Vel, no ; not exactly. But then, you see, we do not begin for vone five week.' 1850. July 2. Went to the Scottish fete. Sat with Lord Ely and James Adam Gordon. Jung Bahador and the Nepaulese Princes there. Nothing could bo more cold and impassive than their deportment while witnessing feats of strength which astonished every one else. With true Oriental cunning, they were disguising their real feelings. In the evening dined at Stafford House. There were at dinner the Duchess of Suther- land, the Duchess of Argyll, the Marquis and Marchioness of Kildare, Lord and Lady Anson, Lord Bagot, Lady Dover, and the two Miss Ellises, Lady Mary Howard, Hon. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Howard and Miss , Hon. and Rev. Gerald Wellcsley 334 JOURNAL. [c'HAi-. Mr. Monckton Milnes, Mr. Stafford O'Brien, Sir Edwin Landseer, and Sir Charles Barry. In the evening there were the Duchess of Norfolk and Lady A. Howard, Lord Edward Howard, Baron Parkc and daughter. During dinner the Duchess received a note from Lady Peel, from Whitehall, with a bulletin of Sir Robert's state, and giving but faint hopes of his life. The Duchess was most gracious, and took me into the great room to show me the grand Murillos purchased from Marshal Soult. The Duchess of Norfolk and all the guests who had come in the evening having dispersed, I made my bow and walked homo with Sir Edwin Landseer, as he had to pass the house in whicli I was staying to get to his own. In going up St. James's Street, he looked in at Brookes' to see if he could hear more news of Sir Robert. While we were standing on the door-step under a strong gaslight, a strange gentleman, passing rapidly by, and recognizing Landseer, turned back and said to him, * Sir Edwin, I make no apology for addressing you, as I know you are well acquainted with Sir Robert Peel ! You will be painfully inte- rested to know that I have just left his door, and that he is dead. He died a quarter of an hour ago.' Sir Edwin then proposed that we should return to Stafford House and tell the Duchess. On arriving, we found that, as soon as her own party had broken up, she had gone to Lady Waldegrave's. It was curious to see the rapid change which had taken place in the appearance of the house within a quarter of an hour. When we had left, it was a blaze of light and beauty the hall filled with servants. When we returned, all the lights were extinguished, with the exception of one hall lamp, and no one but the night-porter was to be seen. 1850. May 10. Went to a private club, called ' The Cave,' with Harry Hallam. It is composed of none but men of intel- lectual mark. I met there Messrs. Kenneth Macaulay, Bentinck, Spring Rice, Thackeray, Lushington, Tom Taylor, and Vena- blcs. Plenty of good talk. 1850. June 25. Dined with Lady Essex, and met a most agreeable party, consisting of the versatile and accomplished Dr. Quin, Mr. Charles Greville, Colonel Dawson Darner, Land- seer, Lady Monson, Mrs. William Locke, Pasta, Viardot, and Parodi. I took Pasta in to dinner, and found her delightful. After dinner she was asked to sing ; and sitting down to the piano, she commenced her great song Ombra Adorata. But the change from what she had been was painful. She sang out of tune beyond belief; yet did not seem conscious of it herself. XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 335 Parodi, her pupil and favourite, sang also, and skilfully, but wa& deficient in charm. Viardot with generous forbearance, de- clined to sing at all. Landseer told me a capital story. He was commissioned (I think) by Mr. Wells, of Redleaf, to paint a favourite dog of his ; but the great artist had so many works on hand of greater importance, that he begged for some months' delay. After the lapse of considerable time, he met Mr. Wells in the street, and told him that he thought he should be able, at last, to paint his pet. Mr. Wells (loq.*). ' Alas, my dear friend, it is too late ! I have lost him!' Landseer. l That is to say, he is stolen.' Mr. Wells. ' No. I have no reason for thinking so. I lost him in the streets.' Landseer. ' I am sure he is stolen ! Will you still give me the commission to paint him if I recover him for you ? ' Mr. Wells. < Gladly.' Landseer instantly, on returning to St. John's Wood, sent for a well-known dog-fancier, described the characteristic points of the animal, and told him he should be well paid if he would find him. Dog-fancier (scratching his head reflectively, and repeating to himself, aloud, the description given). * Black and tan, wi' very long ears ? Large eyes ? I've see'd that dog somewhere, I'll swear ! 1 dessay I could bring him in a fortnight.' Landseer. ' A fortnight ! Nonsense ! I must have him in forty-eight hours ! ' Dog-fancier. ' It could not be done, Sir, in the time.' Landseer. ' Well ; I have no doubt you could put your hand upon him in no time. But if you won't then bring him as soon as you can.' At the end of a fortnight the man entered Landseer's hall with the dog in his arms. Landseer. 'Oh! so you've brought him at last, have you. Now, why could not you have let me had it before ? ' Dog-fancier. * Well, Sir, you're an old friend, and won't peach I But the fact were, / stole the dog! But honour among thieves! I sold it to a trump of a old lady in Portland 1'lace for such a howdacious good sum, I felt it would not be just not to let her enjoy it, at least, for a fortnight.' This reminds mo of a story which I heard long after. When bear-baiting was the fashion in France, Count D'0rsay r knowing that Landseer was sometimes obliged to have recourse to dog-fanciers for the loan of models, asked him to get him a 336 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. bull-dog of very superior strength and courage. Landseer sent accordingly for Ben White, a man standing at the very pinnacle of his profession. It was not long before he presented himself to D'Orsay with a hideous bull-dog by his side. Landseer (introducing the dog-fancier). ' Count, this is Mr. White, who has brought his dog for you to look at.' D'Orsay. 'Ah, Vite! I have often heard of you; and I believe, of all de Vites, you are de best.' White. ' Thank yer lordship.' D'Orsay. l Vel, Vite, vat vill de dog do?' White. l Vel, my lord, he'll go in and fight the bear till he ain't got a leg to stand on ! ' D'Orsay. 'Ah, bas Vite ! No good. Take him avay. I must have a dog that can fight de bear till the bear has not got a leg to stand on ! ' 1850. July 5. The two following letters, the originals of which are in my possession, were written five-and-thirty years ago by a spoiled boy at Eton to his too indulgent father. ' Eton, February 2, 1815. ' MY DEAR PAPA. I arrived here safe and well ; but am sorry to tell you that I have been flogged ; and, if you don't want me to be called a gentleman, take me away. Oh! papa! pupa! did I not ask you not to send me back ? I told you ho\v it would be. I am kept up till twelve o'clock at night. I cannot learn my lessons. I am flogged every day ; and, unless you come and take me away, I must run away in less than one week. I must run away indeed : indeed I must, if you don't write to say so. In less than one week, mind ! Upon my honour I must ; for I cannot stand it. Did I not tell you how it would be ? Pray come up in a day or two and settle it. If you don't, I must run away. Give my love to all. God bless you. ' Your affectionate son, ' P.S. Mind I One week I Pray come up, and then you can settle it. Mind I don't want to run away ; but you must take mo away. If you will, I will try all I can to learn with my aunt and grandmama, or else at Mr. Church's. The Easter holidays in four weeks ! Write by return of post.' 4 Kton, February 5, 1815. ' MY DEAE PAPA. I am now going to give you a full account of how I have been used since I have been here. In the week XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 337 before I received your comfortable letter, one night I was going down stairs, wben I was pushed clown them and hurt my back terribly. While I was down they licked me in the face, and kicked me about. They take the bed-clothes away ; they tear the books to pieces, and I cannot do my lessons ; and if I was to tell you more about the way I am used, you would fly to take your child away. And as for telling my tutor about it, it is no more use than telling the poker. I am flogged every day, and it is impossible for me to do my lessons. Yesterday, a great big boy kicked me in the back, just where I tumbled. As for running away, I would no more do that than fly in the air : so, if you don't want me to be worse off than before just you come up to Eton in one day or two ; then you can take me to Dr. Keate, to tell him you cannot let me stop any longer. Then he will say no more. Take my advice, and come. If you don't want me to be killed, don't write to my tutor. If you do, he will speak to Dr. Keate, and he will speak to the boys, and then they will get sticks and beat me, and then I shall be laid up. Take my advice, and come up by Tuesday or Wednesday. Don't write to Dr. Keate, or I shall be killed. There is not a place I go to but I'm beat. I will give you my honour, I attend particularly to personal cleanliness ; and I will give you my word and honour, again and again, that I am grown a very good boy. I would not say so if I was not. I don't bite my nails, nor nothing what my grandmama forbid me. I say my prayers earnestly by day and by night. And I will give you my honour again, that if you will take me away in one week or two, that I will try all I can to learn with my grandmama, and Mr. Church, if you will. When you come up you will find what an expense you have put yourself to for such an idle vagabond as I am. take, take, take me away. Do come up in one week, or I shall die with fatigue. Don't write again. Tell dear little Teddy that he will see me in one week, when the dearest of fathers comes up to take me away. When you come up you will be glad to the bottom of your heart that you have taken me away ; for I will tell you all about it going down in the coach. You can take me away and pay at the end of the month. 1 1 remain, dear Papa, your affectionate Son, * P.S. I am dying with fatigue.' 1851. November 13. Being exhausted in body and unhinged 338 .Ml'KNAL [Cii.M>. in niinil by many nights' unremitting attendance on a relative who had been dangerously ill, my doctor insisted on my re- linguishmg my post to another, and going elsewhere for change of scene and air. As my invalid was convalescent, I felt no hesitation in obeying orders; and, therefore, went to Brighton to pass a few days with my father, who was then residing in the Old Steyne. I arrived at his door on Tuesday, the llth, in the evening, and retire^ early to bed, sanguine that, after so many sleepless vigils, I should enjoy a night of unbroken rest. I have always been blessed with a remarkable talent for sleep, generally losing consciousness as soon as my candle has been extinguished, and rarely recovering it till it has been time to rise. I was, there- fore, the more surprised on this occasion at finding myself, within a couple of hours after I had retired, wide awake. I fancy this must have been about half-past eleven, because half-an-hour after, I heard the clock on the stairs strike twelve. I ought to mention that, at night, in certain conditions of health, I have sometimes suffered from a morbid activity of memory, utterly destructive of sleep or even of tranquillity. At such times I have been pursued by one prevailing idea, which I have been unable to shake off; or been haunted by snatches of old airs, or harassed by the reiteration of one text of Scripture, and one only. It was not long ago that, after having drunk some very strong coffee, I lay awake for three hours, repeating, in spite of myself, over and over again, the following words from St. Peter's First Epistle, ' Whom having not seen, ye love : in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory/ By no exercise of ingenuity could I get rid of these words. I tried to substitute others in their place, but in vain. Well, it was under some such mental impression that, on waking up on Monday night last, I was possessed, as it were, by four mystic words, each of one syllable, conveying no more idea to my mind than if they were gibberish, and yet delivered with as much solemnity of tone, deliberation of manner, and pertinacity of sequence, as if they wore meant to convey to me some momentous intimation. They were all the more exciting that they were unintelligible, and apparently could not servo any ostensible purpose. They were accompanied by no vision. They were, if I may use such a word, an audition, and nothing more. I could not exclude them by putting cotton in my ears, for they came from within, and not from without. To try to XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUN supplant them by encouraging a fresh train of ideas was hope- less: my will and my reason were alike subservient to some irresistible occult force. The words which beset me were,. 'Dowd' 'swell' 'pull' 'court'; and they were separated, as I have written them, into monosyllables ; and were repeated with an incisive distinctness and monotonous precision which was quite maddening. I sat up in my bed and struck a light to make myself sure that I was awake, and not dreaming. All the while were reiterated, as if in a circle, the same wild words, ' Dowd ' ' swell * ' pull ' ' court.' I lay down again, and put out my candle : ' Dowd ' ' swell ' * pull ' ' court.' I turned on my left side : ' Dowd ' ' swell ' ' pull ' ' court.' I turned to the right : ' Dowd ' ' swell ' ' pull ' ' court.' I endeavoured, as a means of dispersing these evil spirits for they began almost to assume the importance of spirits in my heated brain to count sheep over a stile, but still, 'Dowd' 'swell' ' pull ' ' court ' rang in my ears and reverberated through my mind. I counted my respirations. I had recourse to every imaginable conceit by which to woo sleep, and ward off my ghostly, verbal tormentors. I tried to call to mind all the people I cared for then all the people I disliked. I tried to conjure up the recollection of all the murders or sensational incidents I had ever read or heard of, in the hope of diverting my thoughts into other channels; but in vain. I then began to analyse the meaning of the words themselves. 'What,' said I to myself, ' can be the meaning of " Dowd " ? I never heard of such a word. I have heard of a bird called a " dodo," and I think there is one in the Zoological Gardens. I know the meaning of the verb " to swell " ; and I am familiar with the slang substantive " a swell." I know the meaning of the verb "to court," and of the substantive "a court." There is no difficulty about the word "pull"; but what earthly connection there be between these words, that they should be thus linked together, and addressed to me ? Ah, I begin to discern the truth. I am trying to make sense out of nonsense. The painful scenes I have lately witnessed, while in attendance on my friend, has upset the balance of my brain, and 1 am going mad.' I had not pursued this train of melancholy reflection long, when I fell into a profound slumber, from which I was only aroused by my father's voice summoning me to breakfast. I sprang out of bed, made a hasty toilet, and joined him. On his asking me how I had slept, I told him how curiously I had been disturbed in the night. My narrative inspired him with 340 JOURNAL. [CHAP. more of ridicule than of pity. About midday I paid a visit to the Miss Smiths, daughters of the late Horace Smith. I found Frederick Robertson, then in the zenith of his well-deserved fame, sitting with them, and engaged in somewhat transcendental talk, to which my entrance had put a stop. 1 told them I should withdraw unless they were kind enough to resume the thread of their argument. They did so ; but, after a while, the conversa- tion turned to Herr von Reichenbach's book, and his theory on the subject of Odic Force, and then to the philosophy of dreams. As soon as there was a slight pause in the conversation, I re- peated to them with avidity my nocturnal experience; but instead of its producing the effect I had expected on my auditors, it only provoked an interchange of significant looks between them, which convinced me that, in Oriental phrase, I had been eating dirt. I soon rose and took my leave. As soon as Robertson saw me rise, he took up his hat and stick and followed me : and when we had reached the door-step, he who was always considerate of the feelings of others, perceiving that my vanity had been mortified by the silence with which my tale had been received, took my arm and said, ' My dear Young, I hope you will forgive me if I say, that I never before heard you tell anything so pointless as what you have just repeated to the Miss Smiths and myself.' 1 Ah,' said I, c I perceived you thought so ; but that does not alter my opinion. To me the whole thing is fraught with interest and mystery. I am sure that thereby hangs a tale indeed. I only wish I knew it.' It was on Wednesday, the 12th, that these words passed between my friend Frederick Robertson and myself. On Thursday, the 13th, I walked into Folthorp's library to read the papers ; and, as usual, ran my eye down the births, mar- riages, and deaths in The Times. As I came to the obituary, the following notice caught my sight : 'On Tuesday night, November the llth, John E. Dowdswell of Pull Court, Tewkesbury.' So that, probably, on the selfsame night, and at the very time when this gentleman's name and residence were so unaccountably and painfully present to my mind, he was actually dying. 1852. May 20. I went with a friend to Charles Kean's private box to see The Corsican Brothers. He came up and sat with us. He asked me how I liked the getting-up of the piece. I praised it unreservedly. I could not help expressing my admiration of Alfred Wigan's acting. 'Yes,' said he, 'his XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 341 Frenchman is the Frenchman of the Faubourg St. Martin : mine, I flatter myself, is the Parisian of the Faubourg St. Germain.' He told me that, when he was fulfilling an engage- ment at Dublin, Lord Normanby, then Lord-Lieutenant, asked him to dine and accompany him to some private theatricals in which an amateur of original powers was to play the part of Hamlet. He was said to have thrown new light on obscure passages. The following Kean gave me as a specimen of his new readings : 'The spirit that I have seen May bo a devil ; and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape : yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy (As he is very potent with such spirits) Abuses me to damn me/ The ordinary and natural delivery of the last line, he rendered thus: ' Out of my weakness and my melancholy (As he is very potent with such spirits) Abuses me, too, Damn me ! Charles Kean, afterwards told me the remarkable ghost story, mentioned in Mrs. Crowe's Nightside of Nature, vol. i. p. 332, and of which I find the heroine was Mrs. Chapman, the sister of Mrs. Charles Kean. The lady with whom I went to see TJte Corsican Brothers told me she was dining one day at Dr. Ashburner's, where she met a party, chiefly composed of French republicans ; among them Pierre Le Roux and Charles and Louis Blanc. Charles Blanc sat directly opposite to her ; Louis took her into dinner, and sat next to her. Overhearing some one at table talking of the play of The Corsican Brothers, then having a great run at the Princess's Theatre, she asked him if he had been to see it. Ho confessed that he had not, but at the same time, expressed his intention of soon going; 'for,' said he, 'I ought to take a personal interest in it, and my brother too, seeing that \\; may, in a certain sense, consider ourselves as the heroes of the piece.' 'Pardon me,' said my lady friend, 'I think yon are in error there ; for Mr. Kean told me that it was taken from a play which he had seen at the Porto St. Martin in Paris, and which was founded on A story of Alexaudre Dumas', entitled Lcs Deux Freres Corses.' ' Just so/ replied L. Blanc, 'and that story owed its origin to a remarkable circum- stance which befell your via a vis and myself. Probably you are not aware that Charles and I are twins, and natives of :M:2 JOURNAL. [CHAP. Corsica. I was one clay walking in the streets of Paris, arm in arm with an old friend, when I suddenly felt a shock through one of my arms, as if it had been pierced through with a rapier. The pain was so acute that I could not help crying out. My friend asked me if I were ill. He could hardly believe me when I assured him I was not. We walked on together, and he continued his conversation ; but I felt so weighed down by an inexplicable depression of spirit, that I could neither respond to his remarks, nor hold up my head. I had a strong presenti- ment that some disaster had befallen my brother, though he was more than a hundred leagues from me. ' My brother Charles and I, you must understand, came into the world almost at the same time ; and in physical organization, as well as mental and moral constitution, are so intimately alike, that we may be almost considered as duplicates of the same creation.* Such is the nervous sympathy between us, and our identity of sentiment on every subject, that I would undertake to say that, if one of us were at the North Pole and the other at the South, and telegrams could be sent to each, soliciting our opinion on any given subject, we should be sure to return the same answer. We are of one heart and one mind, and the love we bear to each other almost surpasses that of women. If one rejoice, the other rejoices with him. If one suffer, the other suffers with him. And thus it was that, a few seconds after I felt the sickening smart in my arm, I was so sure that some painful accident or other had befallen Charles, that I asked my friend to look at his watch and tell me the hour. On reaching home I telegraphed to my brother, and learned that at the very instant I felt the pain in the biceps of my arm, his had been run through by a sword in a duel with the editor of a provincial newspaper, who had attacked me scurrilously in his columns, and whom Charles in consequence had challenged.' After dinner, at his brother's request, Charles Blanc bared his arm to the lady and showed the scar of his wound in confirmation of the story. 1852. June 3. Both at lunch and at dinner at Miss B. Coutts'. Met Abbot Laurence, and had some conversation with him on the subject of arboriculture, in which he seems to be a proficient. In the evening heard that an advocate, in his defence of a notorious murderer, wound up his speech in his behalf with the following appeal : ' Ah ! mes amis ! II a tue son pi-re ct sa mere, et, a present, il est orpheliii. Le Pauvre ! II faut le proteger.' * Neither here nor elsewhere can I vouch for the actual phraseology of the speaker, only for the broad facts. XIV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 343 1852. July 5. My father, being anxious (I believe*) to give a helping hand to a friend who had been reduced by adverse fortune, to adopt literature as a means of livelihood, wrote to Charles Dickens, and asked him to insert some of her writings in Household Words. I subjoin his answer for two reasons : first, to show how much critical acumen he brought to bear on the articles submitted to him for insertion in his periodical ; 2ndly, to show the evident pain it cost him, as caterer for the public taste, to reject any article which he believed would be unpalatable to it. ' Office of Household Words, ' 16, Wellington Street North, Strand, * Wednesday evening, July 1, 1852. ' MY DEAR YOUNG. I have gone carefully over the enclosed papers, and am very sorry to say that 1 can make no use of them here. They have none of the qualities that are essential for Household Words. The writing is very agreeable and lady- like; but there is no novelty of observation, or charm of expression, or plain force of purpose, or compactness of treat- ment, to separate it from hundreds upon hundreds of similar contributions that are for ever coming here. TJie Lion and the Spaniel is not, as the writer supposes, a new story, and could be better related in two pages than in ten. (Besides which, the concluding reflections take it for granted that the lion really is a very brave animal, which some wise naturalists of later times Lave seen reason to doubt.) TJie Bittern is an essay on the ordinary essayical model, which tells the reader nothing pre- viously unknown, and which could only be made acceptable for the sake of what it does tell, by that information being com- municated in a picturesque and special way. Exactly the same objection applies, with at least equal force, to the essay called The Victories of Love. The Village Home, and The Brother and Sister, are children's stories, and quite out of the road of a publication addressing so large an audience as this of ours does in which the constant endeavour is, to adapt every paper to the reception of a number of classes and various orders of mind at once. 4 1 enter into these prosing details because you take the papers out of the ordinary category, by being interested in them, and because you have really interested me, too, by what you have * I am bound to say that this is a gratuitous assumption on my part, drawn from the contents of Mr. Dickens's letter. I have no notion whom the lady alluded to was. 314 JOURNAL. [Cu\i: told me of the writer. I have considered the probabilities of their being accepted elsewhere, and really cannot suggest a periodical (able and willing to pay for them) that I think likely to receive teem. Whether such publishers for young pnople as Messrs. Darton and Co., of Holborn Hill, or Harris, of St. Paul's Churchyard, would think them adapted to their purpose, I doubt but I cannot, honestly, awaken a better hope. In this I may be mistaken, and I should be very glad to know it. ' If you could see the sub-editor's basket of proffered contri- butions for one week, you would not wonder if you do now at my having a heavy sense of the responsibility of encouraging a writer to proceed on insufficient grounds. * My dear Young, ever your faithful and true Friend, * CHARLES DICKENS. * P.S. If the lady should wish to send me anything else through you, I will read it most readily, and with a hearty desire (as I have had in the case of the present papers) to accept it if I possibly can.' CHAPTER XV. 1852. SEPTEMBER 15. At Tunbridge Wells. I met, in the same hotel as that in which I was, a most agreeable gentleman Mr. , Recorder of . I found that ho shared my admiration of all the Napiers. He told me, in consequence, the following very charming story. The late Sir John Morillyon Wilson, Adjutant of Chelsea. College, went to pay a visit to his brother-in-law, Sir George Houlton, at his place, Farley Castle, near Bath. On the first day of his arrival, as Sir John was going up to his room to dress for dinner, his host overtook him on the stairs, and said to him, * I hope you don't expect any party to-day. We have purposely invited but one person to dine with us, for we thought your wife would feel fatigued by her journey, and that you would prefer a quiet conversation with such a man as Sir William Napier, to a formal dinner composed of strangers.' 'What?' said Sir John, 'do you moan to say that it is the author of TJie Peninsular War that you expect at dinner to-day? There is no man in England I have such a desire to meet.' XV.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 345 Sir John Wilson was a handsome man, with an air 1rh dixtinijnc ; and one can readily believe, that if Napier's well- enrned renown, as soldier and historian, mado him an object of interest to Wilson, Wilson's good looks and gallant mien would be sure to recommend him in turn to Napier. And such turned out to be the case. They were mutually attracted to each other. When the ladies had quitted the dining-room, they drew their chairs together by the fireside, and soon found that they had many subjects in common. They ran through their military campaigns " From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes That they had pass'd." and discussed, with characteristic animation, certain debateable questions of strategy, in the conduct of the different battles of the Peninsula. In the course of argument, Wilson broached a theory which caused Napier to say, * It is all very well for you to hold that opinion. You are sound in wind and limb : but if you were such an old, battered hulk as I am, and had been riddled through and through as I have been, you would adopt another tone.' ; Well,' replied Wilson, * I certainly cannot boast as many honourable scars as you, Sir William ; but I have been dan- gerously wounded in my time, and I doubt if you have ever lain nearer to death's door than I have.' * Indeed ! I fancied you had not a scratch about you. Where were you wounded, and when?' He told him : and in recapitu- lating the circumstances, went on to say, * I assure you, that when I reflect on the desperate condition in which I was, I regard my being now alive as nothing less than a miracle. I remember, as I lay on the field, faint, giddy, gasping for breath, and convinced I was face to face with the last enemy, raising my eyelids, and seeing one of the noblest beings I ever beheld, approaching me with rapid strides. He had a counte- nance of such dauntless resolution, and a bearing so martial that I was apprehensive that he was going to give me my coup tie grace. His eye seemed, not figuratively, but actually to flash fire. There was a fierceness in his glance, which I fancied betokened me no good. He had no sooner, however, come near me, and observed my helpless and almost hope- less condition, than ho sheathed his drawn sword relaxed his distended nostril opened his close-set lips gave mo a look of benevolent sympathy drew from out his side-pocket 2 A 346 JOURNAL. [CHAP, a silver flask of brandy, and applied it to my parched lips. As I drank, I felt the life-blood tingling again in my veins. He took off his cloak from his broad shoulders, and wrapped it round me ; and, with the tenderness of a sister, raised me in his arms and hoisted me against a gun-carriage. He left me for a second or two, to seek a knapsack; which, when found, he placed under the nape of my neck. Then, once more applying the cordial to my mouth, he stroked my cheek, and left me with these consolatory words : " You'll do now, friend. You were only suffering from loss of blood, and want of a little timely cordial. God bless you!" It was not long before our regi- mental surgeon came to me. While he was tending my wound I had sufficient strength to tell him what had befallen me. " Ah," said he, " you would have soon sunk from loss of blood and want of stimulus, but for the timely succour of your good Samaritan." ' Sir William, who through the narrative had fidgeted rest- lessly on his chair, asked Sir John if he had ever discovered who the person was that had come to his help ? * Never,' was the answer; oy.' The letter she received from him in reply seems to lave been both candid and modest. I cannot pretend to repeat vith any degree of verbal accuracy a letter I never saw, and nly heard recited second-hand : but this in substance was ts purport : * Now, dear mother, that your fears about my safety are illaycd, and that you have been cheered by favourable intelli- gence of me, I must undeceive you as to my having any right to uch an epithet as you applied to me in your letter. ' I must confess to you, that, when first I saw the Eussian :uns open fire, and beheld the smoke wreathing itself upon the tieights, I felt disposed to run away as fast as my legs could 2 D 2 396 JOURNAL. [CHAP. carry me. I was not without thoughts of undutiful reproach against you for putting me into a profession for which I wa& physically disqualified. I felt I was a born coward ! My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth : my heart beat against my ribs like a sledge-hammer : my knees knocked together ; and I doubted whether my ancle -joints would not refuse to perform their office. I found myself unable to resist looking over my left shoulder to see how the land lay behind me ; when, suddenly, I was conscious of a strong hand between my shoulder- blades, and of a kindly voice, in good broad Scotch, saying to me, " Come, laddie forward, mon forward ! Duty, aye duty ! " At that moment, had I been twitted by him or any coxcomb of an officer, with what must have been plain to read in my ashen face and shrinking step, I should assuredly have run away. But there was something so encouraging in the tone of friendly expostulation, coupled with the brave bearing of our old serjeaut- major, that I felt renerved, and as if I had had a fresh backbone- put into me. On I went with redoubled courage for some little time, till, as I drew closer to the scene of action, and saw more of the hideous effects of shot and shell, I found myself once more looking over to the left ; when, again, with the prompti- tude of a guardian angel, the same firm hand was at my back, and the same kind words repeated in my ears. "Eh, sirs. Come, come, laddie ; ye've done vera weel. Forward, then 1 Duty's the word aye, duty. Come, then ; I'm just proud o* ye." Inspired with a fresh ambition to deserve his good opinion, and the more so because of his generosity and for- bearance, I put forth all the energy and resolution I could muster, until the man on my right and the other on my left were shot down by my side. This was too much for my coward heart. Nature asserted herself, and I deliberately turned round to fly; when both my shoulders were seized in an iron grip, and these words were hissed in my ears : " Fie, fie, laddie ! ] Think o' yer mither!" Then it was that, stung with self- reproach, and a sense of shame unutterable, and wrought up at last to resolution by the magic power of that dear name, I ; remember springing forward, rushing into the very thick of the ' melee, throwing fear to the winds, ceasing to be a craven, and, I hope, bearing myself as a soldier should.' I have lately been told of a case of horse dealing which has amused me. 1855. July 11. A person, who shall be nameless, goes to ! purchase a hor.se of an Irish dealer. XVI I.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 397 Buyer. ' Have you got a clever horse to show me ?' Seller. ' I have that, Sir.' Buyer (looking at a horse that is brought out for inspection). * Is he a good hunter ? ' Seller. Ms it a hunter, Sir? Why, then, Sir, I'll be open with ye. He's a craving oss, but he's what I call a flippant lepper (leaper). I might say, he's the most intrickate lept oss in the south of Ireland/ Buyer. ' Is lie a good hack ? ' Seller. ' Is it a hack you mane, Sir? Well, Sir, I'll be fair with ye. He could not, convaniently to himself, trot under sixteen miles the hour.' Buyer. ' And whereabouts is the figure ? ' Setter. 'Is it the figure, Sir? Then, I'll tell you, by the virtue of my oath, I should consider it my duty to go a hundred miles to call anny man out who would preshume to offer me less than 80Z. for him.' Buyer. ' Is he good at water ? ' Seller. 'Is it wather, bedad?' (looking round, and standing up in his stirrups, and surveying the country, as if he were a stranger in those parts). ' Boys, is there anny canals about ? ' 1856. May 29. This day peace was celebrated. At Miss B. Coutts' to witness the illuminations and fireworks. I went up to the roof of the house with the Rev. Mr. Barlow and Faraday. It was a splendid position, for from its elevation one could see not only over the Green Park, but St. James's Park, Hyde Park, Primrose Hill, Highgate, and Hampstead. I was exceedingly amused by the childlike enjoyment of the fireworks shown by Faraday. He seemed to know the ingredients used in all the pyrotechnic wonders, and halloaed out, with wonderful vivacity, ' There goes magnesium,' ' There's potassium,' &c., &c. CHAPTER XVH. 1859. FEBRUARY. Mr. C d called and sat with us, and told the following story. I have considerably expanded it, by drawing on my imagination in the way of description ; but the broad facts are as he told them : Shortly after the battle of Waterloo, when the Continent was thrown open to the English traveller, Mr. C d started on a two years' tour. Well-born and well-connected, he carried r>08 JOURNAL. [CHAP. with him letters of introduction to all the courts of Europe. When sated with the dissipation of Paris, and with all he cared to see in the way of art at Berlin, Dresden, and Prague, ho proceeded on his route to Vienna. On leaving his letters at the door of Count and Countess G ,* he was at once invited to take up his quarters at their house during his stay. The Austrian court at that time was inflexible in its rule of aristocratic exclusiveness. No one was admissible into its pene- tralia who could not show at least sixteen quarterings on his armorial shield. This condition Mr. B was in a position to fulfil ; so that, under the auspices of his noble entertainers, he soon found himself mixing familiarly with the creme de la creme of Viennese society. Conspicuous among the most fashionable was a certain Count Albert A , who, though he had seen some forty summers, by the beauty of his person, the grace of his manners, and the diversity of his accomplishments, eclipsed all competitors. Nature and fortune seemed to have combined to shower on him their choicest gifts ; for, in addition to his physical attributes, his descent was of the noblest, and his possessions vast : he spoke four or five languages with ease, and was regarded by tho fair sex as such a Crichton, that no party was considered well constituted unless he were present. One morning, after the most brilliant ball of tho season, as Mr. B , at breakfast with his host and hostess, was talking of it, he expressed much surprise at the absence, on tho previous night, of the indispensable Count. Countess G allowed his remark to drop without comment, and, by her manner, seemed to evade the subject. A few days after, how- ever, when she and my friend were together and alone, sho referred to what he had said, and told him that sho had not liked dwelling on the subject in the presence of her husband, inasmuch as it was distasteful to him. 'You expressed/ sho said, ' surprise at tho absence of Count Albert A from tho L ball. It is true that he was not there when we arrived, for, if you remember, wo went unusually late; but ho had been there, and had left, before our arrival, against his own will, and under mysterious circumstances. It appeared he had been dancing with more than his usual spirit, and was leaning against the wall of the room, while his partner recovered her breath, during a pause in tho waltz ; when, happening to turn his head in the direction of a group of persons standing in the * The initials used in the story are feigned. XVII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUN' insieme alia fsua ; Consorte e Compagnia. II Maestro di Camera di S. S., J. 13 ,V1I.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 413 1803. February 19. The day after we received this notice lie Pope was taken ill; and our presentation in consequence vas postponed. Had his Holiness been well on the day first lamed, we were to have had what we should never have asked or, viz., a private audience. To day, however, by the advice of ds medical attendants, and to our infinite relief, there were everal English and Americans with us. The different grada- ions of respect entertained for the person and ofiice of the loly Father might be easily measured by the deportment of liose admitted to his presence. Some knelt humbly before dm ; some prostrated themselves enthusiastically at his feet, :issing his slipper ; others were barely respectful in their grudging obeisance. One can understand a Protestant Anglican magining his consistency to be compromised by the semblance f homage rendered to the sovereign Pontiff of the Roman )hurch ; but, in such case, it is hardly becoming that, for the nere gratification of a vulgar curiosity, he should wound the eelings of conscientious Romanists by his want of deference to he great head of their Church on earth. There is, assuredly, everything in the Pope's person and nanners to inspire an unprejudiced mind with respect. When- ver I have seen him take part in the services of the sanctuary, have been struck as much with his deep devotion, as touched >y the inflections of his melodious voice. The expression of his ountenance is mild, benevolent, and grave. On his entering in ;he chamber in which we awaited him, two monsignores pre- oded him backwards, and then knelt before him, a signal which nost of us obeyed. Ho was habited in a white silk cassock, vithout either rochet or mantle, and spoke to every one in urn, pausing to enquire after our families, and ordinary place of esidence, &c., &c., and then, in French, addressing us, thus, ollectively : * It gives me pleasure to see you, and to give you ill, without exception, a father's blessing. I know that some of /ou are Catholics, still more of you Protestants. But, whether atholics or Protestants, whether you recognize me or not as our spiritual father, I welcome you as my dear children : for ill the baptized are in the number of my children, though iot, alas! of my household, Truant children, I open the ates of my house even to you. Gladly would I open my inns to you as well. I assure you I cease not to offer up laily prayers, that light may be granted you to see the error >f your ways, and induce you to return to the true fold. If you lo so, you will find it to be your truest happiness. On the 414 JOURNAL. [CiiAp. Catholics here present I pronounce my benediction with joy. On the Protestants here present, I pronounce my benediction in hope.' The dear old man seems to be in a precarious state of health. Like Julius CaBsar, 'he hath the falling sickness,' he has an open erysipelatous wound in his leg, and is otherwise in very delicate health. He is said to live a holy and blameless life, though he has passed through a very eventful one. As II Conde Mattai Ferretti, he was originally a soldier, and in the Guarde Nobile ; but was compelled to quit the army in conse- quence of his epileptic tendencies. Pope Pius the Sixth, who was aware of his infirmity, urged his entering holy orders : but for a long time he hesitated doing so, thinking his malady would still more disqualify him from the active duties of the sacred than of the military profession ; until his adviser met his objections by counselling him ' to pray to God to release him from these visitations, nothing doubting ;' and, unless I am to discredit the assurance of an excellent resident Koman Catholic of high reputation, * he has never had a fit since.' I confess I have heard this disputed, but my informant adheres stoutly to his assertion. I am told that, with few exceptions, the Roman noblesse and the mob are as much in favour of the maintenance of the Pope's temporal power as the priests themselves can be ; but that the shopkeepers, the innkeepers, the lawyers, the doctors, bankers, waiters, vaf^ets-de-place, and even the underlings of the Vatican, who eat the Holy Father's bread, are opposed not only to the temporal, but even to the spiritual power. 1863. February 21. I spent the morning with Gibson, in his studio, hearing him descant most learnedly on art, especially on that of Greece. He is a veritable enthusiast, and a most love- able man, but he has recondite theories of his own which I can- not comprehend ; for instance, the following, which he sent me in the evening, by way of making more intelligible to me what I was evidently puzzled with in our morning's chat. ' Democritus wrote a book entitled Tritogenia, to prove that all human things consist of three. ' Of Plato after his death. 'The magi at Athens sacrificed to him, as conceiving him more than man, who fulfilled the most perfect number nine multiplied into itself. ' The triangle is three in one, one in three. It contains the proportions of man, who was made after God's own image. XVI I.I JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 415 This was not discovered by the Magi at Athens, but by a wor- shipper of the Greeks at Rome. * Yours sincerely, dear Young, 'JOHN GIBSON. < To the Rev. Julian Young/ 1863. May 12. A farmer in the North Riding of Yorkshire, who had been for years at open variance with his brother, was persuaded by his minister, in consequence of the dangerous : state of his health, to send for him and be reconciled to him. After they had met, and exchanged greetings, if not cordial, at least amicable, the clergyman, fearing too much agitation in the patient, suggested to the visitor once more to shake hands and go. He did so ; but as he was departing, the invalid cried out to him, ' I say, Bill, we've made it up, you know, because they think as I be going to die ; but if I should not die after all, then, remember, we're to be as we war afore.' 1863. July 3. This morning at breakfast I was told the following touching story by B . A certain diplomatist, of whose name and rank in the service I am equally ignorant, was jiisuiy years ago, despatched by our government on an embassy extraordinary to one of the continental courts, where his hand- some person and the urbanity of his manners made him so general a favourite that on his departure the sovereign to whom he was accredited presented him with a snuff-box of unusual value, as a murk of his esteem. It had on its lid a miniature of the king, and was set in brilliants of great beauty. When he had retired from public life, if he happened to give a dinner to any of his friends, he was very fond of producing it at dessert, as it afforded him an opportunity of descanting on the king's appreciation of his services. On one of these occasions, after the ladies had with- drawn, the inevitable snuff-box was brought forth, and handed by the butler to the master, who, after, taking a pinch himself, passed it on to his next neighbour. The same civility was observed till it had gone the circuit of the table. The last person through whose hands it went was an old general, grey in his country's service ; but who, from the failure of certain investments, was known to be in embarrassed circumstances. The beauty of the box as a work of art having been generally admired, the merits of the royal donor having been duly expa- tiated on, and the tact of the recipient tacitly implied, coffee was handed round, and the conversation became general. In due course of time all rose to join the ladies : and in doing so, the 416 JOURNAL. [CiiAi-. owner of the snuff-box looked round the table for it, that h< might put it Back into its usual receptacle. Not seeing it, and thinking it possible that some one present in a fit of absence might have put it into his pocket, he asked them all to be kind enough to feel in their coats and trowsers for it. Every one denied knowing anything about it, though one or two declared that the old general was the last person in whose hands they remembered to have seen it. He, on the other hand, vowed with warmth that he had so often before examined it, that he had merely bestowed a cursory glance upon it, and put it down again in the centre of the table. The strictest search was at once instituted. Every possible and impossible place was dived into with no satisfactory result. " Come, come," said the owii^r of the missing box ; * a joke is a joke, but this is a joke whicli is anything but an amusing one. I will not be trifled with any longer. You allow that a few minutes ago the missing article was here ; none of you have left the room, and as it could not have made itself wings and fled away, in this room it must be. I suspect no one ; and that I may have no future cause to do so painful as it is to me to insist on such a step I must ask you to let me search you all without distinction.' Two or three gentlemen laughed good-humouredly at the idea, and submitted to the operation ; others, not wishing to create a disturbance, yet nettled at the notion of undergoing such an ordeal, made for the door, intending to steal out quietly ; but they were anticipated by their entertainer, who put his back against it, and refused them egress till they had been searched. At that instant the general came forward, but- toned up his coat over his chest, and said with a loud voice to the host, ' Sir, do you mean to insult us, because we have drunk your wine ? I don't know what these gentlemen may think of your conduct; but if they are content tamely to submit to such indignity, I am not. If any one dare to oppose my exit from this room, I shall call him to account.' He then pushed haughtily and defiantly past those near the door, and left the room and the house. The fact of his being the only man who had actively resented the investigation ; of his leaving the house without showing his face to the ladies ; and of his being known to be in needy circumstances, seemed to warrant the worst suspicions. Seriously annoyed as the gentleman was at losing an article on which he set much store, he nevertheless intreated for his own sake and for that of the general's pro- fession, that they would keep the affair a profound secret. XVII.] JULIAN CIIAULES YOUNf these lines ' For rabbits hot, for rabbits cold, For rabbits young, for rabbits old, For rabbits teuder, for rabbits tough, We thank the Lord we've had enough.' A very amusing person whom I used to know, but have not seen lor years, rendered them into Latin, thus ITEM LATINE REDDITOI. ' Pro conibus calidis, conibus frigidis, Pro conibus mollibus, conibus rigidis, Pro conibus senibus, At'iue juvenibus, 'IIL] JULIAN CHARLES 441 140 JOURNAL. [CHAP. Old Lady. ' Na ! Na ! Fie, ye nasty creetur.' Lord M. { Then ye've always taken exercise very regularly.' Old Lady. ' Ou ! I gang to the kirk on Sabbath, and whiles to the market, but I'm no fond o' walking.' Lord M. ' I presume you are rigidly temperate even abste- mious.' Old Lady. * Na ! Na ! I tak my toddy at dinner, and a wee drappie at bed-time.' The noble Lord, finding all his preconceived theories set at naught, rose and said : ' Madam, had you done all I've given you credit for, you'd have been immortal.' NOTE. 1870. December. There is now alive in Brighton a man in his 105th year. I forget his name ; but all the print- shops have his photograph in their windows. 1867. July 26. At Miss Courts', at Holly Lodge, to vritness the entertainment given by her to the Belgians. A noble thought, and nobly executed ! 1867. September 9. At Sir Laurence Palk's, at Haldon, on the coming of age of his eldest son. The house crammed * from garret to basement ' with guests. I was told to-day that a German of great name, who shall be nameless, when first he came to this country did not speak our language very well, though afterwards he spoke it like a native. He described a slight accident which happened to him in these words, * I mount upon de horse ; he gallop avay ver well. We arrive at, what you call ? oh 1 a fence. De horse go up, and den, and den, I do not remain.' 1868. January 5. Every one knows the old story of the curate who had his Sunday dinner invariably with his rector, and who, never having had anything but rabbits served up in different ways, was asked to say grace, and delivered himself of these lines ' For rabbits hot, for rabbits cold, For rabbits young, for rabbits old, For rabbits teuder, for rabbits tough, We thank the Lord we've had enough.' A very amusing person whom I used to know, but have not seen lor years, rendered them into Latin, thus ITEM LATINE REDDITUM. ' Pro conibus calidis, conibus frigidis, Pro conibus mollibus, conibus rigidis, Pro conibus senibus, At'jue juvenibus, XVIIL] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 441 1868. May 19. The following story was told me by one who had it from the lips of a noble lord, once representing our sovereign at the capital of a great country. Subsequently I had the honour of making his lordship's acquaintance at the Dowager Countess Brownlow's, and I asked him if it were true. He assured me he had told it as it was told to him by the brother of the person who is the hero of the tale. In the year 1783, the town of Messina, in Sicily, was visited by reiterated shocks of earthquake. The splendid crescent of houses which faced the Marina was reduced to ruins, the narrow streets were choked up with the delris of the fallen buildings. Strange to say, though the prcbendal residences adjacent to the cathedral were levelled with the dust, the great building itself remained intact, a fact not unnaturally attri- buted by the people to the direct interposition of Providence. A certain Chevalier St. Priest, residing at Venice, an eminent archraologist, had long contemplated visiting Messina for the purpose of verifying certain inscriptions, and making drawings of certain monuments in the cathedral, with which to illustrate a work on which he was engaged. Alarmed by the frequency of these visitations, he determined, without further delay, to put his long-cherished project into execution. On arriving at Messina, his first object was to select suitable quarters for himself; his next, to see the custo- dian of the sanctuary, tell him the purport of his visit, and by propitiating him with a liberal gratuity, obtain permission to examine closely, and copy carefully, the various objects of his curiosity. One day, weeks after his arrival, ho became so keenly en- grossed with his work, and so well satisfied with his success, as to. forget the flight of time, until reminded of it by the lengthen- ing shadows of the waning day upon his paper. The moment that ho was made aware of the lateness of the hour, he closed iiis portfolio, and made his way to the western gate. To his lismay he found it locked. He then essayed to get out by the door either of the north or south transept, but with no better success. At last, with considerable difficulty, ho clambered up o the only window within his reach, and shouted and halloed oudly, in the hope of attracting the notice of passers-by ; but, >wing to the dilapidated condition of the houses in the vicinity, he lateness of the hour, and the seclusion of the locality, he ailed in vain. Perceiving that there was no alternative but submission to his fate, he * screwed his courage to the sticking 2 G 442 JOURNAL. [CHAP. place,' and made up his mind to pass the night within the consecrated walls as best he might. The slight and slender chairs with which the nave was furnished did not promise much comfort to his weary frame, nor did he anticipate more from a bed extemporized upon a marble tomb. Before long, however, his eye .fell on a wooden confessional in one of the side aisles, in the central compartment of which, with the added help of a couple of cane-bottomed chairs, he nattered himself he might succeed in winning sleep. As the gloaming gradually deepened into darkness, the aspect of the interior of the edifice became strangely weird and ghastly. However, in an hour or two the sombre clouds dispersed, and unveiled the queen of night in all her glory. Save where she shed her pale rays on shafted oriel or emblazoned scutcheon, the nave and aisles were plunged in profoundest shadow. The chancel itself was but partially illumined by the dim religious light reflected from the lamp which burned perpetually before the reserved Sacrament. The hour, the place, the loneliness, the melancholy moaning of the wind, did not tend to diminish the awe which, in spite of his better judgment, would steal over his fevered senses as he closed his eyelids and tried to compose himself to sleep. After troubled and unrefreshing slumber, and when his powers of sufferance had been severely tested, he was startled from his spasmodic doze by the clang of the great clock striking the hour in the Campanile. With that acute sensibility to sound, which is so often the attendant of restlessness, he not only heard but felt the tongue of the bell vibrating through the vaulted roof till it had sounded its warning note eleven times. In- stinctively he opened his eyes, and as he did so, to his horror, saw the figure of a monk in cowl, and beads, and dusky garb- issue from the wall of the apse behind the altar, and, with tread unheard, slowly descend the steps of the dais, glide, ' now in glimmer now in gloom,' to the extremity of the west end, and then return, uttering in piteous accents this plaintive appeal to empty air ' God ! God ! is there no kind Christian here who will offer up one mass for my poor soul ?' On regaining the chancel steps, the figure remounted them, and vanished within the same spot in the wall from which it had emerged. St. Priest, although constitutionally brave, was a person of acute sensibility and of lively imagination ; so that, after what he had seen, his breath became thick and his head began to XVIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 443 swim as he calculated the probabilities of the phantom's re- appearance at the witching hour of midnight. He vowed within himself that, ' if it should walk again he'd speak to it, were it a spirit of health or goblin damned ! ' For a whole hour he lay, reckoning the minutes by his own pulse, till the iron tongue of time should strike the hour of twelve. When the las.t stroke lied away, the same mysterious scene was re-enacted, with one slight variation. The apparition, instead of wending its way down the nave, swept like a gust of wind by the side aisle, where the Chevalier was sitting, brushed his knees with its robe of serge, so as to chill his marrow by the contact, cause the skin of his scalp to rise, and his flesh to creep with loathing. Con- quering his quivering nerves by a vigorous effort of the will,. he jumped from off his seat, peered into the cowl, and staggered back appalled there was nothing in it but a skull! Again, the same words as before assailed his ear * O God ! God ! is there no kind Christian here who will say one mass for my poor soul ? ' St. Priest, a Knight of Malta, and also a priest, snouted forth loudly, * That will I ; ' and, springing up the steps of the altar, celebrated mass for him. While so engaged the muffled figure disappeared ; and from behind the wall a hollow voice was heard to say, ' kind Christian, every night for upwards of one hundred years I have paced these aisles, uttering the same sad supplication ; but never before heard voice of human sympathy in response. I know of but one way by which I can requite you for the service you have rendered me. Mark well, then, what I say. Three days before your final doom I will appear to you again, and warn you of the foe's approach. May you not die as I did unprepared, and unanointed I ' As the voice died away in its own echo, our hero, exhausted by over-excitement, want of rest and food, swooned away upon the marble floor. * Where ho fell, there ho lay,' till he was dis- covered in the morning by the verger, who, after procuring help, carried him safely to his lodgings. Days elapsed ere he rallied thoroughly from the shock his nervous system had sustained. No sooner was he pronounced convalescent, than ho sent for the two or three friends he had in the place, and recounted to them his singular experience. His statement was received, if not with scorn, at least with incre- dulity ; and all that he asserted he had seen and heard was ascribed to the combined effects of inanition, and a brain unduly taxed. Two or three years after the occurrences detailed had been 2 Q 2 446 JOURNAL. [CHAP. me, declaring that there was not a shop in London which could afford to sell them at his price. It was in vain I tried to repel him. He continued persistently to walk abreast of me till, at last, provoked beyond measure by his effrontery, I stopped and threatened, if he did not go, to give him into custody to the first Bow Street officer we should meet. In the civilest tone conceivable, he apologized to me, remarking, that it never entered his imagination that there could be any offence in offering a gentleman the very best gloves in the Paris market for Is. Qd. a pair, when he knew that I must be paying 3s. per pair for an inferior article. * Nonsense/ I exclaimed ; ' I am not to be imposed upon. Gloves are articles which I happen to know something about. I know real kid from false. I know dog-skin from rat-skin. I know both from genuine chamois- skin. Moreover, I know French sewing from English, and English from Limerick ; and I know it to be impossible that you can sell me a genuine pair of French kid gloves, such as I get from Houbigant Chardin, at the price you name, unless they are smuggled.' Turning slowly round, and looking warily about him, so as to assure himself that there was no one within ear-shot, he put up his finger to his nose, and, looking signi- ficantly at me, said, That's it, Sir. You've hit it. That is just what they are.' In those days, before the introduction of free trade, the standard of public morality, at all events with regard to smug- gling, was infinitely lower than it is now. Legislators and ladies of fashion did not merely wink at the clandestine intro- j duction of contraband articles, such as lace, cambric, and kid ] gloves, by purchasing them of smugglers, but quite as often by smuggling themselves. As I was then in the habit of going I out to balls pretty often, and of never paying less than 3s. a pair for my gloves, the opportunity of laying in a stock at half-price was a temptation not to bo resisted. I therefore turned to the j man and asked him where I should find his shop. * Why, Sir,' I he replied, ' you don't suppose, do you, that I could afford to jj sell my articles at the price 1 tell you of, if I had to pay rent \ and taxes for a shop ? No, Sir ; I keeps 'em in an 'umble J lodging hard by. P'raps you would not grudge just following ] me there a moment.' Perceiving that I had caught at his bait, and was no longer . obstinate in refusing to look at his gloves, he preceded me'| without hesitation, never once turning his head to see if his dupe * were following or not. The fact was, he knew he had hooked ' his fish, and therefore he determined ' to play him,' and give - XVIII.] JULIAN CIIAKLKS YOUNG. 447 him line, till time and place were suitable for landing him. Ho strode across Oxford Street, hurried down South Molton Street, and presently turned sharply to the right into a dirty, disreputable thoroughfare close to Davies' Street, and contiguous to the fashionable district of Grosvenor Street and Berkeley Square. It was swarming with revolting-looking Irish women, some with blackened eyes, others with half-clad babies hanging at their scarcely-covered breasts, and huge overgrown coal- heavers, with pipes in their mouths and blasphemy on their lips. As I threaded my way, after my leader, through this tumultuous throng, I became conscious of sundry qualms creeping over me as to the prudence and possible issue of my misplaced confidence in a stranger. Before, however, I could mature any definite plan of action, my guide had shouldered his way through a glass swing-door, protected in the upper half by stout brass lattice-work, and beckoned me to follow. Without looking to the right or to the left, he made his way straight on to the extremity of the passage, which had, on one side, a tap-room full of blustering tipplers, on the other, a low-roofed chamber .vdod with such dissolute and depraved-looking specimens of humanity, that I felt, in the event of danger, I could not count on them for sympathy or protection. My blue-coated friend held open the door at the end of the passage for me. I passed through it, and observed that from the very threshold there descended abruptly a flight of deep steps into a yard paved entirely with large flag-stones. There was something in the appearance of this yard which puzzled me, and filled me with vague and undefiuable appre- hensions. It was strikingly out of harmony with the front premises through which I had come. There, everything was noisy and dirty : here, there was perfect stillness and remark- able cleanliness. In the centre of the yard there stood a wooden building about fourteen feet square, freshly painted lead colour, with \vindow-frames without glass in them, but instead stiff immoveable wooden blinds (such as I have seen used for meat- safes) that admitted some air through the apertures, but hardly any light. They were constructed after the following pattern : 448 JOURNAL. [CiiAP. The roof was well slated and in perfect condition. The door had a common latch, such as one sees on garden doors; but below the latch a strong lock. My man took a key from his trowser pocket, and with it turning back the bolt, released it from the staple. He then applied his thumb and forefinger to the latch, and the door flew open. The moment it did so, I saw that five deep steps led down into an interior, forbidding, chiefly, from its gloom and its absence of any article whatever, except a well-scrubbed butcher's block, supported on four stout, stumpy legs, about six inches from the ground. As soon as the door had been opened, I was respectfully solicited 'just to step down ' and wait a minute while my decoy duck went to his bedroom for his wares. I did step down, and, as I stood, in no very enviable frame of mind (for I was con- vinced I was trepanned), I scrutinized the place, and, on stooping down and peering underneath the block, I perceived that it con- cealed a large circular stone, with a heavy iron ring attafched to it by the centre. The sight of this made me spring up again to the top of the steps with the agility of a harlequin. I had hardly done so, when the scoundrel returned, carrying in his arms a large pedlar's pack, the outer covering of which was oil-cloth, the inner an old Indian muslin wrapper. He took it down the steps, deposited it on the block, and once more invited me to descend, so that I might be able, he was pleased to say, to finger the things for myself and the better judge of their quality. I resolutely refused, and, in a tone of considerable anger, said, * I came, like a fool, to see your gloves. I want to see nothing else : and 1 can see them as well, and better, up here in the light, than in that nasty dingy hole you want to get me into. If you don't produce your gloves at once, I shall be off.' With ral shrugs of his shoulders, and a deprecatory look at me, he, at last, opened his package, which contained gaudy Bandana silk handkerchiefs, cigars, cases of eau-de-Cologne, woollen fabrics wrought about with divers colours, &c., &c. As he pro- duced each article in succession, and vaunted forth its merits with the volubility of an auctioneer, I kept crying out to him impetuously, ' 1 don't want it ! Where are the gloves you told me of? ' * Don't be impatient, Sir ; you shall see them, all in good time, when I come to them. Now, Sir, would not you like to present your young lady with a dozen of these beautiful cambric handkerchiefs?' 'No! no! I tell you ! where are the gloves?' Every instant I felt my alarm increase ; and certainly it was not diminished when a tall man came down from the XVIII.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. house, entered the yard, and approached me with a sinister smile. There was something so significant and mischievous in his looks, that I at once dubbed him a confederate of my first acquaintance. He urged me to go down 'and look at some very pretty things.' Seeing me resolved, he insinuated his right knee in the back of my left thigh, and, with an affectation of jocular persuasion, tried to jerk me down the steps. My picions having been thoroughly aroused beforehand, I was on my guard. I slipped nimbly aside, and, knowing that I had him at a disadvantage, as he was standing on the very verge of the top s I struck out at him straight from the shoulder, right and left, and heard him fall with a fearful thud to the very bottom. I did not stop to see how it sped with him; for the instant I had delivered my blows, I darted up the steps which led into the front pass, rushed by the hackney-coachmen and the ruffians I saw congre- gated round the tap ; and, with the velocity of a hunted stag, ran for dear life into Davies' Street, followed by the blue- coated rascal who had first lured me to his den. Fancying in my flight that I could feel the hot breath of my pursuer close behind me, I was so blinded with terror, that I ran head foremost against one of the great posts which, in those days, were placed at thr corners of all our streets (for what purpose, except for vagabonds to jump over, I never could divine). As the 8tr<>< t \vn< full of people, and as my agitation and fall attracted notic got off without further molestation. Those who asked me v. had happened, as they were themselves not particularly prepos- sessing, I did not condescend to toll; but before going away from the neighbourhood, I could not help looking back, and, as I did so, I saw, some hundred yards off, my enemy hnMing up his fist and gnashing his teeth at me, with impotent malignity. Fearing that he might possibly get some of his accomplices to dodge and follow me, I jumped into a hackney-coach and di to Bow Street, determined to consult my old friend, the c 1- - brated Townsend, and learn from him whether anything could be done. On the road I saw an old friend, Ralph Lcwin Benson, the second son of the then M.P. for Stafford, and induced him to accompany mo to the office. On seeing Sir Richard Birnie, and telling him of my adventure, he rang a bell, summoned one of his chief agents, and made me repeat my tale to him. When he had heard it, he spoke to me frankly in these words : * Young Sir ! you've had a narrow escape. You've been in ugly company. I know your friends, both the short stocky chap and the long chap, equally well ; and they're 450 JOURNAL. [CHAP. a bad lot. I know the house too ; it is a receiving-house for thieves ; I often visit it, but I never can nab them. Several times people have been missing, who have never after turned up, yet whom we have tracked to that house ; but we've never been able to bring anything, what you may call, home to them. I wonder, Sir, if you happened to notice a large iron ring under the butcher's block. That ring I have had in my hand. I pulled at it, and up came a stone lid which covered a deep well. We've the best of reasons for knowing that persons who have been lost have been plundered in that house ; and when they've resisted, have been murdered, flung down that well, and allowed to lie there till they have been cut up in pieces, and gradually disposed of, sometimes in the water, sometimes in the fire.' I asked him what he thought would have been my fate if I had not escaped their clutches. * Can't say exactly, Sir. Had you been bragging in any company and before servants, of having money about you ? ' No ; but I unintentionally dis- played a well-filled purse in the sight of the man who first spoke to me in Vere Street.' ' Ah, then,' he replied, ' as you were seen to have tin about you, probably the tall 'un would have locked you into that slaughter-house, for that is what it used to be, until the short 'un had rifled you. If you had given up your money without giving them any trouble, they'd have sworn you to secresy, on condition of charging you with some atrocious offence if you 'peached. If, on the other hand, you had made a fight for it, they'd have knocked you on the head, and popped you into the well.' It is a curious fact that, when I had advanced halfway through this account, Lord Lytton entered, and, having shaken hands all round, said to me, ' Pray go on ; you were in the middle of a story when I interrupted you.' I then resumed the thread of my narrative, which had broken off at the moment when I was describing the man as displaying his wares, and pressing them on my attention. Lord Lytton, who had not heard the opening of my story, when he saw me imitating the scoundrel's manner and voice, exclaimed, ' Why, Young, that is my man ! ' * What ! my Lord, did you ever have anything happen to you of the same kind ? ' ' Certainly,' said his Lord- ship. ' The same thing occurred to me ; and your impersonation of the man who imposed on me convinces me that it must have been the same person. Yet, on reflection, it could not have been, for my adventure occurred full forty years ago/ Lord Lytton was not aware that, before he had entered the XIX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 451 room, I had told the company that my own experience dated back two-and-forty years. Lord Lytton told us, that, rather than proceed to extremities with the scoundrel, he surrendered all he had on his person at the time, some 15. 1869. March 31. I have been this day told a circumstance, the truth of which I am disposed to believe, because of the channel through which it came to me. There are few people in mid-life who can forget the sensation created throughout this country by the unexpected announcement, in the House of Lords, during the Crimean War, made by one of our ministers, of the death * of the Emperor Nicholas. Unless I am deceived, the population of St. Petersburg were as little prepared as ourselves for any such intelligence, as there had been no pre- monitory indications whatever of his health failing. I am assured that, after he had received the news of the battle of Inkermann, he sent for his doctor, and told him to compound for him a slow poison, assigning at the same time his reasons for wishing it in these memorable words : * I see I have been guilty of a great mistake in having entered on this disastrous war. I am conscious of it ; but I am too proud to own it, except in confidence to you and my family. I am also too proud to sue for peace ; and yet I am aware peace is essential for the welfare of my country.' He then summoned his family around him, and told them of his resolution. They implored him on their knees not to put his threat into execution. The doctor who, before their entrance, had administered the poison, assured him that, if he would but permit him, it was not too late to avert the consequences of the drug by an antidote which he had ready at his hand. But the Emperor charged him on his allegiance, and as he valued his own head, to obey him. He did ; and the result is matter of history. CHAPTER XIX. 1860. May 13. Speaking of the Darwinian theory, a friend tells me that Alexandre Dumas (a man of colour) being asked by a noble puppy, in a tone of offence, ' Qui etait votro pore ?' answered, ' Mon pere etait un crcole ; son perc etait un negro ; son * March 2, 1855, was, I think, the day on which the Emperor died. When he learned what had befallen his army he became fearfully dejected ; he looked on Sevastopol as lost, and gave up all thought of the Chersonese as a field on which he could exercise his energies. 452 JOURNAL. [CHAP: pere etait un singe. Et, apparement, ma famille commencait ou la votre a fini.' 1869. May 15. My wife and I have been staying a week with Lord Lytton, where we met a most interesting party, and among them Mathew Arnold and Charles Lever. Kneb- worth is a place we had long felt a wish to see, and which, having seen, greatly surpasses our expectations. It is replete with classic interest, and will hereafter be associated with the name of our great novelist, poet, dramatist, orator, and states- man. It is the proper setting for such a jewel. There is a considerable number of pictures, but, with one glorious excep- tion, a portrait of Spinola, by Velasquez, none of very conspicu- ous merit as works of art ; and yet there is hardly one which has not a special interest of its own, from the historical or romantic incidents connected with it. The house abounds in specimens of vertu, old tapestry, Venetian glass, Italian furniture, &c., &c. There is a noble library, a long, handsome gallery, a large drawing-room, and a private study on the ground floor ; a pro- portionate number of bedrooms, and three reception-roomSj en suite, on the first floor. The exterior of the house, which is only one-third of its original size, is, I should say, of the Tudor period ; it is highly picturesque, being ornamented with griffins and gurgoyles and chimneys of lovely pattern, and a very fine tower, &c., &c. The gardens are beautiful ; the park is a deer park with one or two very fine avenues of trees and a charming lake, on the borders of which, and standing under the shelter of grand old umbrageous Scotch firs, is a fishing-cottage, in one of the rooms of which many of those works have been composed which have given such pleasure to so many, and will give pleasure to thousands yet unborn. The grandest feature of the house is the hall, which is quite baronial. Round the cornice runs, in old English characters, the following inscription : * Read the Rede of this old Roof-Tree : Here be Trust fast opinion Free, Knightly right-hand, Christian Knee, Worth in all, Wit in some, Laughter open, Slander dumb ; Hearth, where rooted friendships grow Safe as Altar, e'en to Foe, And the sparks that upward go, When the hearth flame dies below ; If thy sap in these may be, Fear no Winter, old Roof-Tree.' The banners which hang around on each side the hall arc- thus inscribed : XIX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOt T N parents as to children ; for the parents, though ripe in years, are but children in knowledge, and need milk rather than strong meat, quite as much as their little ones. Jeremy Taylor says there is no better mode of exorcising the evil principle out of children or unbelievers than by judicious catechizing. Preaching, as a great means to a great end, is as much God's ordinance as prayer ; but the passion in this country for ser- mons is extravagant and morbid. I am far from undervaluing sermons : but one can rarely predicate how far they profit those who listen to them ; for the head may be uplifted towards the pulpit, and the eye riveted on the priest, and yet the mind be asleep. To impart information is one thing, to elicit it is another ; and one can never be sure that the instruction given has been received, except by the answers elicited from the ^ catechumen by the catechist. As to Rule IV. The sermon to children ought to be short, terse, practical, colloquial, and hortatory ; illustrated by anec- dote and allegory. The sermons on three Sunday mornings a month should be suited to all orders and degrees of men. And one good one, thought over in the chamber and inwardly digested, is spiritual pabulum enough for those who have taken part in the morning and evening services, and can read as much of their Bible, or any other religious book, as they like by their own fireside. 2 H 2 460 JOURNAL. [CHAP. By Rule V. children would be more likely to enjoy Sunday than they can do under the present system pf restriction. 1869. November 7. Baron A being asked by the chaplain of the High Sheriff at the assizes over which he was about to preside, how long he would like him to preach, replied, ' About half an hour, with a leaning to mercy.' The late Bishop of Exeter and Baron A were sitting next each other at a public dinner. After the usual toasts 'The Church,' 'The Queen,' 'Royal Family,' and 'Army' had been drunk, the health of 'The Navy' was proposed. Lord Campbell, expecting to have to return thanks for ' The Bar,' and not having heard the toast distinctly, and supposing the time for giving it had arrived, got up. On which the late Bishop of Exeter whispered to Baron A , ' What is Campbell about ? What is he returning thanks for the Navy for ? ' ' Oh,' answered the witty judge, ' he has made a mistake. He thinks the word is spelt with a K.' 1870. November 14. Spent a delightful week at Bedgebury Park with Mr. Beresford and Lady Mildred Hope. The house, with the average number of handsome reception-rooms, has more bedroom accommodation than any country seat I am acquainted with. My own room, a large one, was No 64., and I found that, one with another, there are as many as one hundred. Though the house in its basement-floor covered the same space of ground in the late Lord Beresford's time as now, yet the present owner has, with the help of Mr. Carpenter's skill, contrived to add two entire stories without disfiguring it. The park, from one extremity to the other, must be between three and four miles. It is large and diversified, and with its undulating ground, enlivened as it is by various breeds of cattle (among them some twelve or thirteen beautiful Dutch sheet cows), its two thousand acres of pine and other forest trees, some of them almost feathering down to the verge of a vast lake, indented with artificially-constructed bays and promon- tories, and teeming with many kinds of water-fowl, some floating gracefully on its surface, others fussily fluttering about on their way to an island of rhododendra, form as smiling a scene as can be imagined. The house was full of company. The following story was told me by my host, who had it from the late Field Marshal Lord Beresford, who had received it from his father, the first Lord Waterford. The last-named nobleman was one day conversing on some matter of business in his courtyard with the landlord of a small XIX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUN by well-selected fugitive pieces, furnish his people with an attractive bill of fare. And the giving different orders and degrees of men any common object of interest is calculated to 470 JOURNAL. [CHAP. cement good feeling between the families of the clergy, the farmers, and their labourers a very desirable thing. On the other hand, let not the clergyman who has to depend on his own unaided resources be discouraged ; for if he can really read well, and especially if he have a talent for impersonation, a tale a continuous tale in which the interest is suspended, is that which gives the most pleasure, rivets attention most, and best ensures regularity of attendance. It has been my own habit, invariably, to read some one tale through; and I cannot say how often I have been stopped in my village by such remarks as these : ' How beautiful it was last night, Sir ! ' ' What a man that 'ere Jew is ! ' (alluding to the Jew in Never Too Late to Mend.) ' I do hope that George and Susan Merton will come together and marry after all ! ' ' May I make so bold as to ask what happens to Eobinson ? ' Or again (while I was reading Uncle Tom's Cabin), ' Oh dear ! what a hartful crittur that Topsy is ! I never ! ' I declare, advisedly, that among the educated classes I have never seen greater aptitude for the realization of character than I have seen among my own people. They have talked to me of the events in a story as if they had actually happened ; and of the principal personages in it, as if they had been existing people. Now, I maintain that the mere fact of a clergyman and his flock sharing a pleasure together, is good for both. It begets sympathy; and there is nothing the poor value like sympathy. It brings the black coat and the smock-frock toge- ther. Eleemosynary relief, given in a cold, perfunctory manner, is not to them what a kind word, spoken in season, is. It is easy for us ministers of the Gospel to profess from our pulpits the profoundest anxiety about the eternal welfare of those com- mitted to our spiritual oversight ; but unless we show as lively an interest in their temporal welfare, they won't believe us. Too generally, like their betters, they think nothing of their souls' health; but they think, like their betters too, a good deal about their bodily aches and pains. The clergyman may give them money, and send them soup or wine, but unless he go to their hearths he will not get at their hearts ; and unless he listen, with kindly consideration, even to their twaddling account of their domestic cares and personal distresses, he will not win their love. For the first three or four years, until my vocal chords gave way, disabling me from active duty, and obliging me to pass my winters in a warmer climate, our school-room, sixty feet long, XX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 471 was crowded every night I read, not only with our own parish- ioners, but with many from neighbouring villages. Rain, snow, the darkness of Erebus, never prevented our people from atten- dance. So much appreciated were our readings, that many attended the scriptural expositions on the alternate nights, who owned to me they never should have gone to them but for the pleasure they had derived, in the first instance, from our secular lectures; while many others, such as shepherds, and carters, and carriers, detained later than others by the nature of their occupations, and fearing they should not arrive in time for admission to the school-room (it being the rule to lock it within five minutes after my entrance), would desire their wives to put aside their supper till after the lectures were over. I have known instances of men walking four miles on dark nights ; I have known one highly-cultivated lady several times walk three miles, alone, in any weather, across sequestered fields; I have known brother clergy drive five or six miles, all of them for the mere pleasure of witnessing the lively in- terest inspired among the hearers by these readings. I think it is self-evident that, if from 250 to 300 people were in the habit of frequenting our school-room from seven till nine p.m., drunkenness must sensibly have diminished; for they could not be present at the school-house and at the public-house at the same time. And so it has been. Of course I am not beloved by the publicans ; but that mortification I try to bear with Christian fortitude. If I had no other instance to give of the good effects of Evening Readings than the one I am about to cite, I should rejoice in having been instrumental in introducing them into Ilmington. In the course of my pastoral visits, shortly after entering on my course, I had to call on a poor woman. The instant I entered her house she opened upon me thus : * Oh, Sir ! I be glad to see you, for I have been wanting to tell you how took up wi' your lees (lectures) my husband is. I don't think you knows him yet ; for, you see, he works a mile and a half from the village, at Black well Bushes ; and what wi' his lameness, and one thing or t'other, he never gets home till your dinner hour. He's a excellent good husband, though he were once r-a-ther given to drink ; but, since he've heard your lees, he seems a altered man, and never takes nothing but tea, and that he makes me put on the hob till after lees is finished. He never used to get home till after seven, but, somehow, he manages 472 JOURNAL. now to get to the school-room doors afore they're closed. I do believe he'd rather miss his tea than the lee. He wants to see you mainly. He never used to go to church. He goes now.' At the close of my next lecture I beckoned to him, and told him I was glad to see him so regular at the readings, but that I should be still better pleased to see him as regular at church. ' Ah, Sir,' said he, ' I should dearly like to talk wi' you some day.' ' Well,' I replied, ' come to me next Saturday.' He did so : and, as he entered my study, he knelt down on one knee, put up his two hands, and exclaimed, 'May God bless Mr. Young and his lees.' He then rose, and with much earnestness opened his heart to me. ' Sir, I've been a bad man ! I've never ]iked Sundays. I've never liked church ; and I never could abear sermons. They allus (always) made me mollancholy. Well ! I heerd talk as you were going to give lees. I thought I'd go and hear one. I liked the first onaccountable well ! I liked the next better ! So I thought I'd go and hear you preach. Well, it was all very plain, and I understood you ; and you looked us in the face, and talked to us strong. I liked you very well, but I liked the lees better. I had not been at more than three of your lees, when I went home, and to bed, and dreamed as I was in prison aye, and cruel used there, too tied to the wall, slushed wi' water, put on the crank, then on the treadmill. I was thinking, I suppose, about the book. I'd wake up wi' the sweat streaming down my cheeks : and I felt, "Ah ! my lad, you are every bit as bad as Eobinson ; only with this differ he were found out and you weren't." I started up, and. I seemed to see the words o' that 'ere tract as the chaplain o' the jail gave to Robinson, " The Wages of Sin are death," written in letters of fire. I did not want no sarmun better than them. I could not get quit on 'em. Do you mind Parson Eden calling to Eobinson through the cell door, " Brother ? " Well, I ain't no scolard, but that 'ere book as you are reading has been a second Bible to me. It has made me think what I deserve. I shall try to do as Mr. Eden would have wished me. What a parson he were! No blowing up, but so tender and kind. Now, Sir, I hope you'll be kind, and help me to be good.' (A pause tears and then, with much fervour) * I tell ye I want to be good ! ' From that day I have never known him miss his church^ morning or evening. For some time he was shy of going to the Lord's Table ; but, when I had removed his misgivings, he went. After a while, he came to me, and said, ' My missus is a good wife. She never gave me a misword ; but she'll not go XX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 473 to the Table for anything as I can say to her. Will you talk to her ? I don't like going without her. We've allus been so pleasant together that I should not be happy to think when wo part at last that we should part for ever. So, do ye talk to her/ I did ; and after some time she accompanied her husband to the Holy Communion ; and for twelve years they have been unre- mitting in their attendance, and consistent in their lives. If Mr. Charles Keade knew this, it ought to make him happy to reflect that it has been, under God, to the influence wrought indirectly by his book on the conscience of a fellow-creature, that two have been reformed, and that they are now, by their exemplary conduct, illustrating the truth he has enforced so powerfully, that ' it is never too late to mend.' The success of our village readings soon got wind ; and I was, consequently, solicited from various parts of the kingdom from Plymouth in the west to Manchester in the north to inaugurate Penny Readings, or to give them in places where they were already established. As I had no ambition to get the reputation of an itinerant lecturer, and at the time had plenty to occupy me in my proper sphere, I invariably sent refusals to all applicants, except to those in the adjoining county, and in the county in which I lived. I never read for money, though at Manchester I was offered payment on a scale of liberality that astonished me. Indeed, I never read anywhere unless I was assured, beforehand, of the sanction and countenance of the most influential gentry and clergy in the place. It was at the desire of the clergy, mayor, and principal inhabitants of Strat- ford-on-Avon, that I read there. It was at the desire of the clergy and principal inhabitants, that I read at Campden, at Alcester, and at Redditch. At Nuneaton I read at the desire of Mr. Newdegate ; at Alvechurch, at the desire of the Archdeacon of Coventry; at Stoneleigh, at the desire of Lord Leigh; at Stourbridge, at the desire of Lord Lyttelton ; at Warwick, at the desire of the clergy, twice ; once, under the presidency of Mr. Wise, the Member ; another, under that of the late Lord Charles Percy. For these readings I received from High, Low, and Broad Church clergy a measure of approval they did not merit ; and never heard a whisper in their condemnation. When, therefore, I went to winter at Torquay for my health, and was requested by certain of its clergy to read one of Shak- speare's plays, in behalf of the languishing funds of the In- firmary, I felt small scruple in acceding to their request ; first, because I had already read Shakspeare with acceptance before 2 I 474 JOURNAL.' [CHAP dignitaries of the church, fastidious clergy, and nobles, and gentry, known for their attachment to the caiise of true religion and virtue ; secondly, because the gentlemen who invited me to read were men of unimpeachable consistency, who, I was sure, would be unlikely to countenance any step calculated to compro- mise themselves or a brother clergyman in public estimation ; thirdly, because the entertainment to be given was not for a selfish or questionable, but for a purely charitable, object. It was, therefore,' with infinite surprise that I learned, after the reading had been given, that by my compliance with the request made me, I had incurred the displeasure of the bishop ; and that he had, in consequence, inhibited me from officiating in his diocese. This conveyed a grave reflection on my pro- fessional character, and gave me infinite pain. I was, however, rewarded for not writing a word in my own defence by the generous and voluntary advocacy of many champions, both in Devonshire and Warwickshire, who either interceded in my behalf with the bishop, as did Lord John Manners, Lord and Lady Willoughby d'Eresby, and the Bishop of Jamaica, or who came forward with the most generous protests, as did Sir Lawrence Palk and others. The hearty address to my bishop, issued by five-and-twenty clergy in my own county, headed by the Eural Dean, and the four addresses I received from the gentry, visitors, inhabitants, and workpeople of Torquay, I can never cease to feel grateful for ; while the affectionate one from my own parish I value as the richest possession I have. I think I could hardly avoid alluding to this little personal matter, first, because it grew out of my previous public readings ; secondly, because, from the publicity the events excited at the time, my silence on the subject, after a lapse of nine years, might be construed into a tacit admission of malfaisance. In dismissing the matter, may I be pardoned for stating that, long before the good Bishop of Exeter's own death, I had the grati- fication of receiving at his hands his formal apostolic bene- diction, and his hearty withdrawal of the inhibition imposed upon me. But to return to my parish. Having told of its condition as it was in 1857, in justice to it I would fain mention wha't it is in 1870. The congregations, instead of being very scanty, are in winter large, and in summer crowded, at both morning and evening services. The attendance at our school is large; and though our master XX.] JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG. 475 is uncertificated, our ' results,' as shown by Sir Robert Hamil- ton's tabulated statement (published in the Parliamentary Blue Book), surpass those of several of the certificated masters in our rural deanery. Whereas there used to be so great a scarcity of water, that infirm old women and young women, with burdens of their own to bear, had to walk at least a quarter of a mile, with yokes on their shoulders and buckets in their hands, to get it, there are now eight fountains so disposed as to bring the first necessary of life to every poor man's door. Although we have a considerable Roman Catholic population at the place, there has never been the slightest dissension between them and our Anglican Protestants; and though the priest* and I, of course, held different opinions, they were never allowed to interfere with our affectionate intercourse. In spite of 'my having been compelled by ill health to leave my charge for the last six years during the winter months in. the care of a curate, there has been no falling off in church attendance, and no apparent diminution in good- will towards myself. L'ENVOYE. PATIENT READER, When abroad has it ever chanced to you, as you have stood beneath some old church porch, to bid fare- well to those with whom you have long travelled in company ? Arc you conscious, under such circumstances, before entering within the temple, of having held back the massive curtain screening the inner sanctities of the place, and cast back one wistful look of regret at their figures, as they have gradually grown less and less in the perspective under waning light and deepening shadow ? * The Rev. Auguste Lampfried was one of the most amiable, humble, self-denying, generous Christians I have ever known. He was indeed a Christian in whom was no guile. The points of faith upon which we were at issue we never touched upon. If he could help a brother in distress, without respect of creed, he would do it. He never attempted to prosely- tize ; and once, when I was seriously ill, he and his congregation joined in united prayer for me by name. I valued their prayers, and they were mercifully answered. It would be ungrateful, while writing of the priest, if I did not also mention our squire, Mr. Philip Howard, of Corby Castle, who, though non-resident, is keenly alive to his duties as a landlord, and has always been forward to help me staunch Roman Catholic as he is in every good work which was calculated to contribute to the material prosperity of the village. 476 JOURNAL. [CHAP. XX. So I, standing on the threshold of old age^and desiring to learn graver lessons from its twilight calm and to ponder on the closing solemnities of life before the night cometh. yet cannot help looking back with strong human sympathy to the busy past, thronged as it is with familiar memories, rich as it is with the records of the good and great who have gone before, bright as it is with the wit and humour of genial spirits who once grasped my hand in friendship or honoured me with their countenance. The light is failing, fast with me. Memory gives back dimmer pictures than of old. Imagination waxes cooler. The laughter- loving nature flags. And therefore, before the heavy curtain drops between my mind's eye and the long road I have been allowed to tread, I have endeavoured to recall some few scenes of the merry days when I was young, and to sketch, with falter- ing though loving touch, some outlines of the men who made those days so memorable. THE END. LONDON: PBINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, AND CHARING CROSS. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 7Aug57GC RECTO LD SEP 41057 3 UW LD 21-100m-6,'56 (B9311slO)476 Univt. YB 74858