im^] 
 

 ([Jorncll HmuErBity library 
 
 3tliara, Krui gork 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
^^miiSimSiiKi!,?,!;"'' au'obiographic mem 
 
 3 1924 013 524 933 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013524933 
 
BAR, STAGE, & PLATFORM 
 
Photo Elliott and Fry 
 
 
BAR, STAGE 
 
 PLATFORM 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHIC MEMORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 HERMAN CHARLES MERIVALE 
 
 author of 
 "the white pilgrim," " ravenswood," " faucit of 
 
 BALLIOL," " BINKO'S BLUES," " THE DON " (wiTH 
 MRS. MERIVALe), etc. 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT 
 
 LONDON 
 CHATTO & WINDUS 
 1902 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. Palmerston and Others — with Introduc- 
 tory Remarks . . . . . 
 II. About some Famous Folks in many Lines 
 
 III. Of Thackeray and Others 
 
 IV. My Father in his Habit as He Lived 
 V. My Uncles 
 
 VI. My Pedigree ..... 
 VII. Literary and Theatrical Beginnings 
 VIII. About the Acting of Charles Kean and 
 Fechter . ■ . 
 IX. About my Boyhood and Little Dotheboys 
 X. Dr. Vaughan and Harrow-on-the-Hill 
 XI. Harroviana with Digressions . 
 XII. At Harrow 
 
 XIII. On Men of Balliol and other Things, 
 
 with Sidelights upon Jowett 
 
 XIV. So ? 
 
 XV. Dissolving Views .... 
 
 XVI. Matthew Arnold and the Norfolk Cir 
 
 cuit ... 
 
 XVII. Wandering Memories 
 
 15 
 36 
 
 63 
 
 80 
 
 TOO 
 III 
 
 129 
 
 «53 
 168 
 182 
 196 
 
 215 
 
 254 
 
 278 
 297 
 
BAR, STAGE, &> PLATFORM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PALMERSTON AND OTHERS 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTORY MATTERS 
 
 " In the first place, Mr. Merivale, where are 
 the Colonies?" How different it all seems 
 now, with Australia "advancing" and Canada 
 so near to us, and Imperial Institutes teach- 
 ing the Anglo-Saxon legend. For it was 
 the stout old British Premier, Lord Palmer- 
 ston — most British of all the ministers of my 
 time — who introduced himself to my father 
 in those words in his room at the Colonial 
 Office, where the last held the post of Per- 
 manent Secretary for many years from 1 847 
 onwards. Lord John Russell was the Secre- 
 tary for the Colonies under Palmerston, when 
 he undertook a special mission to the Ionian 
 
 A 
 
i BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Islands, and the Premier — committing him- 
 self in those days to no special post of his 
 own, but overlooking things generally under 
 the comfortable style of Chancellor of the 
 Duchy of Lancaster — figured in Lord John's 
 post himself for the time. And so it was 
 that the airy and famous Minister introduced 
 himself one morning. "Well, you hear that 
 I've come to look after the Colonies myself 
 now Russell's gone. In the first place, Mr. 
 Merivale, where are the Colonies ? Glad to 
 see that you've plenty of maps about." Maps 
 and to spare there certainly were, ornament- 
 ing in huge rollers the official walls, and 
 serving in place of pictures when drawn 
 down. Many an hour have I spent there 
 in my boy-days looking on them with awe, 
 but not with profit, being one of the many 
 who never could, and never can, get any 
 ideas of geography except by visiting the 
 places for myself The fact that Malaga, till 
 I went to that incomparable capital of health 
 and climate to stay, lies as far south as the 
 southernmost point of Sicily, never assimi- 
 lated itself to my mind. It seemed, rather, 
 on a kind of vague level with the Riviera, at 
 
PALMERSTON AND OTHERS 3 
 
 the other side of the blue-roofed Midland 
 sea. I knew it from the map of course, but 
 maps pass from my mental vision like so 
 many dissolving views. So they did with 
 Palmerston, he said, and I remember feeling 
 that to be a great consolation, and giving up 
 the geographic struggle from that moment. 
 " I manage the British Empire, as you 
 know," he went on; "but I never could 
 understand my latitudes and longitudes, or 
 make out where the British Empire isn't." 
 "Pam's" cheery manner and quick aptitude 
 proved a great delight to my father, who 
 always said that the main difficulty of a Per- 
 manent Secretary lay in the changes of 
 Government, and in always losing his chief 
 just when he had mastered his business. 
 Only too often the ministers appeared to be 
 chosen on the Gilbertian principle made so 
 renowned by Pinafore, of the square peg in 
 the round hole, being told off to War, or the 
 Colonies, or India as the case might be, as 
 the men who knew least of their subject. 
 The choice appeared to be dictated either by 
 the principle that their minds should be with- 
 out prejudice at starting, or with a generous 
 
4 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 view of improving their education. But be 
 that as it may, my father always said that 
 half his time seemed to be spent in teaching 
 his various chiefs their elements. It gave 
 him, however, a great opportunity of insight 
 into character, and interested him from that 
 standpoint very much. It was of Lord Grey, 
 as one of his chiefs, that he said that his 
 mind was like an elephant's trunk, which 
 could pull up a tree or pick up a pin. After 
 some years my father left the Colonial Office 
 to take up the same post for India at the 
 special request of the Indian Minister of the 
 time, the Duke of Argyll. And I well re- 
 member his telling me that, while half the 
 most noted ministers of his day passed 
 through his quiet hands, as one of the un- 
 acknowledged but working rulers of the 
 unending show, no one of them ever so 
 impressed him with his astonishing power of 
 grappling at once with subjects new to him, 
 and mastering in a moment all the details 
 and proportions of the work, as Lord Salis- 
 bury, who was afterwards so fitly to develop 
 into the most powerful of all the Prime 
 Ministers of the latter part of the century. 
 
PALMERSTON AND OTHERS s 
 
 None of them since Pitt, I suppose, has held 
 the position so securely for so long, in spite 
 of the great democratic wave that has so 
 merged the ancient landmarks ; mainly, per- 
 haps, because of it. Lord Salisbury was but 
 a very short time at the India Office, as it 
 was near the occasion of his separation from 
 Disraeli over the latter's Reform Bill, and 
 my father never regretted any of his changes 
 so much. 
 
 As Lord Robert Cecil, Lord Salisbury was 
 a frequent guest at my father's house, and on 
 terms of much personal friendship begun 
 through his brilliant wife. It was as Lord 
 Salisbury's guest at Hatfield that my father's 
 long illness first struck him down. The 
 daughter of Baron Alderson, the well-known 
 and humorous judge of his day, Lady Salis- 
 bury was one of the most attractive women, 
 from sheer talent and variety, whom I can 
 easily recall. My father had been at the 
 Bar like everybody else, and went the 
 Western Circuit with the Cockburns and 
 Ediles and others of the day, for that circuit 
 was almost as famous as a nurse of judges, 
 as " autocratic Balliol " of Oxford heads and 
 
6 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 scholars. In my turn I was to fall under the 
 same spell and join the same circuit, though 
 my irresistible and wandering propensities 
 prevented my doing my obvious duty to the 
 woolsack, or ever sticking absolutely to any- 
 thing. But it is He that hath made us, and 
 not we ourselves, I take it — and if I have 
 been by turns something, I fear, of every- 
 thing except a man of business — well, I 
 cannot help it. My unlucky ignorance in 
 the latter capacity was to prove a very 
 Aaron's serpent on the threshold of old age, 
 and swallow up the whole in one sudden 
 ruin at a moment's notice, through the 
 default of a trusted friend and solicitor, and 
 left me at sixty years to begin nothing in 
 particular, upon nothing at all. It has left 
 me to reflect rather sadly that I never studied 
 the Mammonic art of "beggar my neigh- 
 bour," and haven't the vaguest notion how to 
 cheat. But after all, if everybody did that, 
 there would be nobody to be cheated, and 
 the fear would cease. Yet even in the 
 matter of business, perhaps, I wrong myself. 
 I was an egg-merchant once, and as I 
 couldn't do anything else to help the concern 
 
PALMERSTON AND OTHERS 7 
 
 on in person, I wrote its advertisements in 
 verse. Here is one, which strikes me now 
 as quite entirely beautiful, and worthy of all 
 that Pears or Colman can record : 
 
 Oh ! know'st thou the land where the mighty St. Gothard 
 
 Is tunnelled and hollowed and corkscrewed away ? 
 
 The glacier quaked and the avalanche tottered, 
 
 When the railway trains came underneath them to play. 
 
 Once singers and painters fair Italy lent us. 
 
 Where now she provides us with coal and with beer ; 
 
 But nothing so charming has Italy sent us 
 
 As, ma St. Gothard, the eggs of Lemiere. 
 
 Hurrah for the march and the triumphs of Science, 
 Yoking Nature herself to the wheels of her car ; 
 Now distance and time are both set at defiance. 
 And eggs for the million come smiling from far. 
 Italian and German and Frenchman and Paddy 
 All haste with their freshest and wholesomest here. 
 And the lad to his lass, and the lass to her laddie 
 Can bring for a present the eggs of Lemiere. 
 
 The hens cackle songs of delight when they lay them, 
 
 The customers dance when they come to the door ; 
 
 So modest the bills, it's a pleasure to pay them. 
 
 For who could digest other eggs any more ? 
 
 Would you poach, would you boil, would you curry or 
 
 roast 'em ? 
 In equally beautiful shapes they appear ; 
 So sound and so sweet and so perfect we boast 'em. 
 You ipjght live all your life on the eggs of Lemiere, 
 
8 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 I always understood that this poem had a 
 great effect on customers at the time. My 
 connection with the firm didn't last very 
 long, perhaps, for I fear that as I looked 
 upon the ledger-side of eggs I did little but 
 addle them. But I never walk through 
 Clerkenwell without reflecting that I have 
 done my whole duty as an Englishman, and 
 that I was once in trade. I wish I had never 
 left those eggs, for they are paying still, and 
 when the census paper came round and my 
 name was writ therein not as barrister, or 
 author, or dramatist, or anything of that 
 unworthy kind, but simply as egg-merchant, 
 the pride that comes before a fall for once 
 was mine. I was for once a respectable 
 Englishman in trade. 
 
 In such a parlous strait as mine, auto- 
 biography seems a safe resource in the hands 
 of a trustful publisher. And I am not the 
 Methuselah I may seem, for I began remem- 
 bering before I could write and read. I can 
 remember now seeing the Duke of Welling- 
 ton's funeral from those windows of my 
 father's at the Colonial Office, while at what 
 age I assisted at the Battle of Waterloo (at 
 
PALMERSTON AND OTHERS 9 
 
 Astley's) in all the primitive " staging " of 
 that day, with the French army drawn up 
 on one side in blue, and the English army 
 on the other in red, a cannon in front of 
 every third combatant, discharged point 
 blank into the persons of the other side. 
 Napoleon himself in effigy in the presence 
 of the famous Mr. Gomersal, and (as I think) 
 a comic vivandiere performing prodigies of 
 valour with the spent balls between the two 
 armies — I cannot rightly remember. At 
 something of the same date I must have 
 made my first acquaintance with the legiti- 
 mate drama at the successor of Foote's 
 "little theatre in the Haymarket," and 
 cowered in anguish before Macready's 
 thunder in King Lear. He was a great 
 tragedian I know, and discovered Helen 
 Faucit, for which much may be forgiven 
 him. But he did make a great noise from a 
 small boy's point of hearing, and I heard 
 him do it again afterwards as Hamlet, and 
 reverse the situation by frightening the 
 ghost. When, many years afterwards, my 
 dear old Harrow friend and headmaster. 
 Dr. Vaughan, sent a small page of his from 
 
10 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Doncaster to York to hear a famous preacher 
 at the boy's particular request, he returned 
 in the evening with a broad grin of delight 
 upon his face. " Well, my boy, did you hear 
 him well ? " asked the doctor. " Oh no, sir, 
 I didn't hear him, but I see'd him a-holler- 
 ing." Alas, that I should say it, but some- 
 thing of that memory returns on me still, 
 when I think of the first of the many trage- 
 dians I have seen, and of what men called 
 his school for some time afterwards. This 
 is to digress indeed, but as my good old 
 patron, correspondent, and publisher of 
 happier days, George Bentley, used to say 
 of me, digress I must. Digression is part of 
 me whatever it may be worth. What readers 
 I may find will accept mine as a roving 
 commission, and remember that by my 
 own confession I never stick to anything, 
 in subject apparently as in other things. 
 My pen must have its way, and follow its 
 sweet will. 
 
 Lord Palmerston, again ! How he comes 
 back to me, and how I like to think that he 
 spoke to me, like the small boy whom the 
 Duke of Wellington d — d. I can remember 
 
PALMERSTON AND OTHERS ii 
 
 him so well, in his vigorous old age, riding 
 hard down the hot road in July to figure at 
 the "speech-day" of his good old Harrow, 
 and riding back again as soon as the serious 
 function of the day was over — riding as men 
 of business do ride, elbows out, toes in. 
 Always the jovial Palmerston — the typical 
 Briton of no large brain, but all the qualities 
 of popularity ; who in the temporary absence 
 of the " big figures " won an almost abso- 
 lute sway, out of his perfect sympathy with 
 the average British mind. The " Palmer- 
 stonian Liberal " was not only a fact, but a 
 lasting one. He hit the golden British mean 
 exactly. And he has absolutely revived in 
 the " Imperialist Liberal Unionist," that 
 perplexing politician of the many names. 
 
 Well, I have seen him often in my younger 
 days. I have presumed to argue with Glad- 
 stone about music, and even induced him to 
 say that he " would take time to consider my 
 proposition." I have been petted by Joanna 
 Baillie, I have shuddered at Macready, I have 
 listened to Macaulay, I have defended the 
 Briton's character in America, just after the 
 Civil War, alone against the wrath of Lowell 
 
12 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 and of Sumner, I have loved and cherished 
 the personal talk of Wendell Holmes — so like 
 his exquisite writing over Boston's choicest 
 whafifles — I have watched Garibaldi playing 
 bowls at Nice, I have listened in the same 
 town to Clara Novello singing songs for me 
 all by myself, in her little button of a house 
 as she called it ; I have listened to the philo- 
 sophy of De Tocqueville, the Republicanism 
 of Louis Blanc, the omniscience of Buckle, 
 and the metaphysical theories of Manning, 
 by hours at my father's table ; I have edited 
 and largely written that sound and wholesome 
 work, the Annual Register, for ten mis-spent 
 but patient years, I have indited prose and 
 verse for Punch, and the Spectator, and the 
 Saturday, and the World, and Truth, all at 
 the same time. I have harangued a Church 
 Congress, and an Art Society, and an Educa- 
 tional Institute, and political crowds un- 
 numbered. I have acted many a time with 
 Kate and Ellen Terry, and been the last of 
 Helen Faucit's Touchstones when she bade 
 the stage farewell. I have led cotillons night 
 after night in the marble halls of fashion, in 
 my day ; and loved my battles in the grand 
 
PALMERSTON AND OTHERS 13 
 
 old tennis-courts of Paris, Brighton, Hamp- 
 ton Court, perhaps more in my heart than 
 any other of my shifting scenes. I have been 
 treated by Thackeray as a son, and Dickens 
 as a friend and contributor. I have written 
 tragedy for Irving, comedy for Toole, melo- 
 drama for Clayton, and burlesque for Hollings- 
 head, after being taught the whole art of 
 play-writing in an hour of vivid talk by the 
 generous kindness of Dion Boucicault. I 
 have walked long walks of talk with Vaughan 
 at Harrow, and with Jowett at Oxford. I 
 have sate at the feet and at the table of Hutton 
 of the Spectator, wisest and kindest both of 
 all men I have known, and worked for him 
 for nearly twenty years. I have been offered 
 an Irish seat gratis by Parnell himself. I 
 have been invited to fight Bristol against 
 Beach, and Brighton against Marriott, as a 
 full-fledged 1880 lunatic. I have contended 
 on the Western Circuit in Coleridge and 
 Karslake days, and have been joint-counsel 
 for Government in the Court of Privy Coun- 
 cil, amongst other cases in the famous story 
 of Dyce Sombre. I have been a Boundary 
 Commissioner in Wales, a Caucus in Sussex, 
 
14 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 a Chief Justice's Marshal, with Matthew 
 Arnold for my colleague, a Private Secretary 
 in Spain, and an egg-merchant in Clerken- 
 well. I have adored my married home, and 
 loved my library. I have lived amongst the 
 Italian galleries, and stored my soul with art 
 in Dresden and Madrid as well ; so that any 
 one who cares to go any further with me, on 
 the strength of so rolling-stone an index, will 
 expect to read the story of one who has done 
 much by turns, and nothing long enough, 
 who has rejoiced in dear close friends, if few, 
 and had no small share of enemies where he 
 should find them least, one, finally, in whom 
 the bump of ambition has been so discredit- 
 ably absent that I doubt if he has ever cared 
 for anything so much as just to live his full 
 and varied life in his own unchastened way. 
 And that he did till the law said him nay ; 
 while except for a few pages culled from the 
 Family Memorials about his pedigree, of 
 which he remembered nothing and cared less, 
 from first to last he has consulted throughout 
 his book no single note-book for a word, 
 except the pigeon-holes and store-houses of 
 a rather remorseless memory. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK IN MANY LINES 
 
 Lord Taunton, once Mr. Labouchere, was 
 another of the Colonial Ministersand friends 
 of the Palmerstonian era whose names recall 
 my first memories of the political world. 
 The inevitable law of contrast often brings 
 the solemn and rather starched figure to my 
 mind, as one of my own earliest hosts at his 
 place near Stoke Poges — so connected with 
 that luckiest of poets. Gray, who was be- 
 queathed to immortality on the strength of a 
 single elegy. " Sir, he was a barren rascal," 
 was all that Dr. Johnson could be induced to 
 say of him. Uncle and precursor of our own 
 more famous Labby, Lord Taunton is fabled 
 to have lived in a general state of alarm at 
 the strange proclivities of that unchastened 
 heir, who has provided the world with more 
 amusing stories, and more sayings of a curious 
 
1 6 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 humour, than any pubHc man of his time. It 
 is fabled that when Lord Taunton heard that 
 his nephew contemplated public life, and pro- 
 posed to stand, I think, for one of the county 
 divisions in the district, he was much pleased 
 at such a sign of grace, and asked if he could 
 himself do anything for him. " Really, I 
 think not, uncle," was the answer. " But I 
 don't know. If you would put on your peer's 
 robes, and walk arm-in-arm with me down 
 the high streets of Windsor, perhaps it might 
 have a good effect." My father, who partook 
 by nature and training of the older methods, 
 but had a considerable sense of silent fun to 
 help him, was rather alarmed when the course 
 of events brought the younger Labouchere, 
 lately a diplomat and reputed to be the terror 
 of the Foreign Office — as the hero of various 
 anecdotes which, with a proper dread of 
 "chesnuts," I shall avoid repeating here — to 
 dine at his table. To me he was a stranger, 
 but as the two juniors of the party we stood 
 out as the two odd men, with no ladies to 
 take down. As my father was apt to be 
 oblivious of his social duties, and my mother, 
 an invalid, unable to leave her carrying-chair, 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 17 
 
 it was my duty, on those good old mahogany 
 days of sitting over the wine and dessert, to 
 pair off the guests together. As we followed 
 in their wake, my companion quietly ad- 
 dressed me with, " Have you got that to 
 do?" I laughed, and said yes. " I wouldn't, 
 if I were you. You'll find it a great bore." 
 " But I can't help it." " Oh, yes you can ; I 
 did. When I went to Madrid as junior 
 attache, I found it was my duty at the big 
 dinners, and saw at once that that wouldn't 
 do. So I stopped it at the first one. They're 
 very particular about precedence and that 
 sort of thing in Spain, much more than we 
 are here. So I sent all the wrong people 
 down with all the wrong people. And there 
 was such a devil of a row." 
 
 My mind that evening was full of much 
 anxious expectation. For some few months 
 before Alfred Wigan, most polished of come- 
 dians of the day and the first great apostle 
 of "reserved force," as it came to be called 
 (which in itself was to be accounted a bless- 
 ing in days when too much of the more 
 prominent acting was like the lion's part in 
 Pyramus andTkisbe, nothing but roaring), had 
 
1 8 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 opened the Queen's Theatre in Long Acre, 
 now converted into stores, with a little farce 
 of mine by way of curtain-raiser, which 
 brought me many golden guineas in ten 
 weeks — more than my first three years at the 
 bar were able to effect together. Thus early 
 had I embarked on the drama's perilous sea, 
 but only under a stage-name, my nom d Stage, 
 as a worthy actor of my acquaintance once 
 called his "alias." If a barrister then wrote 
 openly for the stage, ye gods ! So Merry 
 Vale was loosely translated into " Mr. Felix 
 Dale," and faced the footlights for the first 
 time, I think, somewhere about the year of 
 grace 1865. But it was over my farce at 
 the Queen's that I first quailed under the 
 terrors of criticism, when a stern critic 
 pierced my disguise, and lamented that a 
 crude effort of reprehensible frivolity should 
 have been perpetrated under a thin veil, 
 which concealed the name of an " honoured 
 official who had grown grey in the public 
 service." My worthy father was suspected 
 of having taken to evil courses at his ad- 
 vanced age, and written " He's a Lunatic " 
 in secret. I must say that my worthy father 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 19 
 
 enjoyed the joke very much, and so after- 
 wards did the cruel perpetrator, who was to 
 figure in later days as a warm friend and 
 liberal manager of mine, John HoUingshead. 
 After that farcical prelude, Alfred Wigan 
 tempted me into melodrama, and I first tried 
 my stage wings seriously, still under my 
 guilty alias, in partnership with my old friend 
 and master of the arts of stage-construction, 
 Palgrave Simpson. We did the plot, he did 
 the construction, and I did the writing, the 
 share in all my stage-work which, whether 
 alone or in collaboration of plot and story, 
 I have always kept jealously to myself. I 
 never could quite believe in one play written 
 by two hands, though many brains may com- 
 bine to invent one. It is the writing that must 
 form the characters ; and I cannot see how 
 any one, written by two, can possibly form 
 a consistent reality. On the night of that 
 dinner at my father's, the melodrama was 
 just coming out. Wigan had a mysterious 
 partner in management, to whom he had 
 spoken of the disguised, but eminent author. 
 Two or three days afterwards, I was sent in 
 fear and trembling to the manager's room 
 
20 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 at the Queen's, to meet the mysterious 
 partner. I was introduced, and sitting at 
 the table with a cigarette in his mouth, I 
 saw — Labouchere. " Good Lord ! " he said, 
 " are you the eminent author ? " " Heavens ! " 
 quoth I, "are you the mysterious partner?" 
 Both of us had carefully concealed our 
 hidden sin at the dinner-party. What struck 
 me most was a small array of bills of the 
 new play hung all round, each printed with a 
 different title, that the mysterious partners 
 might see which looked best. It was, at all 
 events, bold expenditure. Time and the 
 Hour was the title that the authors had hit 
 upon ; and Labouchere decided that it should 
 be chosen. "It's a splendid title, I think," 
 he said. " Delighted that you say so," was my 
 flattered answer. "It really is, you know. 
 Do for any play whatever that ever was 
 written." And if you think of it, so it would. 
 At this particular stage of my own life's 
 drama, I realise it with a little pain. 
 
 Time and the Hour, as it turned out, was 
 in its way a kind of curiosity. For the cast 
 comprised, besides Wigan himself, a whole 
 bouquet of coming managers, then all more 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 21 
 
 or less at the beginning. There were 
 "Johnnie" Toole, " Lai," or Lionel Brough. 
 "Jack," or John Clayton, Charles Wynd- 
 ham, and Henrietta Hodson, afterwards to 
 be the wife of her new manager, who pre- 
 sented himself to her first behind the scenes 
 before she knew of his position in the place, 
 with the information that he wouldn't stay 
 because he must be off to the shop. On her 
 expressing some curiosity as to the nature of 
 the establishment he kept, he blandly ex- 
 plained that he meant the House of Com- 
 mons. No life has been much more double 
 than Labouchere's, whose real personality 
 none has exactly sounded. To this day his 
 peculiar views, and yet more peculiar way 
 of putting them, have made him a terror and 
 a shaking of the head to a large section of 
 the world, as doubtless to his uncle at the 
 outset. But a more delightful companion, a 
 quieter and more gentle soul, a more attrac- 
 tive host, or a kindlier mortal, might be 
 looked for throughout the ranks of the 
 accepted all in vain. Like his contemporary 
 Irving, he seems to be perpetually surveying 
 everything with a sense of puzzled wonder 
 
22 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 why he himself particularly "came off," and 
 what the whole business, as far as he is con- 
 cerned, happens to be about. Irving, by the 
 bye, when only selected by the few as likely 
 to figure in the front rank, was also in the 
 field with Time and the Hour, not as a 
 player in the piece, but as stage -manager. 
 And characteristic was my first meeting with 
 him, not over the drama, but over some little 
 farce of mine which was put into rehearsal, 
 but for some reason not produced. One 
 of the characters was a servant-maid with 
 nothing much to do. On to the stage 
 bounced a very handsome and full-blown 
 young woman gorgeously costumed, who 
 proclaimed without delay, " I will consent to 
 play this part, if the author will write me in 
 a young man." Irving and I observed her, 
 I with astonishment, he with his regardful 
 smile. " Quite so, my dear," he said, " I'm 
 afraid the author will not be able to do that 
 without disturbing the balance. You know, 
 the balance. But I'm sure that if you're 
 good and do your best, he will give you some 
 riddles to ask." The lady was to blossom 
 at the music-halls as Miss Kate Santley. 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 23 
 
 The heroine of Time and the Hour was 
 winsome Nelly Moore, the Ada of Sothern's 
 David Garrick, and most sympathetic of 
 English ingenues. Charles Wyndham con- 
 tented himself with a few rehearsals, and 
 with precocious independence of his authors 
 threw up his part ; one of his first in London, 
 I think. He had to figure as xho. Jeune pre- 
 mier, and couldn't stand it. I cannot blame 
 him, and even then I did not. When I think 
 of the sort of parts that used to be written in 
 that long-suffering line in those days, remorse 
 gnaws me as it did the American defaulter. 
 As an amateur actor, slim of figure, candid 
 of appearance, and romantic of mind, I was 
 always being cast for the horrid things myself 
 It must have been in revenge I wrote them. 
 To appear as a.Jeune premier was to be scouted 
 for a " stick." I never shall forget the suffer- 
 ing of enacting Faulkland to the capital Sir 
 Anthony of the prince of amateur actors, 
 Sam Brandram, afterwards the famous Shake- 
 spearean reader, the Bob Acres of Quinten 
 Twiss, and the David of Arthur Blunt, who 
 was to become the same universal favourite 
 on the stage as off it as Arthur Cecil. I 
 
24 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 forget the name of my " Julia," entirely. But 
 two-thirds of our two parts were very pro- 
 perly cut out, and we suffered silently together 
 in the noble cause of amateur acting. 
 
 Of a very different and more orthodox 
 type were most of the guests who gathered 
 at my father's table. Macaulay, with his rich 
 talk and rare flashes of silence, came a good 
 deal from the house of his sister, Lady 
 Trevelyan, who lived at neighbour's distance 
 three or four doors off. The first meeting 
 with him that I can remember, however, was 
 on board a Rhine boat, when he discoursed 
 so largely and learnedly about all things to 
 my listening parents that I slunk away, small 
 creature that I was, and, seated on the 
 paddle-box, embarked upon my first flight of 
 verse, in the shape of a translation of 
 
 Sie sollen ihn nicht haben 
 Den freien Deutschen Rhein, 
 
 under the straightforward guise of 
 
 Oh no, they shall not have it 
 The free and German Rhine. 
 
 At this distance of time it does not, I con- 
 fess, sound as if it had been written under 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 25 
 
 the inspiration of Macaulay and his ringing 
 Roman ballads. My parents were very in- 
 dignant with me for my want of appreciation, 
 but the great man was a little out of my 
 infant depth, I own. Yet to this day I can 
 recall the full deep talk, and the knowledge 
 which seemed to leave out nothing. It is a 
 great mistake of the present day, surely, to 
 underrate him. The ballad-poets of the 
 world are very rare, from Homer — whether 
 he was one or many, according to the 
 XniptZovTcg or their foes — down to Macaulay's 
 day. As to the great Greek father of the 
 ballad-child, there are cases where internal 
 evidence is stronger than all laboured 
 proof ;. and that Homer was a Ballad Com- 
 pany, Limited, passes my power of personal 
 belief Not Walter Scott himself made 
 greater use in his verse of the music of 
 sonorous names. 
 
 Sempronius Atratinus 
 Sate at the western gate 
 
 pairs off in my memory with 
 
 Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, 
 Lord Lyon King-at-Arms, 
 
i6 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 while the incomparable march of the address 
 of the great Twin Brethren would take a 
 great deal of more sesthetic beating: 
 
 By many names men call us, 
 
 In many lands we dwell ; 
 Well Samothracia knows us, 
 
 Cyrene knows us well. 
 
 There is something in the os rotundum yet, 
 surely, and Sound has a greatness of its own, 
 when it doesn't mean mere Fury. No English 
 patriotic verse, a difficult weapon to handle, 
 has ever surpassed the noble fragment that 
 Macaulay called "The Armada." No master 
 of English, in prose and verse as he was, 
 is ever to be despised, for they are the 
 Makers of the Language in its purer and 
 enduring forms. And the little critics are 
 never so little as when carping at the few 
 big men. The rest are fair game, no doubt. 
 But when a superfine artist in that line of 
 late years took to rating Macaulay for be- 
 guiling a rough passage between Holyhead 
 and Dublin by repeating to himself a list of 
 the Popes, or the first book of the ^neid, 
 or some other of the miscellaneous treasures 
 of his mental store-house, instead of "think- 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 47 
 
 ing out the Irish problem " as was his busi- 
 ness at the time, the disproportion of the 
 thing was a little depressing. Supposing 
 Macaulay to have been as sea-sick as even 
 the greatest of men may be, his reflections 
 on the Irish question would scarcely have 
 been profound in value. 
 
 From the real omniscience to the spurious 
 is an easy step of memory, and Macaulay 
 and Buckle, the Historian of Civilisation, 
 a lion of a season, stood at the two poles of 
 omniscience. Buckle was a very omniscient 
 lion indeed, a very lion in buckram, on a 
 night when I remember his dining at my 
 father's, and he laid down the law on any- 
 thing and everything with a magnificent 
 pomposity which made the table quake. He 
 roared after a manner of his own, equally 
 remote from the sucking dove and the 
 nightingale. I gaped merely, having all my 
 life been of the ill-informed, they say, because 
 I have written plays. My father listened, 
 as he slowly sipped his sherry after the 
 fashion of the day, with a tiny twinkle in his 
 eye familiar to those who knew him best, 
 when he had a pretender to deal with. He 
 
28 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 never answered them, but only "took stock," 
 and he had a quick way of his own of dis- 
 tinguishing the false from the true. Un- 
 luckily for Buckle he had a listener of 
 another kind in Lyulph Stanley, of School 
 Board fame, a contemporary and Balliol ally 
 of my own in those days, of whom Lowell 
 once said to me in America that he " knew 
 three times as many facts as any young man 
 whatever had any business to know." He 
 had but one rival in that line, Frank Palgrave 
 of the "Golden Treasury," and much interest 
 was aroused amongst their friends when the 
 two once departed on a tour together. It 
 was even betting which would return alive. 
 When they did return, Palgrave was pale, 
 emaciated, silent ; Stanley in incomparable 
 form, and fitter far than ever. He was a 
 queer customer for Buckle that night. He 
 listened as respectfully as he could, as long 
 as he could. Only intervals of a slight 
 shaking of the head, and of a slight redness 
 of the face, suggested the shortcomings of 
 the great master of inaccuracy. At last 
 Buckle made some statement about the latest 
 burning of a witch, and the date of the per- 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 29 
 
 formance, some hundred years or more too 
 far back, Stanley could stand it no longer, 
 but fairly got on his feet, extended his right 
 hand, and in a vigorous treble spoke : " I 
 beg your pardon, the last witch was burned 
 at such-and-such a place, in such-and-such a 
 year, under such-and-such circumstances. 
 And her name was so-and-so, and you will 
 find all about it in a book to which I can 
 easily refer you, which you evidently don't 
 know." And torrents of imprisoned know- 
 ledge were poured on Buckle's head, till the 
 historian of civilisation sate wrathful, extin- 
 guished, mute. He had his revenge later on, 
 in a form which is not to be forgotten. 
 Somebody mentioned a new dictionary, and 
 said it was a good one. " It is," said Buckle 
 with much solemnity, having had time to 
 recover from Stanley's onslaught. " It is 
 one of the few dictionaries I have read 
 through with pleasure." I have always re- 
 membered that as the most appalling utter- 
 ance of my day. The idea of a man who 
 read through dictionaries for a relaxation, 
 and enjoyed some of them, is a little difficult 
 to improve upon- 
 
JO BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 A Stanley of another kind, though of the 
 same race, was Arthur Stanley, the famous 
 Dean of Westminster, who once said that his 
 knowledge of music was confined to two tunes, 
 one which was " God Save the Queen," and 
 another which wasn't. As Jenny Lind was 
 his father's proi^£-^e and his own early friend, 
 the special ignorance had its odd attraction. 
 He was the best talker of his time, one 
 perhaps who said nothing to be especially 
 remembered or recorded, but was always 
 bright and varied, attractive, scholarly, and 
 entertaining. He took as well as gave, being 
 an admirable listener, and as my father, 
 though naturally a silent man, talked in a 
 very interesting fashion when he did talk, 
 they could make a table very pleasant between 
 them. Arthur Stanley bore a curious resem- 
 blance to Wendell Holmes, most fascinating 
 and human of American men of letters, in the 
 likeness of his talk and his writings. . The 
 writings were not great in Stanley's case, but 
 so gentle, so historical, so casually poetic. 
 And the same graceful fancies filled his talk. 
 Manning, a divine of another kind, before 
 his more famous days in the purple, was 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 31 
 
 a great deal at our house in Westbourne 
 Terrace. He had been my father's pupil at 
 Oxford; and though between the Oxford 
 tutor and pupil the distance of years is often 
 very small, the distance in reverence is rather 
 overpowering. University pupils always 
 remember their tutors as men of a patriarchal 
 age. The famous Cardinal loved to sit at 
 one of my father's feet while I reposed at the 
 other. He never came to dine, because from 
 the earliest hours of life he was possessed of 
 the most boundless " scruples " on the matter 
 of digestion. As if man was not omnivorous, 
 and obliged to eat. To many it is not enter- 
 taining, but has to be done. But Manning 
 would never dine, and as far as I know never 
 did. He came for a cup of tea afterwards. 
 He always had the greatest fascination for 
 me from his kindliness, his " ewigweiblich- 
 keit," his sweet simplicity of mind. He and 
 my father had been nearly drowned together 
 on the Lake of Geneva in the Balliol days. 
 " I never knew in all my life," it is recorded 
 in Purcell's " Life " that Manning said of his 
 friend, " a man so ready of speech, or 
 possessed of such intuitive knowledge as 
 
jz BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Herman Merivale." My father loved him, 
 but never could quite believe in his pupil's 
 depth. Manning, as many have learned 
 since, was always the merest child on all 
 questions of metaphysics, and sincerely 
 believed them to be his strong point. All 
 his strong sympathies with right,' and with 
 the dim and common populations, which 
 were to make him afterwards so great a 
 favourite and so remarkable a figure, rose 
 partly from that very metaphysical failure. 
 In the after days, I always remember how 
 one of my truest and strongest friends, the 
 greatest journalist and most all-round brain 
 of my time, Hutton of the Spectator, to whom 
 metaphysics were as the life-blood of his 
 heart, the metaphysics of religion especially, 
 never could, did, or would "see anything" in 
 Cardinal Manning but a lovable and amiable 
 weakness, and a greatness that to him was 
 rather accidental. Cricket was one of the 
 great Cardinal's early distinctions, which 
 seems somehow as inappropriate as the fact 
 that John Morley's Oxford eminence was 
 chiefly won in amateur theatricals. But 
 Manning was also a boxer ; and one of the 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 33 
 
 younger priests who was trained under him 
 has told me that, when he grew demonstrative 
 in the pulpit, he had a knack of throwing his 
 body backwards, and assuming the pugilistic 
 attitude. One thing at our house always 
 amused me, the fact that my father kept and 
 cherished two or three volumes of the 
 Anglican sermons of the strenuous convert, 
 which, with other reminders of his "days 
 before the flood," he wanted to see burnt at 
 the stake. He was always wanting to get 
 them back, in vain. " No thank you, Man- 
 ning," was the constant answer. 
 
 The first Lord Lytton, another under- 
 rated figure of the past — chiefly because he 
 was as much flayed alive by the criticisms of 
 Thackeray as Charles Kean by Douglas 
 Jerrold, as " Satan Montgomery " by 
 Macaulay, as Colley Gibber by Pope- 
 dramatist and novelist, poet, satirist, and 
 politician all in one, whose abounding fertility 
 of invention was in itself a strength — had 
 been another of my father's Colonial chiefs, 
 and was another of his guests and friends. 
 His great deafness always seemed to throw 
 him more back into his mental reserves. 
 
 c 
 
34 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 When my father wrote a book of various 
 essays upon the higher subjects of the day, 
 Lord Lytton wrote him a long letter of pure 
 criticism, favourable and unfavourable both, 
 which so deeply impressed its receiver that 
 he begged the writer to publish it, and often 
 told me how much it struck him that Lord 
 Lytton might have figured as well as a critic 
 as in every other line, had he chosen to turn 
 his mind to it. Lord Lytton had no training 
 as a dramatist. But he wrote three plays 
 which to this day hold their own better than 
 any since Shakespeare, Sheridan, and Gold- 
 smith. It is easier for the moderns to abuse 
 their language, than to imitate their humanity 
 and skill. He wrote a very wilderness of 
 novels. But so completely did he grasp the 
 difference between the two great branches of 
 fiction, that he never " dramatised " any one 
 of them, though others have done it for him 
 over and over again. After my father's 
 death, Lord Lytton's son, the ambassador 
 and viceroy, sent me a short note found 
 among his father's papers, saying that in his 
 experience he had known " two brains of pure 
 gold" — Macaulay's and my father's. But 
 
ABOUT SOME FAMOUS FOLK 35 
 
 Macaulay's, he added, was as the gold beaten 
 out into strips, my father's lilie "gold in the 
 block." A son may perhaps be forgiven for 
 reproducing that testimony to a strong but 
 much too retiring figure. My father's utter 
 absence of all worldly ambition, and strange 
 but abiding sense of the "Vanity of Vanities," 
 were in the worldly sense his bane, not for 
 himself only. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 
 
 Among the legal figures wont to meet at my 
 father's table, the Earles and Aldersons and 
 Montagu Smiths and others, I think that 
 with the exception of the first, who once took 
 me round the Norfolk circuit in the pleasant 
 sinecure of judge's marshal, I remember but 
 the strong figure of Bethel, afterwards Lord 
 Westbury, with the finical speech, like Digby 
 Grant's in the Two Roses, sharply con- 
 trasted with the vigorous and uncompromising 
 brain which made him so terrible an oppo- 
 nent. He was a kind of embodiment of pure 
 logic, which is often apt to sweep away weak 
 law like chaff before the wind, and results in 
 a contempt for precedents apt to be very 
 disturbing to the average legal mind. The 
 bitter contempt with which he liked to 
 annihilate in a single pithy sentence any 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 37 
 
 inferior being who presumed to argue in his 
 presence might have matched Carlyle's, 
 whose crushing remark to Allingham, a 
 gentle and amiable poet and man of letters, 
 and sometime editor of Eraser's Magazine, 
 always struck me as the greatest of recorded 
 triumphs in that line. During the usual after- 
 noon walk of which Allingham was one of 
 the constant companions, holding his tongue 
 most cautiously the while, Carlyle propounded 
 some theory so startling that the gentle spirit 
 rebelled, and went so far as to say, " Oh, 
 Mr. Carlyle." Carlyle only checked him with 
 a frown, and when they arrived at the steps 
 of his house, instead of asking him to the 
 usual cup of tea, looked at the poet steadily 
 and said, " Young mon, let me tell ye that ye 
 have within ye the capahcitee of becoming 
 one of the greatest boares in the kingdom." 
 And so dismissed him. 
 
 In the matter of logic, Westbury's armour 
 was more difficult to pierce than that of the 
 Chelsea sage, who ought to have been a 
 dramatist by rights, and would have been 
 magnificent, much as it would have shocked 
 him to be told so, in his contempt for such 
 
38 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 trivialities. Carlyle's word-pictures are like 
 those of great historic plays, and in many 
 respects about as correct. He would not 
 have gone as far as M. Sardou, and repre- 
 sented the moral Robespierre, who was guil- 
 lotined at thirty-three, as being shot when 
 the father of a very fine illegitimate son of 
 apparendy forty-five. But the playwright's 
 liberties would have delighted him, and given 
 him a field in which his full-blooded imagina- 
 tion would have been quite at home. To 
 write of Lord Westbury is to be afraid of 
 chestnuts — "dolls," as we used to call them 
 in our circle, because of a West Indian 
 custom of which a Drury cousin told us of 
 dressing up dolls and shaking them when 
 anybody transgressed. It was really at my 
 father's table that he made his famous remark 
 when somebody was made a judge over 
 somebody else's head. " Really, he had a 
 pimple, but I never knew it came to a head." 
 Another time, when my father and he had 
 both been listening in silence to some vocable 
 talker laying down the law, Westbury quietly 
 observed, when the gentleman was at last 
 gravelled for lack of matter, " I don't think, 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 39 
 
 Merivale, that I ever heard such reasoning 
 as that, except from a country clergyman," 
 The country clergy provided for some un- 
 known reason Westbury's favourite tilting- 
 ground. But his wit, like Douglas Jerrold's, 
 was generally rude and often brutal ; and I 
 confess to a personal preference for the 
 summer lightning to the forked, in that line, 
 of the kind one can associate with two such 
 kindly humorists as Henry Byron and Frank 
 Burnand. Playwrights, both I fear, Mr. 
 Carlyle, like so many of the most dangerous 
 and unchastened libertines of the pen. It is 
 a curious fact to be noted, none the less, that 
 the editors of Punch from the first — a literary 
 institution if ever there was one — have one 
 and all been in succession dramatists, Mark 
 Lemon, Shirley Brooks, Tom Taylor, Frank 
 Burnand. A later personal memory, and 
 very characteristic, of the famous Lord Chan- 
 cellor, comes back to my mind in this connec- 
 tion. He was sitting as one of the Privy 
 Council Judges in the famous "Dyce-Sombre" 
 case, in which I had a junior brief for the 
 Crown. In the lower courts he had once 
 been the Begum Sumroo's counsel, and in 
 
40 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 the Court of Appeal he didn't forget it, acting 
 much more Hke an advocate than a judge the 
 whole time, when the chance offered itself. 
 Of course he should not really have been 
 present in the judicial capacity ; but such 
 details never troubled him much, I fancy. In 
 the course of a nervous and youthful, but as I 
 thought forcible, argument, I pointed out that 
 at one time when the notorious lady (who 
 once distinguished herself by burying an in- 
 convenient slave alive under the chair in 
 which she was sitting, and listening to the 
 moans) was complaining of utter poverty, 
 she was in receipt of a large pension from the 
 Government. " Do you mean to advance 
 that as a serious argument ? " said Westbury. 
 " Yes, my lord " (tremblingly), " I do." 
 " Really ? Do you suppose that if I were in 
 receipt of an income derived from a Govern- 
 ment, and could double it by suppressing the 
 fact, I should for a moment hesitate to do 
 so ? " The high-comedy tone of it was 
 superb ; and the proper repartee would, I 
 suppose, have been, " No, my lord. I sup- 
 pose you wouldn't." But if it rose to my 
 dramatic lips, it didn't pass them. 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 41 
 
 Another terror of my Privy Council days 
 was another great lawyer, and another of my 
 father's guests, Sir Roundell Palmer. He 
 had declined every judicial position possible 
 by turns, the Lord Chancellorship included. 
 The lesser lights that twinkled round the 
 Privy Council table as his "judges" were all 
 afraid of him. Judge then what a nervous 
 junior must have been, who always dreaded 
 speaking anything that he felt he could write 
 very much better, except during a brief 
 interval of political lunacy which rose with 
 me out of the 1880 earthquakes. During 
 that period, spouting on platforms was my 
 delight and pride. I never could understand 
 how I should suddenly have turned into a 
 speaker. But once I had to speak for a 
 deputation in the local county court, to commis- 
 sioners seated on the bench above me. And 
 at once the old legal shivers seized me, and 
 to the astonishment of my admirers I utterly 
 broke down on some purely commonplace 
 question of business. Then I realised that 
 there is all the difference between addressing 
 an audience sitting above you, and an audience 
 sitting below. I wouldn't address a bench of 
 
42 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 judges now for the world. But place me on 
 Sunium's marble step in the shape of getting 
 into a witness-box, and being innocent I 
 am happy. The terrors of the sharpest 
 advocate do not impress me in the least, 
 unless the judge is deaf, and everything has 
 to be repeated. Then it becomes perplexing 
 and a bore. In the Privy Council we all 
 sat on a level, and the judges had no wigs 
 on. So it was less terrible, but not by any 
 means seductive. But to Sir Roundell Palmer. 
 He led against me more than once, when I 
 held a Government brief. When my leader 
 had opened his case, and Sir Roundell had 
 opened his, that leader was apt to depart 
 rather timorously and unkindly, as I thought, 
 and leave me to demolish the great man's 
 arguments in reply. Sir Roundell at once 
 went to sleep in his chair, seraphically, as if I 
 were quite beneath his notice. So I was, but 
 I never could see why my case and my clients 
 should be. However, I was only too thank- 
 ful to get through as best I might, not under 
 the influence of that steely but observant eye. 
 But I soon found out, that if I did happen to 
 advance an argument of any value, he had a 
 
OP THACKERAY AND OTHERS 43 
 
 knack of waking as quietly as he slept, look- 
 ing at the judges, shrugging his shoulders 
 with a sad effect of pity, and going to sleep 
 again. It was like Sheridan's "Lord Burleigh." 
 Then the judges would all look at me and 
 shake their heads, as who should say, " How 
 dare you contradict Sir Roundell Palmer ? " 
 Everybody knows the really great and good 
 qualities of Lord Selborne. But the best of 
 us has his weaknesses, I suppose ; and per- 
 haps his came out in his free use of the arts 
 of advocacy. At least I remember some 
 other grandee saying of him that it was "a 
 grand thing for Palmer that he's such a great 
 advocate. It's such a magnificent outlet for 
 his fallen portion of natural dishonesty." I 
 hope never to set down aught in malice, but 
 I hate to " extenuate " a good thing away. 
 And I never could arrive at any sense of 
 proper appreciation of Lord Selborne's atti- 
 tude in declining to act as Lord Chancellor 
 for a Government who were going to dis- 
 establish a church, and accepting the same 
 ofiSce under the same Government when they 
 had disestablished it. Surely, " your sin 
 remaineth." The moral of Lord Westbury's 
 
44- BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 fall, when he had to resign the Woolsack 
 because of the misdemeanours of his eldest 
 son, which parentally he had tried to shield, 
 was told in a quaint saying, rightly or wrongly, 
 attributed to the Queen. His successor, who 
 had been passed over by right of Westbury's 
 masterful power, was an eminently pious but 
 uninteresting man. "You see, my lord," 
 her Majesty was fabled to observe on giving 
 him the seals, " how much better it is to be 
 good than clever." There lurked much of 
 unacknowledged humour in that Over- 
 Sovereign, by right of character, of all the 
 Sovereigns of Earth. If there was a weak 
 spot in her armour at all, it was in her neglect 
 of Ireland. At the very last moment, and in 
 the very sight of death, was ever error of 
 the judgment, not the heart, so touchingly 
 and beautifully redeemed ? She has made 
 kinghood difficult, the Queen. As to her 
 sense of humour, when somebody asked 
 her if it was because of his politics that she 
 didn't get on with Gladstone, she answered, 
 " Not at all. It's because he will insist on 
 addressing me as if I were a public meeting." 
 To those who remember Gladstone upon 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 45 
 
 Churches and States, it is the man in a dozen 
 words. 
 
 Among the Hterary guests who rallied to 
 our various round table, the central figure in 
 my memory, as to me it must remain the 
 kindliest and greatest, is always Thackeray's. 
 I do not know, I cannot know, of any man 
 who leaves with those who had the privilege 
 that I had of intimacy as close as could be 
 possible for one of another generation, such 
 an abiding memory of an unqualified respect 
 and love. He was not what is called a 
 " brilliant talker," and he was by some reputed 
 to be bitter. He suffered enough, from losses 
 and consequent desertion, to embitter any 
 man, heaven knows ! but I never remember 
 a single sign of it. His talk as I recall it 
 was all of kindness, gentleness, and sym- 
 pathy ; and every action of his was the same. 
 It was possible to be prejudiced, no doi^bt, in 
 favour of my prose Shakespeare, the un- 
 touched god of my literary idolatry. We 
 can all discuss and think about our hundred 
 books or favourite novels : prefer " Ivanhoe " 
 or the "HeartofMidlothian" according to taste 
 — contrast " Monte Cristo " and the " Three 
 
46 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Musketeers " — weigh the merits of " Nicholas 
 Nickleby"and "Martin Chuzzlewit," or of the 
 " Mill on the Floss " and " Adam Bede," and 
 love or resent, according to the taste, " Emma" 
 and "Pride and Prejudice." And we can speak 
 in terms of reverence of " Tom Jones " and 
 " Roderick Random,'' even though we find 
 them as hard to read through as that famous 
 work, which everybody when asked about 
 the true course of study mentions first and 
 reads last, Gibbon's industrious classic. But 
 surely no one man in the world ever wrote 
 four such masterpieces as "VanityFair," "Pen- 
 dennis," " Esmond," and "The Newcomes." 
 Trollope said of the first three, at the time of 
 Thackeray's death, that all the world agreed 
 about them, as a whole, but that the general 
 public preferred " Vanity Fair," the critics 
 "Esmond," and personal friends "Pendennis." 
 Well, my own weakness is perhaps for " Pen " 
 and George Warrington, at least I turn to 
 them the oftenest ; and Pen's proposal to 
 Laura at the end is the shortest, truest, and 
 most touching that hero ever made or heroine 
 said "yes" to. And if Laura had the fail- 
 ings some attribute to her (she is an ideal 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 47 
 
 English girl to me), the fashion of her accept- 
 ance should redeem them all. But the other 
 three epics are none of them far behind. All 
 four appeal to me before any others, whatso- 
 ever. The true delight of the novel which 
 one knows by heart is that one can turn to 
 any page of it at any time, and read as much 
 or little as he needs. " Style " is the lord of 
 letters, say what you will, and there is a rest- 
 ful sense of company in Thackeray's which 
 defies analysis. In one sense, it is no style 
 at all. It suggests no effort. It gives no 
 handle to imitation. The man can be as 
 dramatic as Scott, as scholarly as Newman, 
 as humorous as Dickens, as gossipy as Mon- 
 taigne, as poetical as Ruskin, as strong as 
 himself. The thing was done, but no critic 
 upon earth can ever say how. Thackeray 
 loved to have the young about him. Once 
 when he asked me to dine with him at the 
 little old Garrick Club in Covent Garden, 
 before the mansion rose hard by, I had to 
 plead that a Balliol friend was staying with 
 me, who afterwards blossomed into an 
 Egyptian judge. At once he asked him too, 
 and carried us off afterwards to " Queen 
 
48 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Victoria's own theayter" in the New Cut, 
 where I first made acquaintance with villains 
 as they should be, though I have of late 
 discovered that they make no approach 
 whatever to villains as they really are. 
 Thackeray bent his silver head {for it was 
 not white but silver) over the dress-circle, 
 though dress was scarcely its characteristic. 
 A gentleman from above took aim at it and 
 spat thereon. Thackeray had quiet recourse 
 to his silk handkerchief without looking up. 
 " The gods are expectorating," he said ; 
 "something has gone wrong on earth." 
 Some years afterwards I reminded him of 
 that dinner, and asked if he remembered it. 
 " Of course I do," said he. " I gave you 
 beefsteak and apricot omelette." Pride was 
 not the word that we should have so im- 
 pressed him. "Yes," he went on, patting 
 my shoulder, and beaming through the well- 
 known specs., " I always give boys beef- 
 steak and apricot omelette." And I fell. 
 Thackeray himself proposed me for the 
 Garrick, and my seconder was Millais, always 
 a cheery friend to me on my own account. 
 But Thackeray died before the election, and 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 49, 
 
 Trollope, at his own request, took his place, 
 so that I may plume myself on a good trio of 
 sponsors. But it's an odd world. Just before 
 the event I got an anonymous letter of warn- 
 ing to tell me that I was going to be " black- 
 balled " by an enemy on the committee and 
 had better withdraw. At the Garrick it was 
 a case of committee election. But I got 
 wroth, and wouldn't withdraw. I wrote at 
 once to my proposer and seconder, who 
 demanded the wherefore in committee. My 
 foe turned out to be the Irish editor, or sub- 
 editor, of an evening paper, whose name I 
 never heard of, and face I didn't know. It 
 appeared that I had given him grave offence 
 a few years before, by being " disrespectful " 
 to him at some function of the " Old 
 Stagers" at Canterbury, and that he felt 
 I should not belong to the same club as 
 he. He was obliged to withdraw his op- 
 position in the face of such champions as 
 mine. But for that friendly warning, as 
 it proved to have been, he would have 
 succeeded, and I should have been " black- 
 balled " at the Garrick in spite of Thackeray, 
 Trollope, and Millais without ever know- 
 
 D 
 
so BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 ing why. That is how " black-balHng " is 
 done. 
 
 Thackeray's love of the stage was pro- 
 verbial. "Don't you love the play.?" he 
 asked a friend. " Yes, I like a good one." 
 " Oh, go away, you don't understand what I 
 mean." He loved the footlights and the 
 baize and the whole illusion as Charles Lamb 
 did, when the theatre became to him, "on a 
 new stock, the most delightful of recreations." 
 He liked to be there at the beginning and to 
 sit it out, which meant something when one 
 took a seat in the old Haymarket pit at half- 
 past six, the best point of view from which a 
 play was ever to be seen, and stayed all ears 
 and eyes for two shillings, till past twelve, 
 before suburban trains were, when the prin- 
 cipal scenes were all acted in the middle 
 instead of at the sides, where only two-thirds 
 of the audience can see, and in cheery bright- 
 ness instead of unmeaning darkness as they 
 are now, always off the stage and often on it ; 
 when playbills could be comfortably studied 
 and pleasant faces comfortably watched ; and 
 the entire action didn't give the impression 
 of taking place at night. Art it may or may 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS Ji 
 
 not be, but it's very dull, and makes more 
 friends for the music-halls, instead of the 
 theatres, than managers seem to calculate or 
 guess. Light is so great a blessing in a 
 twilight world. But Thackeray could never 
 write a play, though, as with so many 
 novelists, it was to him a great ambition. 
 His books never lent themselves to the 
 treatment. Scott, Dickens, and Lytton were 
 always being dramatised, but Thackeray's 
 work baffled the playwrights. I am not 
 aware of a single play that has been made 
 of it.* Once at a manager's earnest solicita- 
 tion I promised to write a comedy out of 
 " Vanity Fair." I tried my best, but my 
 scheme, when I had completed it, seemed to 
 myself a cross between sacrilege and idiotcy. 
 So I declined to go on. Once the great man 
 wrote a two-act comedy for Alfred Wigan, 
 then managing the Olympic, but Wigan 
 found it impossible. He assured me that it 
 was only because it would have been a mere 
 success of curiosity, good enough for him, but 
 likely to damage such a name as Thackeray's 
 
 * This sentence was written before the recent pro- 
 duction of Becky Sharp. 
 
S2 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 to no purpose. But Thackeray, he said, 
 never quite forgave him. So we got up 
 the Wolves and the Lamb ourselves, and 
 acted it for a house-warming at the novelist's 
 last house in Kensington Palace Gardens. 
 Quinten Twiss and myself, Follett Synge, 
 long our Consul at Hawaii, Morgan John 
 O'Conneil, one of Thackeray's hangers-on and 
 the Liberator's brother, as a large footman 
 with large calves, Sir Charles Young, who 
 combined play-writingwith the Church Union, 
 a daughter of Cole of the Brompton Boilers, 
 a vulgar name now buried under the stateli- 
 ness of the South Kensington Museum, 
 Mrs. Caulfeild, afterwards Lady Charle- 
 mount, and the host's younger daughter, 
 Minnie, who became Leslie Stephen's wife, 
 made, with a few others, the "exceptional 
 cast." It was grand fun for the actors, I 
 remember. About the audience I don't 
 know. Anyhow the two sides of the foot- 
 lights were on such familiar terms, that when 
 Synge, as the ne'er-do-weel, lighted a huge 
 cigar and began to smoke it, a fine lady in 
 the front row of the stalls, after a little 
 sniffing, rose in her seat and said she hated 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 53 
 
 tobacco, and hoped he would put it out. He 
 did ; but he grew very hot and uncomfort- 
 able, forgot his words, and added the 
 prompter to the persons of the drama in an 
 emphatic form. Thackeray himself declined 
 a speaking part, but came on at the end as 
 Mr. Bonnington, a very benevolent clergy- 
 man, and blessed us all in pantomime, 
 audience included, while one member of the 
 company recited some verses the novelist had 
 written for the occasion. It was like Bellew 
 reciting Hamlet, with dumb-show figures 
 doing the business at the back. Thackeray's 
 chief delight was in the play-bill, which he 
 drew up himself, insisting on heading it with : 
 
 W.M.T. (empty) house THEATRICALS. 
 
 For better than all the witticisms of Sheridan 
 and Congreve he loved a bad pun at any time. 
 That was a very bad one, and we all protested. 
 But he would have it. And he equally in- 
 sisted on winding up his pet bill with : 
 
 N.B. — During the whole of this performance the theatre 
 will not be perfumed by Rimmel's Patent Vaporizer. 
 
 It was the craze of the day in the fashion- 
 
5+ BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 able theatres to diffuse this aromatic odour. 
 Advertisement, now so wildly adult, was then 
 in its infancy. When Fechter, the Frenchman, 
 opened the Lyceum, he scattered it with 
 much generosity, and had decorated his ceil- 
 ing with a clever imitation of lace. "Dear 
 me ! " said the witty and handsome actress. 
 Miss Herbert, on his opening night, " the 
 house is like a scent-bottle, and the roof like 
 an antimacassar." 
 
 It was at that house in Palace Gardens 
 that I remember, amongst many and many a 
 happy evening, there congregated Brook- 
 fields and Pollocks, and Theodore Martins, 
 and Collinses, the brother of Wilkie Collins 
 married to Charles Dickens's pretty and 
 winsome daughter, Kate — always, with the 
 brother-novelist, an especial favourite and 
 child — and other memorable folk. I was 
 seated at a man's dinner between Leech the 
 artist and Sothern the comedian, and re- 
 garded both with a kind of gladsome awe. 
 Sothern was then in the first flush of the 
 wonderful " Dundreary," perhaps the most 
 finished specimen of the imitative side of his 
 art, before he exaggerated it too much, that 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 55 
 
 the stage of our time has seen. It was really 
 the actor's creation, a word which, as a rule, 
 should be the author's property. For Tom 
 Taylor had made but a sketch of it in the 
 writing as a very minor character. But it 
 so tickled the fancy of the public in Sothern's 
 hands, that with Taylor's full consent he 
 developed it into the famous eccentricity. 
 Sothern was then young, fair, and good 
 looking, and very shy and refined in manner. 
 He had begged Thackeray to ask him to 
 meet Leech, and warmly expressed to the 
 artist, across me, his gratitude to the " maker 
 of his fortunes." Leech was puzzled, and 
 Sothern explained how a constant study of 
 his " smiles " in Punch, had filled him with 
 the idea that they might be made to live upon 
 the stage. He was in New York at the 
 time, at Laura Keene's theatre. And when 
 she asked him as a favour to take the little 
 part of Lord Dundreary in the comedy of 
 Our American Cousin, written for Jefferson 
 (" Rip Van Winkle "), he saw his chance and 
 agreed, on the condition that he might dress 
 it and " make it up" in his own way. And 
 so the living Leech sprang into existence, 
 
56 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 first to take New York by storm, and after- 
 wards London. 
 
 It must have been on the same evening 
 that I expressed some youthful admiration 
 of James Anderson's Orlando. He was a 
 very handsome man, Macready's jeune pre- 
 mier, but a real "roarer." When in his 
 advanced years he was asked to return to 
 the stage, and play Antony to the Cleopatra 
 of Miss Wallis at Drury Lane, it is said 
 that he hesitated at first, fearing that his 
 articulation was not what it used to be. But 
 he took lodgings at Margate, and tried his 
 voice upon the sands. When he found that he 
 was audible at Ramsgate, he came back and 
 played the part. I heard him. Thackeray 
 beamed at me at once in his dear old fatherly 
 way, and quietly laughed. " At last," he 
 said, " I have seen a boy " — (to him I was 
 always that) — "who admires James Ander- 
 son. I felt I must, some day." Not long 
 afterwards he came to tea with me at the 
 chambers where I was then living, in Garden 
 Court — bringing with him the gracious Lady 
 Colvile, whose husband was one of my Privy 
 Council judges, afterwards. And it was with 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 57 
 
 much pleasure to himself, and needless to 
 say to me, that he identified the rooms with 
 the very scene of one of his famous Temple 
 episodes. 
 
 Once I wandered under Thackeray's wing 
 through the exhibition of 1862, a tawdry, un- 
 inviting show of industry and ugliness, I 
 thought. But I have had the same feeling 
 about all these Mammoth Meetings, I con- 
 fess, ever since the fairy realisation of Pax- 
 ton's dream in glass and iron, in 1851. It 
 was the strange new beauty of the thing, not 
 its commercial trumpet-blowings before the 
 strut of Progress, that left that first and last 
 of the " Great Exhibitions" so peerless and 
 alone. Of the modern additions to the 
 Seven Wonders of the World, none ever 
 passed the Chatsworth gardener's. It im- 
 pressed itself doubly upon my memory, 
 because I saw it opened on the morning 
 of May I, and in the afternoon was des- 
 patched to Harrow, to enter the lists of 
 life as a public school boy, for the first 
 time. The "quarter" had begun a week 
 before, but my father kept me at home for 
 that space, because he thought it good for me 
 
58 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 to have a chance that was not Hkely to come 
 my way again. And the effect of that 
 colossal and transparent "transept" has 
 abided with me ever since. It was the 
 Triumph of Beauty, not of Commerce, which 
 glorified the reign of Peace, just three years 
 before it was converted once again into the 
 deadly and everlasting rebellion of war. In 
 1862 exhibitions had become "business," 
 and business is not beautiful. Thackeray's 
 mind brought its own beauty to bear on it, 
 or I should remember nothing of the hideous 
 monster at all. As we wandered down an un- 
 interesting street of shops, each shoppier than 
 its neighbour, but supposed to be remark- 
 able for something not in evidence, we met a 
 school of little girls in grey, with very wide- 
 open eyes indeed, improving their harmless 
 little minds under their mistress's guidance, 
 in a quaint row of two-and-two. Thackeray 
 stopped when he saw the little maidens, 
 and they stopped too, and bobbed, " How 
 many little girls are there ? " he asked the 
 mistress. " Four-and-twenty, sir." " Four- 
 and-twenty little girls." " They must have 
 four-and-twenty little sixpences, to buy four- 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 59 
 
 and-twenty little things with." And the pro- 
 cession was stayed till he had got all the 
 change for himself and himself deposited a 
 bright sixpence in every tiny hand. The 
 eight-and-forty eyes grew very large and 
 bright, and the chorus of "Thank you, sir," 
 very sweet and general. Then the pro- 
 cession passed, and so did we. 
 
 Thackeray talked to me more than once 
 after that of some of the sweet corners and 
 troubles of his life, in a way which endeared 
 him to me more and more, from its touching 
 and generous confidence. 
 
 He died suddenly not long afterwards, at 
 Christmas-tide, the time I think when he 
 must have wished to die, with that strange 
 deep Calvary-faith of his. Nothing more 
 hauntingly religious has ever been written 
 down than the death of Helen Pendennis. 
 He was a fighting-soldier in the Battle of 
 Life, and had a horror of his own of the 
 "Thomas a Kempis " school. But as many 
 men, so many minds. And so alone can the 
 great problem work itself out, as for itself 
 it must. I was to have dined with him, that 
 Christmas Day, and learned the news in 
 
6o BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Devonshire, where once I had heard him 
 lecture on the " Four Georges," in his own 
 irregular but most absorbing way. That 
 death eclipsed, indeed, the literature of nations. 
 I know what it eclipsed for me. There has 
 been a "boom in Thackeray," they say, of 
 late. I am glad there has been. I am a 
 hero-worshipper myself, so my gods are very 
 few. Let the few demi-gods be boomed 
 wherever we can find them. I hate the 
 little carpers at the great man's heels. 
 Anthony Trollope was never a great man 
 on his own account, though a clever one. 
 But not the pebbles in Carisbrook Well took 
 a deeper dive in good esteem than he, when 
 he set down the presumptuous nonsense 
 about Thackeray's limitations, in the Morley 
 series, as he did. He said, for instance, 
 that Thackeray was idle, and didn't know 
 much about it, because he didn't write so 
 many words an hour. Good Heavens ! 
 But certainly Thackeray was oddly defended 
 by his friends, in some respects. I do not 
 see why Shirley Brooks and others should 
 have so resented his being called a cynic. 
 Surely that is what he was, exactly ; and the 
 
OF THACKERAY AND OTHERS 6i 
 
 greatest of all the cynics, on one side of his 
 nature. Cynics are those who, out of their 
 own hard experience, have ceased to believe 
 in all the pleasant surfaces of life, and do 
 not hold that when you have said " a good 
 fellow," or "a charming woman," you have 
 said everything. They scorn shams, but 
 they know goodness when they see it, 
 and do all they can to help it, and love it 
 from their souls. Shirley Brooks seems to 
 think Thackeray " wasn't a cynic, because 
 he had a broad brow and blue eyes." But 
 all cynics are not as ugly as Diogenes, 
 living in their tubs instead of taking them. 
 Thackeray's was the higher cynicism. 
 He and his epitaph might have been written 
 down in his own translation from the German 
 lyric : for he was a poet as he was every- 
 thing else, when the mood was on him : 
 
 Oh for all I have suffered and striven ! 
 
 Care has embittered my cup and my feast : 
 But here is the night and the dark blue heaven, 
 
 And my soul shall be at rest. 
 
 Oh golden legends writ in the skies, 
 I turn towards you with longing soul, 
 
 And list to the awful harmonies 
 Of the spheres as on they roll. 
 
BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 My hair is grey and my sight nigh gone, 
 My sword it rusteth against the wall ; 
 
 Right have I spoken and right have I done ; 
 When shall I rest me once for all ? 
 
 Oh blessed Rest ! oh royal Night ! 
 
 Wherefore seemeth the time so long, 
 Till I see yon stars in their fullest flight,^! 
 
 And list to their loudest song ? 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 MY FATHER IN HIS HABIT AS HE LIVED 
 
 My father must have had great qualities as a 
 host, to gather round his table so many of 
 the leading spirits of his day, both old and 
 young. And all showed him an unfailing 
 deference, except perhaps a wandering 
 Buckle here and there. His force, as I knew 
 him, did not so much lie in the readiness of 
 speech attributed to him by Manning, as in 
 the depth, variety, and accuracy of his know- 
 ledge. He talked little, but always well. 
 And some of his fashions were very quaint. 
 If he found himself next a neighbour to 
 whom there was nothing to be said (for he 
 had little or no small talk to spare) he re- 
 lapsed into a courteous absence and occupied 
 himself, perhaps, as he told me he once did 
 when he was being photographed, in calcu- 
 lating how many ryots could cultivate a 
 
64 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 certain tract of land in India in a certain 
 time. Next him was once a shy and quiet 
 girl who was too frightened to speak, and he 
 was only awakened to his own long silence 
 by a general pause, as she was finishing a 
 very modest allowance of gooseberry tart. 
 Clearly and politely he said, " Have a glass 
 of wine after all that pie .'' " The poor girl 
 looked as if she might have sunk into the 
 earth. And I can remember his coming in 
 at five one afternoon, when a new married 
 young couple were paying my mother a 
 ceremonial visit, with a bland smile on his 
 face, his right hand stretched out and his 
 left holding back the lappel of his frock-coat 
 in one of his favourite attitudes, with the 
 startling address in an insinuating voice, 
 " Whom have we here ? " Another time, 
 when a harmless friend had been staying 
 with us for a few days, and my mother 
 announced that somebody else was coming 
 instead, he said with a resigned sigh, " More 
 mob ? " 
 
 My father carried everything before him, 
 in the old phrase, at Harrow and Oxford, 
 where as commoner of Trinity, scholar of 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 65 
 
 Oriel, and fellow of Balliol in succession, he 
 was the first of the long and memorable line 
 of Ireland scholars, Elden scholar and Pro- 
 fessor of Political Economy. Like most of 
 that stamp he joined the Bar, and at first 
 supported himself by journalism on the 
 Globe. Oddly enough the same paper 
 might have laid the foundation of my own 
 pen-and-ink work, as a mysterious overture 
 was made to me soon after I had taken my 
 degree, to write for it from private informa- 
 tion on affairs of state. What might have 
 become of me if I had consented has been 
 often matter of speculation with me, but I 
 was young and nervous and innocent of all 
 political tendencies. Chamberlain's advice 
 to politicians, to choose your party and stick 
 to it through thick and thin (like the gentle- 
 man in Southey's " Terrible Journey from 
 Moscow ") might have made quite an im- 
 portant personage of me in the course of 
 years. It was unlucky for my father that he 
 chose Common Law instead of Chancery, as 
 his was eminently the Chancery mind. He 
 never could come down to a jury at all, and 
 always saw the two sides of everything. At 
 
66 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 the Exeter sessions he held a brief in a case 
 of which he felt the rights strongly, but could 
 not make the Bench agree with him. In the 
 next case he appeared, too, and simply re- 
 marked : "In the last case I held a brief for 
 the plaintiffs in which I was absolutely in the 
 right, and you decided against me. Now I 
 appear for the defendants. The facts are 
 exactly similar and I am entirely in the 
 wrong. So I must ask you to decide for 
 me." And the Bench had to do it. Feeling 
 himself on the wrong side of his profession, 
 sound as was the repute he had in his way 
 acquired, my father accepted the permanent 
 secretaryship of the Colonies before he was 
 forty. He gave up ambition for a certainty, 
 though at a sacrifice of income at the first, 
 and became, as he said, " A dumb dog for 
 the rest of his life." But he Hked his quiet 
 influence at the Colonial Ofiice, and was 
 interested in his work. When he took up 
 the same post at the India Office he liked it 
 less. It was in the latter days of John 
 Company and Leadenhall Street, and then, 
 as afterwards with the Indian Council, too 
 many people wanted their own way. It was 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 67 
 
 the old story of " too many cooks," he said. 
 But his power of work was prodigious. He 
 got up at comfortable hours, wrote for an 
 hour or two in his study after breakfast, 
 walked across the three parks to his office in 
 the fine weather, got through all his business 
 there generally by about four, played whist 
 at a friend's or at the Athenaeum till dinner- 
 time, and then walked home, and in the 
 evening had his table in the drawing-room, 
 and wrote articles for the Edinburgh, or 
 leaders for the Pall Mall till he went to bed. 
 This was in his later days, when, as he 
 seemed to know everything about every- 
 thing, nothing was any trouble. He rejoiced 
 in his return to his early days of journalism, 
 under the wing of good George Smith, most 
 enterprising of publishers, more than in 
 anything. His "little cheques" from the 
 P.M.G. were a perpetual delight to him. 
 
 Out of his many side-tastes, he loved his 
 whist the best, chiefly, I suppose, out of 
 human perversity, because he couldn't play 
 it. As he never had any delusions about 
 himself he knew it quite well. An excited 
 whist-player poured out to us once his in- 
 
68 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 terest in a lady he had met and described, who 
 played the game, he thought, better than any 
 woman he ever heard of. "She plays very 
 often with an uncle of hers," he added, "who 
 is always in the rubbers at the Athenaeum. 
 And the best of it is," slapping his thigh 
 with delight, " that she says he doesn't really 
 understand it at all." "She is quite right," 
 said my father mildly, " I am that uncle." 
 He loved geology, and understood it, and 
 was always discussing it with another of his 
 friends, John Ball of Alpine fame, who was a 
 brother secretary for the Colonies. Also he 
 loved trees as much as Gladstone, and wan- 
 dered about his Devonshire woods amongst 
 them. But instead of cutting them down 
 with an axe, he marked them with a hatchet 
 for the workmen to cut down. He was 
 broad and strong, and an athlete in his 
 younger days, but not in his elder. And his 
 young imagination had given them all names, 
 with the help of his brother Charles, the 
 Roman historian and Dean of Ely. The 
 " River Noitatnalp," otherwise Plantation 
 backwards, ran through the woodlands of the 
 grounds. And the wooden seats of indolence 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 69 
 
 were Livias, and Cavadonga, and many names 
 besides. I had to follow in the wake, and 
 childlike called my own tree, Bal-a-bal-bal. 
 And I found the name deep carven in the 
 bark, not many years ago. And my favourite 
 bit of wild wood I called the " Wildenforst," 
 and my favourite aunt was my squire Rolf, 
 and I the Baron Somebody. For I was of 
 imagination all compact from childhood, and 
 couldn't help it, with all its besetting 
 dangers and all its incomparable charm. 
 Joanna Baillie, poet and dramatist of The 
 Passions, a quaint little figure propped on her 
 Hampstead pillows, patted and felt my round 
 child-head, and told my father I was bound 
 to scribble, whether he liked it or not. And 
 he did not like it, but I was so bound. If 
 only I had not been obliged by well-meant 
 parental pressure to devote so many years to 
 becoming a bad lawyer, I might have been 
 a good author, though who knows ? By the 
 time I was ten I had written a five-act 
 tragedy called The Poisoned Pancake, in 
 which a vindictive cook poisoned the whole 
 royal family and court at once, in the last act. 
 It was like an early Hamlet. The whole 
 
70 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 play, music, and entr'actes and all, might 
 
 have been performed in ten minutes and a 
 
 half. It is with curious pleasure that I learn 
 
 that a very young and rather puritanic 
 
 niece of mine has just embarked on a like 
 
 experiment. Heredity I suppose. Her father 
 
 discovered a sample in her room, which ran 
 
 thus : 
 
 Act I. — Scene 2. 
 
 King Edward I. and Courtiers discovered. 
 
 A Courtier. My liege, a gentleman awaits below. 
 K. Edw. Oh, tell him to be d — d. I want my lunch. 
 
 Likewise I had indited an additional book 
 of Pope's Homer's Iliad, and three supple- 
 mentary canticles to the Psalms of David. 
 My contemporary and ally, W. S. Gilbert, 
 was wiser and more obstinate in his genera- 
 tion than I. He, too, was meant for the 
 Bar. "If you would only stick to it," said 
 his father, "you might become Lord Chan- 
 cellor." "So I might," said W. S. "And 
 if I stick to the theatres, I may become 
 Sheridan. One's as likely as the other, 
 and of the two I prefer Sheridan." And he 
 did stick to them, and wasn't far wrong 
 about the result. There's nothing like stick- 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 71 
 
 ing. Would that I had ever stuck. But it 
 doesn't matter now. If I had made a fortune, 
 my friend and " solicitor " would have stolen 
 it all. " Sweet are the uses of variety." 
 And I have enjoyed myself in my time, very 
 much. These things are arranged for us by 
 somebody. We do not arrange them on the 
 broad lines. 
 
 My father's imagination made another start 
 than mine. For by the time he was fourteen 
 he had written a full and exhaustive criticism 
 on "Gibbon'sHistory,"aworkof which I have 
 hinted my own sleepful awe. As to his 
 forestry, he visited the States just after the 
 Civil War. When he came back he wrote 
 an article for Macmillan. Everybody ex- 
 pected something deep upon the situation. 
 But it was all about the American trees, which 
 he had been silently observing with the 
 deepest closeness. Once, in his long connec- 
 tion with the Edinburgh, he was asked to 
 write an article upon some abstruse subject, 
 and did. There was much excitement, for 
 he was accused of having pilfered it. His 
 article on the same subject had appeared in 
 the same periodical in almost the same words 
 
BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 any years before. And Henry Reeve was 
 uch exercised in mind. The earlier article 
 -oved to have been my father's own, and he 
 id clean forgotten it. The same subject 
 id suggested the same train of thought, that 
 as all. For, like John Bright, he never 
 langed his mind when it was once made 
 
 Another of his odd passions was heraldry, 
 ne of his games with me as a boy was 
 bricks." The oblong bricks were knights, 
 irefully painted with coats-of-arms in front, or 
 arses which they sat on. The square bricks 
 ere heads, on pack-saddles. We played 
 ; " Ivanhoe," and the knights were Wilfred, 
 id Front de Bceuf, and Ralph de Vipont. 
 nd they sat in their tents, and we tilted 
 ith them. If a knight fell on his back he 
 as wounded. If he fell on it three times 
 mning he was disabled. If he fell on his 
 de he was dead. Once when my father was 
 ; the India Office, an order of a new "star" 
 as created. The Prince Consort sent the 
 2sign himself It had four or six "points," 
 
 don't know which. The Heralds' Office 
 as much excited, and my father endorsed 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 73 
 
 their remonstrance. " The star," he pointed 
 out, " never had four or six points." Prince 
 Albert simply answered that it was time it 
 had. When he left the Colonies for India, 
 the Duke of Newcastle offered to make my 
 father a K.C.B., and he said he didn't care 
 about it. He had been a C.B. before. When 
 he joined my mother at Nice, he casually told 
 her of the offer. Womanlike and naturally, 
 she was much distressed. So he wrote to the 
 Duke and told him that to please his wife he 
 should like to be a K.C.B. And the Duke 
 was very sorry, but said that as the honours 
 had now been given it was too late. And 
 my father said thank you, but really it didn't 
 matter. Unambitious in that, in literature, 
 in everything. Instead of writing books him- 
 self, he was content to finish other men's 
 books, if Longman or Murray asked him. In 
 that way he finished the " Life of Francis " 
 (Junius), and the " Life of Henry Lawrence." 
 What he really was, was a philosopher of the 
 most uncompromising kind. I have every 
 material reason to wish that he had been less 
 so. Yet he never wrote a book upon philo- 
 sophy. But he had great strength, and was 
 
7+ BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 of large use. Sir George Bowen told me 
 once that as long as my father was at the 
 Colonial Ofifice he never cared if he was right 
 or wrong in a difficulty, for if he did his best 
 he knew that he had " Merivale like a stone 
 wall at his back." And so with many others. 
 My father often discussed the vexed question 
 of competitive examinations with me. Too 
 much was made of it, he thought, but on the 
 whole he believed in it. The Anglo-Saxon, 
 he said, has the same qualities always, and 
 the governing quality is of all of them the 
 first. If Clive had not been on the spot, some 
 other, and very likely some more honest 
 Clive would have been. Taken all things 
 together, the man with the better brain will 
 be the better man. Nobody would ever 
 know, he added, except perhaps himself and 
 those in his position, how often some difficulty 
 on the frontiers, whether in India or the 
 Colonies, brought us to the verge of a terrible 
 war. Always there was some young Briton 
 to the fore, to defy rule and assume authority 
 at his own risk, and stay the mischief on his 
 own responsibility. " While that quality 
 lasts, we shall," my father said. And he 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 75 
 
 made it his own rule, whatever the loud com- 
 plaints at home, to stand steadily by the un- 
 ruly subordinate, till all the facts were known. 
 Yet he had every sympathy with the subject 
 races, when to his mind oppression could be 
 feared. He differed strongly from our famous 
 cousin, Sir Bartle Frere, on many occasions, 
 and he had no word of tolerance for 
 Governor Eyre. 
 
 " I never knew," his cousin and successof 
 at the India Office, Sir Lewis Mallet the 
 Free-Trader told me, "what your father's 
 power of work could be, until I followed him. 
 I worked all day in his place, and sometimes 
 more. Yet an assistant under-secretary and 
 a legal adviser had to be both appointed, to 
 help me through. He seemed to do the 
 whole of it without turning a hair." As he 
 had been a lawyer, all the legal questions 
 that arose were simply referred to him, and 
 he decided them. The only duty which he 
 confessed to me that he resented was being 
 called upon to do what may be called the 
 house-work. He did not like, when deep in 
 some vital trouble in Madras or in Bombay, 
 to be suddenly called upon to settle a private 
 
76 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 difference between the office housemaid and 
 the office cook. He even thought that it 
 might have been spared him, but took it hke 
 everything else, as it came. Not long ago I 
 saw a wonderful and tiny actress, Louie 
 Freear, a modern Mrs. Keeley in her way, 
 play in a piece in which an enthusiastic 
 audience made her sing a song about six 
 times over. She was dressed as a drummer, 
 and two big soldiers set her on a table to do 
 it. The last time she looked at the biggest 
 of them, and said quietly to him instead of 
 the audience, " Well, you do want a lot for 
 your money, you do." And perversely I 
 thought of my father, and of the British 
 Government. 
 
 At odd hours he could poetise with the 
 best of us. None of his verses have been 
 published, I think, save a few here and there. 
 Let me finish this chapter with one example, 
 founded upon an old monkish piece of dog- 
 gerel, and written for his baby son : 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 77 
 
 Fide Deo. Die seepe preces. Peccare caveto. 
 Sis humilis. Pacem dilige. Magna fuge. 
 Multa audi. Die pauca. Tace secreta. Minori 
 Parcito. Majori cedito. Ferto parem. 
 Propria fac. Ne differ opus. Sis sequus ecquo. 
 Serva pacta. Pati disce. Memento mori. 
 
 Since, my child, as now we sever, 
 Thou and I full oft must part, 
 I would fain be present ever 
 In thine heart. 
 
 Golden words and precepts leaving 
 
 As a father's gifts for thee. 
 With thy holiest thoughts enweaving 
 Thoughts of me. 
 
 Thou art yet too young for learning, 
 
 All untamed thine infant-will, 
 Scarce with feeble glance discerning 
 Good from ill. 
 
 Yet I deem, if rightly reading 
 
 All that open brow should speak, 
 And the smile so gravely spreading 
 O'er thy cheek. 
 
 Thou wilt one day learn and treasure. 
 As thou should'st, this Latin rhyme. 
 Words uncouth and homeliest measure. 
 Thoughts sublime. 
 
78 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Put thy trust in Him who made thee, 
 
 Feel the presence of His eye, 
 Ever, when life's ills invade thee 
 Then most nigh. 
 
 He has taught to erring mortals 
 To His palace-gate the way ; 
 Prayer can reach those distant portals. 
 Learn to pray. 
 
 But, since empty prayers avail not 
 
 Heaven's eternal crown to win. 
 Watching still, and striving, fail not ; 
 Flee from sin. 
 
 Be thou humble ; 'tis His teaching, 
 Who the proudest can o'erthrow ; 
 Yet still list the fond beseeching 
 Of the low. 
 
 Follow Peace, and so ensue her ; 
 
 Fortune, with her changeful brow. 
 Let the world's gay children woo her, 
 ^Voo not thou. 
 
 Swift to hear, and slow to utter. 
 
 Others' wisdom make thine own ; 
 What thy friends in secret mutter 
 Tell to none. 
 
 With the weaker be forbearing ; 
 
 With the stronger courteous be ; 
 With thine equal be thy bearing 
 Kind and free. 
 
MY FATHER AS HE LIVED 79 
 
 Do the work thy fortunes shape thee, 
 
 Wheresoe'er thy lot be cast ; 
 Seize the hours that fain would 'scape thee, 
 Gliding past. 
 
 See the poor and feeble righted. 
 
 Shield him from the man of strife ; 
 Keep the word thou once hast plighted 
 As thy life. 
 
 Learn to suffer ; 'tis a training 
 
 Time must teach the roughest breast ; 
 But the mild and uncomplaining 
 Use it best. 
 
 Last, that thou may'st smile unshrinking, 
 When the long dark hour draws nigh, 
 When life's wearied pulse is sinking, 
 Learn to die. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 MY UNCLES 
 
 Not proposing ever to be an old fogey if I 
 can help it — for though I don't see why a 
 fogey should fail to be acceptable, I should 
 like to escape the imputation — I desire not 
 to laudate the acta tempora at the expense of 
 the present. In many ways Mat Arnold's 
 "stream of tendency that makes for righteous- 
 ness " makes likewise for improvement, and 
 in some ways the world is better than it was 
 in the days when Plancus was my consul. In 
 others perhaps it is not. There are a good 
 many, by-the-bye, to whom such a phrase 
 may be in itself fogeyesque. Have I not 
 twice cited Latin in six lines? My excuse 
 for them is that they are very old quotations. 
 But that to which I fain would lead is this. 
 I must think and maintain that respect for 
 elders in a younger generation is at once a 
 
MY UNCLES 8 1 
 
 touching and a refining thing, and that it is 
 
 going out of fashion. I never h'ked to aim 
 
 at the hail-fellow well- met with my distinct 
 
 seniors, as too many of the younger men do 
 
 now. I liked to preserve the " Mr." even 
 
 when on terms most intimate, and I cannot 
 
 help missing its use towards myself, save at 
 
 my own desire. The slang word " form " is 
 
 always being used at this present, and not 
 
 too often followed. The change in this 
 
 matter, though in my eyes new, is nothing of 
 
 the kind, of course. Nothing is. Like the 
 
 Arnoldian tendency, all is gradual. It was 
 
 before my day that sweet Charles Lamb — 
 
 why is it that an epithet, generally affected 
 
 and objectionable, applieth always with such 
 
 a pleasant charm to him ? — discoursed on 
 
 courtesy's decay in his essay on " Modern 
 
 Gallantry." It has been sliding ever since. 
 
 So I will again expose myself to the old 
 penalty of a sconce — or fine for quoting Latin, 
 which nowadays would not mount up to 
 much — and say " Heu pietas ! heu prisca 
 Mes ! " Which means that, like a reverent 
 youth once more, in right of my moment's 
 subject-matter, I turn from my father to 
 
82 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 discourse about my uncle, before inflicting 
 my more personal self. For they were nearly 
 of an age, and distinguished scholars in their 
 day. Both were at Harrow. My father was 
 at Oxford. My uncle was at Cambridge, 
 and connected with the famous Tennyson- 
 Hallam-Monckton-Milnes set of the apostles. 
 Briton-like, the distinction he most valued to 
 the last was having been one of the crew in 
 the first Oxford and Cambridge race. Next, 
 I think, he was apt to pride himself upon his 
 indifference to Greek. " What a splendid 
 scholar you would be, Merivale," said his 
 witty friend, Thompson, afterwards master 
 of Trinity, " if you knew any Greek at all." 
 Nevertheless he did translate the Iliad. But 
 in Latin my uncle was the first past- master 
 of his day, and by degrees his subject led 
 him to his position as one of the best-known 
 of Roman historians, unpleasing to the school 
 of Freeman, but finished and admirable in 
 his own. " I wish you would bring out a 
 book about somebody newer," I wrote to him 
 irreverently one day. For he was a genuine 
 humorist and a first-rate letter writer. 
 " My dear boy, was his answer, " certainly 
 
MY UNCLES 8J 
 
 not. If you only knew the comfort of con- 
 fining yourself to historical assertions, about 
 a people who are dead and gone and can't 
 contradict you ! " I quarrelled with him for 
 keeping out of his books the humour which 
 ran over in his talk and letters. But in those 
 days at all events, to write as you talk was 
 wrong. Look at the novels and plays of the 
 time, and measure Thackeray's value as 
 taking us back to the tongues understanded 
 of men. Nobody who didn't know him would 
 have accused the Roman historian of being a 
 humorist, but he had the good old college 
 conviction that you must be deep or nothing. 
 Nothing lies so deep as humour, but there 
 are many who never see that. If you are 
 not heavy and hard of reading, you are 
 only frivolous. In the quaint old library 
 of the deanery, he took up the Lives of 
 the Judges, or some such deserving-well- 
 of-heaven labour, and asked me why, oh 
 why, I didn't do some work like that ! "So 
 I would, uncle," I answered with scant 
 reverence, " if I couldn't do anything of my 
 own." I had just brought out some foolish 
 play or another, and answered without 
 
84 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 reflecting. But my uncle chuckled for ten 
 minutes. 
 
 He was of course a great authority in the 
 schools at both Universities, and nearly led 
 me into a scrape when I was at Balliol. It 
 was the custom there to write an English 
 essay every week. Half of the men read 
 their essays to the Master, the other to their 
 college tutors. And it was a bad habit of 
 ours, I'm afraid, to let one do duty for two 
 sometimes, by lending our works to a friend 
 who read in the other quarter from ourselves. 
 Having an essay on some Roman subject to 
 write, I founded it upon my uncle's history, 
 and read it to the Master. And I lent it to 
 another man, who read it to his tutor. And 
 
 his tutor said: "Ah, Mr. , I see that 
 
 you have followed Merivale very closely." 
 Well, he had. But he was a man of cool and 
 ready wit, and placidly replied : " Yes sir, I 
 have. I thought Mr. Merivale's history 
 quite the safest authority." "Quite right, 
 
 Mr. . You couldn't have done better." 
 
 That friend of mine is now a judge, grave, 
 and of the highest rank. I wonder if he 
 remembersit. He was something of a scape- 
 
MY UNCLES 8s 
 
 grace, under — even then — his learned man- 
 ner, and used to lead that same tutor a life. 
 For the tutor was a character, quaint, fidgety, 
 and very particular about routines. My 
 friend's rooms were over his head, and it so 
 happened that one morning I made one of a 
 breakfast-party at my friend's. It was a 
 decidedly cheerful party, and ended in a 
 general encounter in our shirt-sleeves, with 
 dumb-bells and boxing-gloves, or chairs for 
 those who had them not. And in the midst 
 of the revelry there was a stroke upon the 
 oak, and the tutor's scout came in. " Gentle- 
 men," he said, " the Dean of Chapel " (which 
 was the tutorial rank) " wishes me to say that 
 he cannot overlook this disturbance " (for he 
 was a very dour scout) "and is himself 
 coming to speak with you at once." " Beg 
 him to come up," said our host respectfully. 
 " Certainly sir." And the scout retiring, we 
 stood aghast. But my friend was equal to 
 the occasion. " Where's my prayer-book ? " 
 he said. I was puzzled. Was he going to 
 say his prayers to the offended Dean, or 
 what? "I thought so," he went on, after 
 looking down the introductory pages. " It's 
 
86 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 all right." And the Dean came in, fussy and 
 fuming, like an angry turkey-cock. And he 
 spake in his wrath, and talked of gates and 
 other penalties. When the first burst was 
 over, mine host gave his explanation calmly ; 
 " Sir, it is now half-past eleven o'clock. It 
 is a Saint's day, and we made sure that you 
 were at University Sermon." Detected in 
 his own sins, the Dean became fussily 
 apologetic, as he always did when taken off 
 
 his guard. " Well, Mr. I did intend to 
 
 go. Of course I intended to go. But other 
 occupations intervened, and you see that — if 
 you didn't know I was at home it is of course 
 quite another thing, and I'm quite sorry if I 
 interrupted your enjoyment." " Don't men- 
 tion it, sir," said our host blandly. And the 
 incident ended in forgiveness all round. 
 Well I remember that young man a few years 
 later, when we were both reading for the Bar 
 in town, going with me and another to the 
 boxing-rooms of a famous professional light- 
 weight who proposed to give us lessons. 
 Professing an ignorance of the art, he declined 
 at first, but the champion prevailed on him 
 to try, gave him a pair of dumb-bells to help 
 
MY UNCLES 87 
 
 him to hit out with, and then told him to hit 
 out at him. And so he did. He was small 
 and strong and wiry, and proceeded to 
 brandish the instruments close to the pro- 
 fessional head, in such fashion that to land 
 one would probably have been fatal — 
 following it all round the room in a kind of 
 Pyrrhic dance. The dodging and manoeuvres 
 of the bruiser were beautiful to see. He had 
 enough of it first, and only closed the 
 encounter by earnest remonstrance, the two 
 spectators laughing till they couldn't speak. 
 
 My uncle always credited Dr. Thompson 
 with the best classical pun he remembered. 
 In his common-room days one of the fellows 
 bore the name of Money. But he took to 
 himself a wife and retired, and grew noted 
 for his uxorious ways. On the lady becom- 
 ing as one of those who love their lords, 
 somebody said of Money that the nearer the 
 event approached, the more rnarked his 
 devotion became. " Quite so," said Thompr 
 son. " Crescit amor nummi, quantum ipsa 
 pecunia crescit." The delicate difference of 
 gender could scarcely be more wittily marked. 
 In later days it fell to my own lot to knovy 
 
88 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 the Master of Trinity and appreciate him. 
 It was during a summer course at Kissingen, 
 where waters were being taken. I was 
 always a good companion for an elder of 
 that mark, to be taken a walk with, for it was 
 a delight to me to listen and to learn. He 
 made many a stroll pleasant for me in that 
 way, with the dry, observant humour that 
 was always on the alert. He dressed care- 
 lessly, seedily even, and was discoursing 
 about the superior ease and freedom of 
 foreign manners when we passed a hand- 
 some, furred, distinguished-looking man 
 elaborately dressed, who saluted the Master 
 in passing with a courteous freedom. " Just 
 what I was saying," Dr. Thompson remarked 
 when he was gone. " You and I couldn't 
 have done it like that. Superiority without 
 patronage. So thoroughly affable." "What 
 is he?" I said; "a Russian nobleman?" 
 " No ; he's my courier." 
 
 In that same pleasant character of humorist 
 my uncle was more at home than many who 
 get more common credit for it. It was at 
 the bottom of his whole character, I think, 
 as it was under that of Dr. Vaughan, of 
 
MY UNCLES 89 
 
 Harrow, but I suppose that neither of them 
 showed it much to the outside world. When 
 Gladstone bestowed the Deanery of Ely upon 
 him he was surprised as well as thankful, as 
 nobody denounced that great man and all his 
 works more strenuously than he. But the 
 only result was a pleasant conviction that the 
 Minister's magnanimity rose from his never 
 having heard of him. Was he the last of the 
 old school of Deans ? 1 think so. It was a 
 pleasant school, and the idea of it was grace- 
 ful. The honourable and quiet retreat for 
 the retired and well-graced scholar, away 
 from the boom to look after his cathedral 
 and his services, to enrich the world from his 
 study with appropriate work, and grow old 
 in leisured dignity, was rather a pleasant 
 thing of rest apart, in a world that wants so 
 much to do something active, whether it has 
 it to do or not. The duties of a dean are by 
 their constitution but of a passive kind. So 
 the new school make some for themselves 
 and collide with their bishops much accord- 
 ingly. Never interfering with his bishops, 
 and never interfered with by them, he said 
 that they found him a model in all ways, 
 
90 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 though I grieve to say that even Sydney 
 Smith himself hardly made more fun than he 
 did amongst intimates, and in his quiet way, 
 of the perplexities of an excellent set of men 
 who now, even more than in his time, are 
 obliged to wear as many different colours as 
 Joseph's coat in order to suit everybody. 
 His own view of Ritualism was simple ; 
 namely, that it was foolish but harmless, and 
 that if people liked that sort of thing, there 
 was no reason why they shouldn't. He 
 didn't, and there was no reason why he 
 should. But as his character had depth as 
 well as breadth, he would have been of great 
 value to church-schism now. Things in his 
 letters lately published show singular fore- 
 knowledge of our time. But deaneries were 
 still retreats for thinkers then. And when 
 my father wrote to congratulate him on his 
 appointment as exactly the right thing, he 
 answered that everybody seemed to think 
 so. " All my Cambridge friends," he said, 
 " are writing to offer me beds, under the 
 evident impression that for the rest of my life 
 I've only to go to sleep." 
 
 My father and uncle were faithful friend? 
 
MY UNCLES 91 
 
 and allies always, though, thanks to our old 
 acquaintances known as Circumstances over 
 Which &c., they met but very seldom in the 
 later days. They were of an age within the 
 year, but no temperaments could have been 
 much more different, except in their curious 
 indifference to the successes of the world. 
 Of my father's characteristics I have spoken, 
 and of his old Palmerstonian Liberalism, 
 tempered by his convictions of the danger 
 as well as the greatness of the English 
 governing qualities. His very strong sym- 
 pathy for the oppressed everywhere led him 
 into unpopular times more than once, where 
 native races or the rights of the weaker were 
 concerned. My uncle's knowledge of his 
 beloved Roman world was absolute and 
 exhaustive. For the rest he was content 
 with such learning as men of his intellect 
 cannot fail to acquire. And he always used 
 to regret in his amusing way to my father 
 that his own example of knowing one thing 
 and sticking to it had not been followed by 
 his elder. His own political views were the 
 simplest and highest old Tory ; and my 
 father's scruples about natives he confessed 
 
92 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 to be quite beyond him. " It's all very well," 
 he said ; " but if these good people talk about 
 washing their spears in my blood, all I know 
 is that I prefer to wash mine in theirs." So 
 he was quite in sympathy with his wife's 
 kinsman, Sir Bartle Frere, the strongly mild 
 South African Proconsul, with the iron hand 
 in the velvet glove, whose name seems to 
 have slipped out of the record just when it 
 should be remembered most. So high was 
 the position he took up about the wars that 
 precluded the great event, so firm his protests 
 against the policy of Half-a- Heart which has 
 caused such mischief and vacillation, so clear 
 his view of the danger of alienating the then 
 friendly Boers, that his advice would have 
 preserved us from the need of the endless 
 war of supremacy which the Policy of the 
 Half- Heart made by degrees inevitable. He 
 was cruelly treated by the Half- Heart him- 
 self, as so often has been the lot of faithful 
 servants who cannot change their minds 
 abroad when Government changes sides at 
 home. It was the old story of the neutral 
 shuttlecock between the party battledores. 
 They keep it going as long as they can use 
 
MY UNCLES 93 
 
 it against each other, and then drop it 
 between them. I am free to confess that, 
 young as I was, my sympathies were with 
 my uncle, and not my father, there. In wars 
 of supremacy I scarcely see where questions 
 of metaphysical right and wrong come in. 
 For it is those wars that have made history, 
 geography, and everything else that is human. 
 And till the human note has been transposed 
 uncounted octaves, I see not whence the 
 change in them is to come. 
 
 One day upon the sands at Cromer my 
 father was walking with Vice-Chancellor 
 Wickens, a man, like himself, of very wide 
 reading. Behind them followed dear go- 
 ahead Tom Brown Hughes, of fame undying 
 as long as school-boys shall be athletic — the 
 last distinction that just now they seem likely 
 to lose — and myself He stopped short 
 suddenly, and pointed to the two backs before 
 him. "There," he said, "goes the entire 
 sum of human knowledge. There is nothing 
 upon earth that one of those two men doesn't 
 know." My uncle, with all his humorous 
 way, had an unbounded reverence for my 
 father's knowledge. They corresponded 
 
94 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 always and on all things on public questions 
 and on all beside, and I remember well how 
 once the Dean wrote triumphantly to the 
 other, to point out how on some Roman 
 argument he had demolished Niebiihr. My 
 father rather agreed, and thought he had. 
 But placidly added that Nieblihr's was a 
 name recognised as strong as theirs, and 
 that the world would very soon forget that 
 Niebiihr had been demolished. Very much 
 what Sir George Bowen said to me of the 
 loss, my uncle said after my father died. It 
 was not only the brother, and friend, and 
 correspondent who was gone before, but the 
 rock of advice and judgment. He said that 
 on all the points on which he was wont to 
 consult his elder as soon as occasion arose, 
 he felt like one lost at sea. They were cer- 
 tainly a strong par fratrum, who might have 
 been most things if they had only cared. 
 Looking at a tablet-roll in Balliol Hall the 
 other day of her more honoured and dis- 
 tinguished sons, I missed my father's name,- 
 though that of the first Ireland scholar. Pro- 
 fessor of Political Economy, and much besides. 
 Amongst great names and fussy mediocrities, 
 
MY UNCLES 95 
 
 I found him not. In ignorant awe I wondered 
 who was Purvis, and where was Swinburne. 
 I suppose that modern BalHol never heard of 
 him, in her classic shades. Yet " Atalanta in 
 Calydon" is not unclassical. Modesty is a 
 great mistake. I'm all for Purvis ; greatness 
 is the Don's. 
 
 My own chief link with my uncle, always, 
 was our common sense of fun. With me he 
 was always at his most amusing, which was 
 delightful. It was beyond him to resist a 
 joke. An enterprising firm of publishers of 
 the day, guiltless of much discrimination, 
 asked Anthony Trollope for a life of Julius 
 Caesar, as part of a series. As a popular 
 novelist he was good enough for them, though 
 scholarship was not, perhaps, his strong point. 
 He produced it at once, as he would produce 
 anything asked for, at so many words an 
 hour, which by his own account was his 
 method, to be ensued, he thought, by every 
 author. He was much exercised in mind 
 about Thackeray's lack of industry, as he said 
 in his memoir, because there were so many 
 hours when Thackeray wrote no words at all. 
 They were not bad when they came, perhaps. 
 
96 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 on the whole. These publishers, no doubt, 
 thought that the best man to deal with Julius 
 Caesar, at this hour of the day, would be a 
 writer of romance. Proud of his achievement 
 in so new a line, Trollope, an old friend of 
 our family, at once sent a copy to my uncle, 
 the Dean, who replied with placid brevity : 
 " Thank you for your Comic History of 
 Caesar." Trollope wept. 
 
 But Trollope's chief friend in our race was 
 another uncle of another kind, known to his 
 many friends as Johnnie. He was a junior 
 brother, who never did anything he could 
 avoid. And in that way he avoided a good 
 deal. He was supposed to be like my father ; 
 and, as both were well known in London, 
 though in quite different sets, he used often 
 to see the dawn of recognition in a stranger's 
 face in the ways. So he would go up to him 
 at once with, "You think I'm my brother. 
 I'm not. Good morning." Much pleased at 
 first when Trollope sent him all his novels as 
 they came out, he began at last gravely to 
 meditate how to build a new room. He re- 
 joiced in my producing plays, declaring that 
 Themis and Thespis were a fine pair to drive, 
 
MY UNCLES 97 
 
 and wrote, " I hear you have written a play 
 for Wiggins. Good. He was a good actor, 
 for I knew him once. I remember Mrs. 
 Wiggins as Miss Jones— a sorry jade at best. 
 Don't repeat that to Wiggins. Managers 
 are a thin-skinned race." He was an odd 
 fish, Johnnie. Taking a house in the suburbs 
 with a garden, like so many other true 
 cockneys, he didn't know what to do with it. 
 A country chum came to show him, and 
 walked him up and down. " Now look at 
 these. You have a fine crop of these. First 
 you must do so-and-so in July, then such- 
 and-such in September, and next year there 
 will be something to remember." " Quite 
 so," said my uncle, when he had quite finished. 
 " But I must begin at the beginning. In the 
 first place what are these ? " " Good Lord ! 
 Potatoes." I think that Uncle John kept 
 the worst wine I ever drank, on the whole, 
 if he could be said to keep it. For he would 
 buy a bottle of anything he fancied at a 
 public on his way home to dinner, and carry 
 it in his coat-pocket. At one of his cheery 
 men-dinners we had a pompous guest, almost 
 a stranger, who addressed his host at once 
 
98 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 as " Johnnie," like all the rest. But the host 
 didn't care for liberties, in his way ; and when 
 the stranger began to praise his wine, he 
 twinkled. And we all knew something was 
 coming. "Ah! I see you really do under- 
 stand about wine. These fellows don't. 
 You're worth it ; so after dinner I'll give you 
 a glass you will remember." And he gave 
 secret instructions to his maid-servant, who 
 at the proper time brought a bottle with due 
 care. With care it was opened and dusted 
 at the mouth, and a glass poured out espe- 
 cially for the guest. " Now, tell me what you 
 think of that." The guest sipped it, rolled it 
 round with his tongue, held it up to the lamp 
 and winked one eye at it, and went through 
 all the Maskelyne and Cookery of the con- 
 scious expert upon these occasions. " Splen- 
 did, Johnnie ! really splendid ! " " I knew 
 you'd think so. I saw you were a judge." 
 " Well " (modestly) " I ought to be. Now, 
 Johnnie, how long have you had that in your 
 cellars?" "Exactly three-quarters of an 
 hour." The maid had been sent out to buy 
 it, round the corner. In youth he was an 
 oddity to the finger-tips, and it was he, though 
 
MY UNCLES 99 
 
 the story has been appropriated for more than 
 one more famous wit, who, when as a hard- 
 up undergraduate he was called upon by a 
 collector for the conversion of the Jews, 
 politely regretted his inability, but added as 
 he bowed out his visitor, " Look here. If you 
 like to send me a Jew, I'll try to convert 
 him." I take this opportunity, at chestnut- 
 hazard, to claim his own for him. When in 
 his early London days afterwards his brother 
 Charles came from Cambridge for a few days, 
 he informed his family that he had never once 
 seen John, because at whatever hour of the 
 day he called, John was always out at break- 
 fast. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 MY PEDIGREE 
 
 My father, lover of pedigrees, always held 
 that with but a break or two he could trace 
 the descent from Andrew Marvel. For 
 ours is an odd name, with no English 
 counterpart. As Mervayle first it appeared 
 in the old Elizabethan register, the first 
 to be found in the records of the North- 
 amptonshire hamlet of Middleton-Chaney, 
 and from father to son a succession of 
 sturdy Puritan yeomen cultivated each his 
 own field, with no ambition to enlarge the 
 boundaries. Forty-six entries of the name 
 stand in the register between 1558 and 
 1770; and a tradition amongst us that the 
 line began at Middleton Cheney in 1590 
 with William Merivale, a fugitive from 
 persecution in France, was dispelled by 
 my father's examination on the spot, in that 
 
MY PEDIGREE loi 
 
 same year of fifty-one which opened my 
 veracious narrative. As the highest mor- 
 tuary fee was paid for William Merivale, he 
 must have been a man of warmth in his day ; 
 and the first spelling of Mervayle suggests 
 an undoubted French origin in Merveille or 
 Merville, the French equivalent of the 
 English Seaton. The first rude forefather 
 of the hamlet I can fix was Henry Mervayle, 
 son of John Mervayle and Margaret his 
 wife, baptized into an equally rude world on 
 October 21, 1558. And in i860 Thomas 
 Merivale, head of the family and owner of 
 four or five cottages in the lower village, 
 dwelt still in Middleton-Chaney as the father 
 of four sons and two daughters. Evidently, 
 as a cheery Norwegian parent of twenty- 
 four observed to me amongst his fjords, my 
 elder branch still does its best to increase 
 the popularity. 
 
 My own and younger branch began in 
 1667 with the birth of a cadet, John Meri- 
 vale, who left his village on the elder coming 
 into the small family property, and started 
 in life as a stocking-weaver at Northampton. 
 He must have been a constituent of the 
 
I02 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Labouchere of his day, and probably voted 
 for him. Marrying Hannah Moore, the 
 daughter of a Baptist minister, he became the 
 father of a curious and interesting character, 
 in the shape of— to give him his full honour 
 in that respect — my great-great-grandfather, 
 Samuel Merivale, who migrated to Tavi- 
 stock and grafted us on the Devonian stock, 
 in the character of a Dissenting minister. 
 We seem to have been the most uncom- 
 promising Nonconformists ; and at my hours 
 I feel the strain still in my blood, refusing, 
 indeed, still in heart to conform to praying 
 for the wisdom and understanding of all the 
 Lords at all seasons, and of all the Commons 
 only whilst sitting, at stated times and in 
 whatever mood. Samuel himself had some- 
 thing of the rebellious streak, however, for 
 in place of Baptist he turned Presbyterian, 
 and abjured the errors of Calvin for the 
 rival ones of Arminius. But it was no slight 
 thing for a Presbyter to be ordained in those 
 days, and Samuel' who was a capital letter- 
 writer, describes the function thus : " The en- 
 tire solemnity was managed with great gravity 
 and decency, and my heart was warmed, and 
 
MY PEDIGREE 103 
 
 my mind, I hope, seriously impressed with 
 the transaction I was engaged in. Mr. 
 Cranch, of Modbury, a gentleman of great 
 worth and ingenuity, one of my particular 
 acquaintance, began a short prayer, and read 
 a psalm and chapter. Then they sang a 
 hymn. Mr. Walters, of Chudleigh, a man 
 of no great note but of some considerable 
 standing in the ministry, then prayed for 
 about half an hour. Afterwards Mr. Moore, 
 of Plymouth, the most learned minister in 
 this country, and a man of equal moderation 
 and candour, gave us a most excellent 
 sermon of more than an hour, on the office 
 and duties of a Christian bishop. Mr. 
 Baron, of Plymouth, as being the oldest 
 minister present, then went into the pulpit ; 
 and after a short account of the nature and 
 design of ordination, demanded for the satis- 
 faction of all present an account of my faith, 
 which I then delivered, standing in a seat 
 facing the pulpit. At first I had a pretty 
 tremour upon me, which by degrees wore off, 
 and I spoke with courage, so as to be very 
 well heard by all. Then nine questions were 
 proposed to me each of which I answered 
 
104 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 distinctly. After this, Mr. Baron came 
 down into the seat where I was, and in a 
 very solemn manner recommended me to 
 God by prayer, and set me apart for the 
 pastoral office. After this they sang again. 
 Mr. Brett, of Liskeard, a man of great 
 oddity in his appearance and behaviour, but 
 of much inward worth and excellence, gave 
 the charge in a plain, honest, familiar way, 
 which consisted of several useful directions 
 relating to my conduct as a Christian, a 
 minister, and a Protestant dissenter. Then 
 they sang a third tune, and Mr. Wills, of 
 Appledore, concluded with a prayer." As I 
 read through this programme now, I feel a 
 certain pride in thinking that it appears to 
 have taxed all the resources of Devonshire, 
 and some of Cornwall, to ordain my great 
 great-grandfather. They did take their turns 
 in those days, they did ; but some of the turns 
 on the platform must have been a thought 
 too long. When Mr. Wills, of Appledore, 
 was called on, I suspect that there were dark 
 thoughts about. Modbury and Appledore 
 must have seemed unto the assembly even as 
 another Dan and Beersheba. After this 
 
MY PEDIGREE 105 
 
 they sang again. I like my ancestor for his 
 pretty tremour. Somehow, forty-five pounds 
 a year, however, for the Presbyterian cure 
 of Tavistock, seems but a modest stipend 
 after all that pie. 
 
 Samuel went the way of the world and fell 
 in love with Jane Shellaber, a lady who 
 ' ' though no beauty, had many charms, which 
 by degrees found their way to his heart." 
 She died, however, and he transferred his 
 affections to her sister Betsy, corresponding 
 with her as Charissa under the name of 
 Fidelio. His proposal by letter was as then 
 proposals should be : " Should you rob me at 
 once," he wrote, "of all those pleasing hopes 
 I have entertained, though I could have no 
 reason to complain of your Injustice, yet give 
 me leave to say it would give me such a 
 shock as I know not how I could support. 
 But if, on the other hand, your Compassion, 
 Generosity, and Tenderness prevail, I shall 
 esteem myself the happiest of men, and shall 
 make it the whole Business of my life to con- 
 vince you with what Sincerity, Gratitude, and 
 Affection I am, dearest Madam, Your Lover, 
 Friend, and Servant, S. Merivale." 
 
io6 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 All these substantives with the big Initials 
 prevailed in time, and they were married and 
 did well, the sudden death of an intestate 
 cousin who owned the estate of Annery near 
 Bideford, famous through " Westward Ho," 
 bringing the couple an accession of some- 
 thing like a small fortune for their share. In 
 other ways, too, Samuel did well, in that his 
 neighbours feasted him at Christmas, in one 
 instance at " a very elegant entertainment off 
 a leg of Mutton boiled, a Turkey very nicely 
 roasted, a cheek of Pork, delicate minced Pyes, 
 an Apple Pye and Gloucestershire Cheese, 
 several sorts of Pickles, and variety of other 
 Sauce. After Dinner there was Brandy and 
 Rum and three sorts of Wine, and a noble 
 Bowie of Arrack Punch. At Tea there was 
 some of the richest Sweetmeat Cake ever 
 tasted." Samuel's sermon the next morning 
 is not on record. 
 
 But Charissa died and Fidelio married 
 again, this time an early love, wedded and 
 widowed betweenwhiles, and left at his death 
 one surviving son John, who at nineteen had 
 engaged himself to a Fraiilein from Exeter, 
 Ann Katenkamp, aged seventeen, whose 
 
MY PEDIGREE 107 
 
 grandfather was a Calvinist minister at 
 Bremen. Among his friends was Baring of 
 Mount Radford in Exeter, the father of Sir 
 Francis Baring, and upon the death of the 
 Bremen minister, his son, Herman Katen- 
 kamp, came over to Exeter and entered the 
 Baring counting-house. Ann Katenkamp 
 grew up a bright and cultivated girl, though, 
 according to one of her brothers, she was ' ' a 
 very bad poet, who he hoped would never 
 attempt to write verses again." The Herman 
 and the bad poetry have stuck ever since. 
 And John, the husband of Ann Katenkamp, 
 begat as his elder child John Herman, who 
 married the daughter of Dr. Drury, of Cock- 
 wood, Devon, the famous scholar and head- 
 master of Harrow. And likewise a younger 
 daughter Fanny, who became the wife of 
 John Lewis Mallet, son of Mallet du Pan, a 
 distinguished French journalist and publicist, 
 who took refuge in England with the rest 
 of the king's adherents during the revolu- 
 tionary times. And one of their sons became 
 Sir Lewis Mallet, my father's cousin and suc- 
 cessor in his India Office post, and the fore- 
 iDost ally of Bright and Cobden in the early 
 
io8 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 battles of Free Trade. And John, husband 
 of Ann Katenkamp, sold Annery and bought 
 Barton Place by Exeter, formerly called 
 Cowley Barton, the family-place which, with 
 the rest of the lumber, has passed away from 
 me, for the life of me I know not why, having 
 as far as in me lies but striven to do my best 
 for all men. But I wore my early and 
 mature life out in trying to keep the peace 
 at home, and I sate among scribes and players 
 instead of on the woolsack, and crowned it all 
 with the unpardonable sin. I lost my money. 
 Nay, but I have a motto which my fore- 
 fathers had not. I wonder what those fore- 
 fathers, surveying their hapless descendant, 
 think about it all. " Valeat Merendo," let 
 him prosper by deserving. If that be the 
 way to prosper, it is but poorly fitted to the 
 race just now. Nor know I who invented 
 that strange pun and took it out with arms 
 when I was ill. It was without knowledge 
 or consent of mine, head, as I avow, of my 
 blue-blooded and warm-hearted clan. We 
 had an odd crest in my father's time, a pollard 
 crest without a tail attached, bearing some 
 strange resemblance to the head of a stag. 
 
MY PEDIGREE 109 
 
 It is still on my hereditary ink-bottles, and 
 is the only hereditary thing that has not been 
 taken away from me. My hereditary library, 
 like my hereditary home, was most of it sold 
 by somebody for somebody else's benefit 
 likewise when I was ill. I have not cared 
 even to try to trace it. All that I could 
 do was to stick my new arms and motto 
 — somebody having bought them for me — 
 upon my envelopes. But it is a practice that 
 I drop. They made me laugh at first. They 
 irritate me now. And we of the yeoman- 
 blood have got no earthly right to them. 
 
 Upon the mother's side it's quite another 
 thing. There I defy inspection and rejoice 
 in scutcheons and am blue, springing from 
 the highest of the high, the county families. 
 Archbishop Laud was my direct ancestor 
 and inaugurated persecution. In the form 
 of Christian name he still survives amongst 
 us. From the sporting point of view of 
 stock. Archbishop Laud and Andrew Marvel 
 between them should be good enough for 
 anybody. The first Robinson baronet — for 
 we are thus red-handed, and from an odd 
 coincidence they, too, were of Northampton- 
 
110 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 shire — was Lord Mayor of London in the 
 days of loose King Charles. He had to do 
 with the fire, or the plague, or something. 
 And I grieve much to say that Pepys him- 
 self speaks of the first Lady Robinson as a 
 monstrous fine woman no better than she 
 should be. I wonder if any Stuart cor- 
 puscles got into the very allopathic blend 
 which appears to have produced me. The 
 Robinsons have bravely gone on unto the 
 present day, though with no special gifts I 
 know of except for violent quarrel amongst 
 themselves in good old county-family fashion. 
 But county blood within the veins hath yet 
 its uses. In Rome I found myself once at 
 dinner at my hostelry, next a Northampton- 
 shire mother and daughter of that current. 
 They thought but little of me on my own 
 account until they found out my maternal 
 claim. Then I was as one of themselves and 
 intimate. The youthful daughter opened 
 like a flower, and assured me in county con- 
 fidence that she was in love with Rome, 
 especially the new parts. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 LITERARY AND THEATRICAL BEGINNINGS 
 
 We had a right to our literary weaknesses 
 between us, for my grandfather, John Herman, 
 was a Commissioner in Bankruptcy in the 
 flesh — was a poet and dramatist and man of 
 letters in the spirit. He was a close friend 
 of Lord Byron, and wrote an epic of no 
 mean mark in its day on the romantic story 
 of " Orlando in Roncesvalles," in the metre of 
 his great ally's " Don Juan," full of the old 
 strain of chivalry which has but an archaic 
 interest now, and for but few of us. I still 
 like to read at times myself about those 
 amorous and fearless Paladins, and the high- 
 mettled Christian maidens of a kindred mould 
 to theirs : 
 
 Hope lives through fear ; who saith that hope is vain ? 
 
 Worm of the earth ! canst thou presume to trace 
 The eternal limits of God's holy reign, 
 
 Infinite justice and unfailing grace ? 
 
112 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Will heaven destroy its own fair work again ? 
 
 Or, after some dark, doubtful, lingering space. 
 All with one voice eternal truth adore, 
 And humbly sue for peace and gain what they implore ? 
 
 Beyond the pillars of this world of old. 
 
 Far o'er yon western flood's unmeasured plain, 
 
 Of other worlds the spirit darkly told, 
 For ages lost, for ages to remain 
 
 Unvisited by light divine, and cold 
 
 As Zembla's rocks which endless frosts enchain ; 
 
 Yet hath the sun of Grace, to them unknown. 
 
 E'en for those cheerless realms and untaught nations 
 shone. 
 
 But it was as a translator that my grandfather 
 was at his best, and his versions of Schiller's 
 "Diver "and "Song of the Bell" have all 
 the ring of the originals. The first Lord 
 Lytton's translation of the former scarcely 
 approached its older rival. My grandfather's 
 essays in play-writing — for I certainly can 
 plead atavism for my own sins, the Galton 
 form of heredity which skips a generation like 
 rheumatic gout — began in an interesting 
 fashion. His wife's father — Devonian like 
 himself — was the famous scholar and head- 
 master, Dr. Drury ; and both loved the 
 play. And, on a fit-up stage in Exeter, one 
 night they saw a strolling player enact 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 113 
 
 Othello and Harlequin. And so overcome 
 and startled were they by the man's extra- 
 ordinary power, that my grandfather at 
 once wrote to Byron, then of the managing 
 committee of Drury Lane which was but at a 
 low ebb, and advised him to find the player 
 out. Byron only laughed and pooh-poohed 
 him, assuring him that he was always hear- 
 ing of these wandering genii, who never 
 came to anything. But Drury Lane ebbed 
 more and more, and one morning my grand- 
 father got a letter from him to say that some- 
 thing had to be done, and that if the Exeter 
 genius could be unearthed he would give 
 him a chance on the recommendation of so 
 good a critic. So the seekers set to work, 
 and after much ado discovered the wanderer 
 in some out-of-the-way corner of mere rustic 
 Devon, ebbing like Drury Lane, and run 
 low down indeed. The story that followed 
 is known to all the world, for the poor world- 
 tossed genius went to London, and waited 
 hopelessly enough for the chance that came at 
 last. And they called him at the theatre " the 
 little man in the capes," and his name was 
 Edmund Kean. Perhaps he was the greatest 
 
 H 
 
114 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 actor, if we may trust all the records, who 
 ever flashed upon our stage. And it was not 
 only as Shylock that he appeared. In a 
 metaphorical sense he repeated his Exeter 
 experiment. " They say that the fellow is a 
 good Harlequin," said an envious member 
 of the company, after he had struck the 
 empty benches into fire, till " no one could 
 have thought that so few people could kick 
 up such a row." " Yes," said the kindlier 
 Fawcett. " He's the best I ever saw. For 
 he has jumped at once over all our heads 
 together." 
 
 The next thing that my grandfather did 
 was to write for the little-great man. I 
 have just taken down from my book-shelves 
 " Richard Duke of York, or the Contention 
 of York and Lancaster, as altered from 
 Shakespeare's three parts of Henry VI. 
 In five acts, as it is performed at the Theatre 
 Royal, Drury Lane, 1817." It strikes me 
 as very ably done, after the Cibberian fashion 
 of Shakespearean arrangement. Appropriate 
 passages from Heywood's " Royal King and 
 Loyal Subject," or Chapman's " Byron's 
 Conspiracy," are introduced to fill the spaces 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 115 
 
 in the story, and some comic talk for Jack 
 Cade and his followers is "borrowed from a 
 very loyal play founded by Croune (who 
 was a court poet in the reign of Charles II.) 
 on Shakespeare's Henry VI., and entitled 
 The Misery of Civil War, 6,\o, 1680." Such 
 passages as the compiler supplied himself for 
 his plot's necessities make no immodest 
 invasion of Shakespearean regions, but are 
 both sound and apposite, as in a little scene 
 just before the close, between York and his 
 son Rutland. 
 
 York. Cease, my good lords — my sons, Edward and 
 Richard, 
 On the Welsh marches, but abide my summons. 
 With valiant Warwick for their sure defence. 
 Should it go ill with me, oh ! bid them save 
 Their lives and fortunes for a happier day ! 
 Bring in my dear boy Rutland. 
 
 Enter Rutland with a Priest, his tutor. 
 My darling ! Let me kiss thee ere I go. 
 I know not if I e'er shall see thee more. 
 If I should fall I leave thee to thy brothers. 
 All valiant men ; and I will charge them all, 
 On my last blessing, to take care of thee 
 As of their souls. 
 
 RuTL. Why do you talk thus, father ? 
 If you must die I hope I shall die with you — 
 I'd rather die with ycu than live a king ! 
 
ii6 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 York. Sweet boy ! Farewell, my soul ! — Here, take 
 the child, 
 And guard him safely in the donjon Tower. 
 Should things go ill, bear him away betimes. 
 And give his brothers notice of your flight. 
 
 One of the author's supposed hereditary 
 foes, the critics, severely reprehended my 
 grandfather for modernising Shakespeare, 
 and by way of contrast and reproof quoted 
 the above, as his own "favourite passage 
 in the original." Even so, when once I 
 brought out a comedy intended as a faint 
 reflection of Faust, in modern life, and for 
 my devil pictured a cynical wit and adven- 
 turer amongst a mob of foolish people, one 
 of the same, and rather eminent, informed 
 his readers that " Mr. Merivale was some- 
 times witty, but often puerile." Well, just 
 what I had tried to be. That a dramatist 
 should speak through his characters had not 
 occurred to him. Another rebuked me 
 gravely for carrying my parable so far, as to 
 introduce " Mephistopheles's poodle " in the 
 guise of the adventurer's servant. Which 
 only means that, in Goethe's poem, Mephis- 
 topheles himself is first brought into Faust's 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 117 
 
 Study in the guise of a poodle. Not that I 
 am one of those who are the least disposed to 
 quarrel with hard work like a critic's, having 
 indeed been largely always one of them 
 myself. But I wish they would make more 
 sure before so committing themselves, some- 
 times. A little learning is a dangerous 
 thing. Have a long drink, or let it alone 
 and have done with it 
 
 Like Lamb, I love a play-bill. And I like 
 to learn from the front page of this same 
 " Richard, Duke of York," that the cast held 
 such actors, besides Kean himself, as Pope, 
 Holland, and Powell ; Wallack and T. P. 
 Cooke, of Black-Eyed Susan fame (whom 
 in his old age I once must have beheld), 
 Knight, Munden, Oxbevry, and Mrs. Glover. 
 In the preface, which it was then the fashion 
 to supply to the published play, my grand- 
 father speaks of the acting of the last famous 
 lady, in the character of Queen Margaret, 
 as a triumph of tragic power and feeling — 
 a curious prelude to the Mrs. Malaprop of 
 the later days whom I can myself recall. 
 As I have written in some other place, a 
 youth of tragedy is a fine training for a ripe 
 
ii8 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 age of the more masterful comedy. Of 
 Edmund himself my grandfather said that 
 the character of York was absolute in his 
 own creation ; in Shakespeare, as we all know, 
 hardly tangible. It had a good life in its 
 day — the play— and led to Byron's begging 
 my grandfather to write for him regularly, 
 and to give him above all a comedy. But 
 no more blank verse, an' he loved him. "A 
 good pantomime," wrote the author oi Man- 
 fred a^ndi Sardanapalus, " pays better than fifty 
 Shakespeares." That letter of Byron's came 
 into my possession, and, when I remember 
 the author, has always amused me much. 
 But my grandfather was far too tangled in 
 the highly respectable — where even passably 
 honest — mazes of the law, to be free to 
 indulge his tastes as author or as playwright 
 as freely as his more rebellious grandson. 
 Ye gods ! the number of the finer brains and 
 spirits of which that pretentious calling has 
 robbed a martyred world ! 
 
 Lord Westbury, in one hour's talk with 
 me one day, taught me more law than all the 
 pleaders and conveyancers whom to my 
 sorrow I have known. He said that I was 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 119 
 
 logical of mind, and bade me hold by it, and 
 cultivate clearness of expression. " Logic 
 well put," he said, " take it all round, is apt 
 to make the good law, and confound the bad. 
 Your advisers, to begin with, will always be 
 telling you what to do. Don't listen to it, but 
 tell them. Tell them at once not to begin by 
 puzzling their brains to find out the law against 
 you. That's neither their affair nor yours, but 
 the court's. Judges and Bar are right enough, 
 on the whole, when you can get at them. 
 Find out your strong points for yourself, and 
 tell the men to stick to them, leaving the 
 other side to look for theirs. If they get 
 a ' counsel's opinion ' to protect themselves, 
 don't mind it. Anybody can get that by 
 stating the facts his own way. And a 
 'counsel's opinion ' isn't a judgment. It isn't 
 even evidence. It only means what he would 
 say if he were a judge, given the amount of 
 information vouchsafed to him. Another 
 judge might say the opposite, and then three 
 more might come and contradict them both ; 
 and very often do. Remember, too, if you 
 have the opportunity, to make your case as 
 you intend it to be — being, as it is, yours and 
 
120 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 not other peoples — by your own letters first. 
 Having the answers, fix your mind on the 
 two or three, at the outside, to which nearly 
 every case can really be reduced, and through 
 your counsel stick to them. Let the other 
 side confuse the issues by superfluous and 
 misleading correspondence as they may, and 
 if your judge be fair and capable, as it is his 
 business to become, he will select those 
 letters for the kernel of the case. But this 
 presupposes that you have convinced yourself 
 by logic, not by ' opinions,' that you are three 
 times in the right. If you doubt it, never go 
 to law. There are other means by which 
 you may get righted." Said, of course, in 
 his staccato way, this was the summary of 
 Westburian wisdom. I have tested it more 
 than once, and in the end have seldom found 
 it wrong. But the worst of it is, and appar- 
 ently always will be, that before you can get 
 at the law you must get through the solicitors. 
 Which shall not be if, with few fine excep- 
 tions, they can help it, for a mighty long 
 time. For it is but solicitors' law, alas, that 
 our law-abiding country mainly doth abide. 
 And with a twinkle so said Westbury. 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 121 
 
 And so from bar to stage again, from 
 Kean to Kean, from father unto son, from 
 Edmund unto Charles. Our families were 
 close friends, of course, after that beginning, 
 and he was much at my father's table in my 
 young boy-days, thereby, I think, dissipating 
 for ever any fears of the woolsack that might 
 have haunted my bar-doomed life. Annoyed 
 with my mother, who was an invalid, unable 
 to attend the theatres, because she admitted 
 one evening that she had been to hear Albert 
 Smith (his jealousies were always boyish), he 
 carried me off to his theatre in revenge, and 
 introduced me to his Columbine, whose 
 flounces and eyes settled my tastes defini- 
 tively. He became so fond of me, and I of 
 him, that I almost lived at the Princess's 
 during the holidays. Early after breakfast I 
 trotted off to rehearsal as if I were a child- 
 actor, and wandered at my will from box to 
 stage, and stage to box. Particularly when 
 the Midsummer Night's Dream was being 
 rehearsed, when all the pretty girls of the 
 company, save when their scenes were on, 
 collected in the Royal box and petted me. 
 Kean had a wonderful eye for pretty girls. 
 
j2i fiAR, STAGE, AND PLATPORM 
 
 and this was a real bevy, headed by one who 
 still remains in my mind, in spite of all the 
 dreams of later beauties, as the loveliest 
 woman in her youth whom I have ever seen 
 — out of a real stage-stock — Carlotta 
 Leclercq. She was but a dancer first, and 
 then a Columbine, and as she had no especial 
 talent, rose from the ranks by sheer right of 
 beauty. Kean trusted her, as a first " speak- 
 ing part," with Phoebe in As You Like It, 
 and such a queen of curds and whey, with 
 bugle eyeballs and with cheeks of cream, 
 might have made Rosalind herself turn very 
 man to love her. She was a perfect woman 
 without flaw — features without a fault, yet 
 with no lack of expression — height, hair, and 
 limbs, figure, and proportions, all in the 
 fairest symmetry of womanhood. She couldn't 
 act ; but one can't have everything, and that 
 didn't matter. Her younger sister Rose 
 surpassed her far in talent, but she con- 
 quered by right of her divinity. As she 
 could play nothing in particular, she played 
 everything in general, and all well enough. 
 Miranda, Titania, Perdita, Marguerite, or 
 Lydia Languish, and all the rest. And as 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 123 
 
 by theatrical law these parts should have 
 fallen to Miss Heath (afterwards Mrs. Wilson 
 Barrett), a handsome girl of marked ability, 
 Kean effected a diplomatic feat by getting 
 her to play the boy-lovers to the fair Car- 
 lotta's heroines. And as all girls like acting 
 boys. Miss Heath pleased both her audiences 
 and herself by figuring as Ferdinand or 
 Florizel. In the earliest days of Kean's 
 Princess's, before I knew it well, the company 
 was in a less developed stage than it reached 
 later on. And even before the days of Car- 
 lotta Leclercq were those of Agnes Robert- 
 son, afterwards the "Colleen Bawn " of her 
 husband Dion Boucicault. She was my first 
 Ophelia, then treated as a singer's part. As 
 the true Ophelia — treated as it should be — 
 Kate Terry bore away the palm beyond the 
 reach of rivalry from all whom I remember. 
 It was Eclipse first, a fixture. 
 
 For by Carlotta's side at the Princess's 
 as a child-actress, was Kate Terry, the 
 first of all for brains and for dramatic gift, 
 and for a quite undefinable Anglo-girlish 
 charm. There too, was Nature moulded at 
 her best, even though she could not claim 
 
124 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Carlotta's crown of feature, and to think of 
 her is to remember the critic's saying of Miss 
 Foote's Virginia, that attract and Romanise 
 you as she might, there was always " a 
 deHghtful touch of the Enghsh school-girl in 
 her acting." Kate Terry's acting was all light, 
 expression, and intelligence, the movements 
 free and graceful as the " silvery-footed 
 antelope's," and the voice appealed to you at 
 once through the tears that lay hidden in its 
 tones. Such a Prince Arthur, such an Ariel, 
 such a Titania when at the end she took La 
 Carlotta's part. If less of beauty, more of 
 grace and mind. Her Cordelia, played when 
 she was still but a child in years — as indeed 
 to the end of the Kean management she 
 was — even then was quite a memorable thing, 
 and the first I remember of her as a per- 
 sonality was when Kean told us in the green- 
 room that he could make the child cry as he 
 liked by reading her the scenes of Lear. 
 Of all the actresses of my English day, to the 
 end Kate Terry, with Helen Faucit her fore- 
 runner, will remain my favourite and first 
 choice. Both reached their greatest fame at 
 twenty- three. The acquaintance thus begun 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 125 
 
 in behind-the-scenes boy-and-childhood grew 
 into a very close and loving friendship with 
 her family, and led to my playing many parts 
 as an amateur with her and the still younger 
 Nelly, who by right of her adorable impulse 
 was to grow into the first stage-favourite of 
 the town, in the years then hidden in the 
 folds. Her first I saw as " Puck " — a child — 
 rising through the stage upon a toadstool, 
 like incarnate mischief And I think that 
 the feat has lent a kind of Pixie-flavour, ever 
 since, to all the scenes of comedy that she 
 has played. Both Kate and she commingled 
 tears and laughter charmingly. But Nelly's 
 gift was laughter. Kate's was tears. In- 
 finitely funny were many of the stage- 
 adventures that we all had together. Too 
 many for a record that must cover so much 
 ground. But one was memorable. We 
 played for some distress about something that 
 was going on in Lancashire. I think that it 
 had to do with cotton and the American war. 
 Anyhow it was one of those charitable calls 
 for self-sacrifice which the amateur actor 
 always feels so acutely. Our theatre was a 
 big theatre. For, to rise to a great occasion. 
 
126 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 our committee took Covent Garden. And 
 our play was a small play, meant for a small 
 stage. It was The Lighthouse, a thrilling 
 little melodrama by Wilkie Collins. And 
 Palgrave Simpson and I enacted the two 
 Gurnocks, father and son. And the curtain 
 rose on the first act, and discovered us with 
 our two heads in our four hands, on the two 
 opposite ends of a sea-chest, cut off from 
 " land " in a lighthouse, and starving by our 
 two selves. My part was the inevitable 
 "young first," for which, in days of romantic 
 slimness, I was always cast. Therefore it 
 was a very bad one. But through an awk- 
 ward failure on the author's part, I never left 
 the stage for a minute through the whole 
 play. We had not had a single rehearsal in 
 the big house, to accustom us to the size, and 
 when the curtain rose, the public, who had 
 not seen our charitable intentions in a proper 
 light, filled, at a liberal guess, about one-tenth 
 of It. I gazed upon the sparsely populated 
 district as I raised my head, and spake. If 
 I had not in those days learned to modulate 
 my voice, I was possessed at all events of 
 what is called an organ. To be heard on 
 
LITERARY AND THEATRICAL 127 
 
 the stage is everything. And I wish that a 
 few more players thought so nowadays. So 
 I projected my young chest, inflated my 
 young lungs, and, fixing with my eye the 
 farthest-off straggler whom I could dimly 
 discern in the gloom (after a piece of advice 
 once given me by Alfred Wigan) I intoned 
 as through a fancy speaking-trumpet : " I've 
 had no food for many days, and I'm so weak 
 that I can scarcely speak." My spirit must 
 have prevailed over my flesh : for my little 
 all all heard me. 
 
 Later on came my climax, in that strange 
 ordeal of discomfort. I had to open a bay- 
 window, and the sea was to dash in. It was 
 to be soap-suds by a new invention, with a 
 great deal of wind. Through the bay the 
 ocean was expected to enter. I went towards 
 that window. The bay was still there, but 
 the soap-suds were gone. " Look out for 
 the dash of the spray, Martin," said my 
 father Aaron. So I did ; but it wasn't there. 
 " Much wind but no soap-suds," thought I. 
 I must pretend. So I retired into the bay 
 out of sight of the audience, to come back 
 pretending. But as I did so an ancient 
 
128 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 woman rose behind that window, with a huge 
 wooden bowl in her hands, having entirely 
 missed her cue. And without a moment's 
 warning she hurled the whole contents into 
 my face. The audience didn't see it. Nor 
 did I. Blind, spluttering, choking, staggering, 
 I got back into my seat just as my sweet- 
 heart Kate Terry arrived in a boat to save 
 me. She rushed upon her Martin to enfold 
 him in a stage embrace. All I could do was 
 to croak out in the hoarsest tones, under 
 what breath that dash of the spray had left 
 me, " For the Lord's sake don't kiss me! I 
 am only soap." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ABOUT THE ACTING OF CHARLES KEAN 
 AND FECHTER 
 
 Charles Kean was not the first man who 
 has suffered from being a great man's son. 
 Nor will he be the last. He was not 
 Edmund to Edmund's worshippers, whose 
 name was legion. Therefore, he was a 
 fraud. But he suffered from another cause : 
 the unfair and ruthless onslaughts of the 
 Press, goaded and led in Punch's pages by 
 Douglas Jerrold. Charles Kean was all that 
 was great and good, until he produced a 
 very bad play of Jerrold's called St. Cupid, 
 or Dorothy s Fortune, but declined to act in 
 it himself He kept faith by producing it, 
 but that was not good enough. And from 
 that hour forward Jerrold hounded him down, 
 and the Press, too easily led then in that 
 way, did nothing but always sneer at him. 
 
I Jo BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Jerrold's was a biting but merely ill-natured 
 wit, of which all the best sayings recorded 
 are only rude and cruel. It is a cheap and 
 easy form of it, at best. One specimen will 
 serve. Thackeray was one of his own 
 colleagues upon Punch, a head and shoulders 
 taller than him and everybody else, which 
 he did not appreciate. And when at a large 
 gathering, Thackeray said that he was going 
 to make a present to a small god-child, after 
 his own unfailing views of humour, Jerrold's 
 polite remark was : " Don't give him your 
 own 'mug.'" Funny, but about as true as 
 it was kind. And it may serve as a standard 
 for all the little gentleman's wit. Subject 
 to the same physical and moral inferiority as 
 the great but spiteful poet of Twickenham, 
 Jerrold was a Brummagem Pope, without the 
 genius or the fancy. But his unkind tongue 
 has done Charles Kean's fame a mischief 
 ever since, as Pope's did Gibber. Yet neither 
 Gibber nor Kean was a small man at all. 
 And, with whatever in me lies, out of love 
 for the actor's art, I, who remember the 
 latter's work so well, am glad to write of it 
 while there is yet the time. 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND fECHTEk 131 
 
 As a matter of fact, Charles Kean remains 
 to me one of the most magnetic actors of my 
 day. Magnetism can repel as well as attract, 
 so about him as about Irving, who has been 
 gifted before all things with the same master- 
 quality, difference of opinion flourished very 
 widely. With a short though well-knit 
 figure and a plain face, none the less all his 
 movements were free and elegant as became 
 a captain of the Eton boats, and the face 
 could assume expressions that made it charm- 
 ing. The smile was exquisite. The voice 
 was harsh but clear, and easily charged with 
 pathos or with humour. His fencing was a 
 sight to watch ; and in earlier days than I 
 can remember, so good a judge as Sala could 
 speak of his Prince of Denmark as the most 
 tenderly romantic he had seen. He could 
 even lend quite a singular charm to such 
 a part as Evelyn in Money, and such a 
 Shylock certainly I never saw. The grim 
 humour, concentrated force, and inexorable 
 purpose of the man never found a truer 
 outlet. Nor did Kean make the mistake of 
 trying to secure an impossible sympathy for 
 so mere a monster, a man who comes into 
 
132 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 court deliberately to cut away a pound of 
 flesh from another's heart, because he 
 wouldn't ask interest on his loans. Furious 
 for the wrongs of his race, no doubt, but not 
 of his religion, which he talked so much 
 about. He was ready to change it at the 
 last moment and all at once, to save half his 
 money. Yet the sympathy which so many 
 want to claim for such a creature is always 
 reduced to one passage, from which he 
 appears to have once given his wife a tur- 
 quoise, which his daughter stole, and to 
 have missed it considerably. 
 
 Mrs. Charles Kean, whom as Ellen Tree, 
 of course, I do not remember, was the more 
 famous artist of the two when the two were 
 married. But like the good woman and 
 good wife that before all she was, she was 
 from that hour content to sink herself for 
 him, and to shine but with a reflected glory, 
 the greater for the absolute and touching con- 
 fidence with which he paid her. How funny 
 he was with her at rehearsals. " Seek Mrs. 
 Kead ! " if anything went wrong. " Oh 
 Elled, Elled ! take that man out of the front 
 rank, and put him at the back ! His legs 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 133 
 
 must not be seen. No, no, my good man, 
 it's not your fault, but we can't help these 
 things." "Oh Elled, Elled! I wanted a 
 full-dress rehearsal. And the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury has come without his bitre." 
 She acted up to Kean so finely, always 
 in the picture, quiet but in harmony. Her 
 Portia and his Shylock made each other. 
 She was too old for the part when I saw 
 them, but it didn't matter. Mrs. Kean's 
 Portia took no interest in Antonio whatsoever. 
 She knew that he was safe. Her interest 
 was in Shylock. " Is your name Shylock ? " 
 as she looked him up and down, to see 
 if there could be within the compass of 
 humanity any man set upon so cold-blooded 
 a murder as that. She would do all that in a 
 woman lay, to save so dark a soul. Her 
 " quality of mercy " was no set speech. It 
 was a lawyer's plea, beautifully woven with 
 all the high appeals. She pleaded with Shy- 
 lock through his feelings ; through his in- 
 terest ; through his avarice ; through every- 
 thing, with a patience all untired. In vain. 
 Then she turned round in wrath, a woman 
 and a goddess, standing like a classic statue 
 
134 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 at the tribunal's foot. " Tarry a little ! there 
 is something else ! " And from that moment, 
 not another pause — in that indignant soul. 
 " He shall have merely justice — and his 
 bond." Yet at the last, by one supreme 
 womanly touch of the incomparable Master, 
 she melts again, and appeals to the mer- 
 chant's feeling as her guide. She has none 
 left but one, at all. "What mercy can you 
 render him, Antonio ? " And what the 
 generous Merchant of Venice offers — the 
 gentle, gentlemanlike, central figure, whose 
 value the theatre never understands — so 
 Portia does. Here endeth the greatest play 
 seen in the world. All manhood and all 
 womanhood in that one little compass. All 
 passions and all feelings — all love, friendship, 
 hatred, pity, spite, vengeance, apostasy, and 
 murder : brain, law, argument, patience, irrita- 
 tion, religion, humour, scorn. 
 
 I must have paid Charles Kean out for 
 that introduction to his Columbine. How 
 good to her he was, as he was to everybody 
 round him. She fell into an illness of weak- 
 ness soon after she had been promoted to 
 the part, and he lost her services. But 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 135 
 
 finding that a family was dependent on her, 
 he not only paid her full salary all the time, 
 but provided her with the best stout, which 
 her doctor ordered her to drink, and sent 
 her to the sea when well enough. But for 
 me, I became the terrible infant or chartered 
 libertine of the theatre. On my way to the 
 last train for Harrow or for Oxford, I would 
 jump out of my cab, and in my tall hat and 
 a mask " go on " with the crowd in the 
 masked-ball scene of the Corsican Brothers, 
 or hide behind the skirts of the girls in the 
 Royal box under suppressed laughter when 
 Henry the Fifth was being rehearsed, and 
 Kean would call out, " I know it's that boy. 
 Take him away. He's upsetting my whole 
 arby." Or appear behind the scenes at a 
 wrong moment during the performance, and 
 be rushed at by the great manager with, " Go 
 away, I'll tell your father ! " Which he 
 never did. He was a lovable friend and 
 man ; and I often went after breakfast to his 
 house in Hyde Park Street, when the theatre 
 spared me the self-imposed duties of re- 
 hearsals which would have done without me, 
 for the delight of a good talk with Mrs. Kean 
 
136 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 and him. One morning I found him fuming 
 up and down. "What's the matter, Mr. 
 Kean ? " "The matter! Have you seen 
 the papers?" "Yes, why?" "There's a 
 new fellow come out in Hamlet." " Oh yes, 
 
 Dillon." " Dillod ! that's his name. 
 
 Confound him ! " " But why shouldn't he ? " 
 " Why shouldn't he ? Why, in my father's 
 time, if anybody had attempted to act one of 
 his great parts in London, all the papers 
 would have been down upon the man for his 
 impudence. None of them has mentioned 
 me this morning ! " " Pardon me, Mr. Kean, 
 I did see one." " Did you ? what did it 
 say?" I saw oil on the waters. " It said," 
 I told him, " that it was rash for any man to 
 play Hamlet in London when there were 
 two such tragedians on the stage as Kean 
 
 and " " And Phelps, I suppose ! He 
 
 can't play the part a damn ! " So, like that 
 of the foolish virgins, my oil went out. 
 
 He loved to show me the workings of his 
 ship, as he called his cherished Princess's, 
 and all the mechanical arts and devices by 
 which, by the ingenuity of Oscar Byrne, he 
 succeeded in putting so confined a stage 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 137 
 
 to such elastic use. To make up for its 
 shallowness, he first invented the notion 
 of the scene set slantwise, to give depth 
 through perspective ; and, when one thinks 
 of the vast strides made since by the 
 arts of lighting and decoration, the use to 
 which he turned his limited materials is 
 wonderful to look back upon. Neither by 
 the Saxe - Meiningen company nor any 
 other, I think, has his stage-management of 
 crowds been ever bettered. And as Charles 
 Kean was a great and accomplished anti- 
 quarian, he was able to carry out his own 
 designs without the advice of sculptor or of 
 artist, especially in the great historical " re- 
 vivals " — as it became the odd fashion to talk 
 of plays which, never dying, can never be 
 revived — in which he made a great advance 
 upon Macready, and no man since has ever 
 been able to advance on him. He made his 
 Ariels and angels float in the apparent air 
 by a mechanical contrivance all his own. 
 Kneeling on a solid perch hidden by gauze 
 at the back, which glided up and down a 
 groove, and was covered by long trains or 
 petticoats, they were a puzzle always to the 
 
138 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 audience ; and the apotheosis of Marguerite 
 in Faust, as a vision of Carlotta Leclercq's 
 peerless beauty, was of all stage pictures one 
 of the most memorable. It was a little dis- 
 enchanting to such a young outsider, perhaps, 
 to see these mysteries at work from behind, 
 and on one occasion, when six angels ap- 
 peared to Queen Katharine in a vision in 
 Henry VIII. , I was the witness of a sad 
 catastrophe. There were six of them sliding 
 on invisible perches up and down a sunbeam. 
 They were all pretty, and nicely graduated 
 in years and height, so that the topmost 
 angel was a little child. With keen youthful 
 interest I watched them being tied on their 
 perches in a kneeling attitude, and then 
 draped with gauzy flowing mysteries till they 
 all seemed sitting upon nothing. Then the 
 soft music began to play, and the pulleys to 
 work them up and down, and the gauzes to 
 be withdrawn which were between them and 
 Queen Katharine's dying couch ; and then 
 they began to sway their bodies and to wave 
 their arms ; and then the little child-angel 
 at top, who had been eating too many 
 pranges, began to feel the motion and wa§ 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 139 
 
 rather sick ; and the girl-and- women angels 
 down below her, descending as it were from 
 heaven in a bee-line, disliked it very much ; 
 and they ministered to the poor Queen that 
 night in but a half-hearted sort of way, 
 particularly when the audience encored the 
 vision. 
 
 After a celestial experience such as that, it 
 was but earthy to be taken by Kean to the 
 regions overhead one morning, to see his 
 new thunderstorm, then raging every night. 
 Over a floor above the stage was spread a 
 sheet of iron, and in the corner, revolving on 
 a pivot, a mighty box all full of cannon-balls. 
 You had but to tip the box and the storm 
 came on. It burst in a sudden crash with all 
 the cannon-balls, then growled itself out in 
 declining fury as they ran about the floor. 
 " You must be very quiet, my boy," said Kean, 
 "as they are rehearsing the new farce under- 
 neath." Whereupon with true Harrovian 
 instinct I said, " Yes," and tipped the box 
 immediately. I have been in the middle of 
 severe thunderstorms amongst the Alps and 
 elsewhere, but never in one like that I made 
 myself, The thunder had all to be collected 
 
HO BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 again, and as no lightning had introduced it 
 in the usual polite way to the company down- 
 stairs they nearly all had fits. The stage- 
 manager and prompter leaped headlong up to 
 the flies by the first stairs they could get at, 
 scenting some awful catastrophe to the 
 machinery. And dear old Charles Kean, 
 most childishly amused of mortals when any- 
 thing upset his gravity, sat down amongst 
 the cannon-balls and laughed till he couldn't 
 see. 
 
 His Corsican Brothers and Louis the 
 Eleventh were, I think, the crown of his 
 achievements as an actor. Nobody ever 
 touched him in the first. So stern and 
 picturesque an embodiment of a remorseless 
 fate as he, when he came face to face with 
 his brother's slayer in the last act, never 
 crossed the stage. So intensely calm and so 
 unutterably still, intensity in its true sense was 
 Charles Kean's force. When he had broken 
 his sword in two to match his enemy's, and 
 wound his handkerchief round the steel point 
 and his wrist, he never took his eye off 
 Chateau- Renaud's face, or moved one muscle 
 of his own. Nor did he stir one inch from 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 141 
 
 the place where he had taken stand. He 
 simply turned and turned again upon his heel 
 to face the duellist, who was round him, 
 about him, savage and anxious and alert, 
 everywhere — striking at Fabien fiercely, over 
 and over again, to have the stroke turned 
 easily aside, and always, by that iron wrist, 
 Kean struck once, and once only, as the fate- 
 clock of the forest rang the hour. And in a 
 mass, and in a moment, Chdteau-Renaud fell 
 at his feet stone dead, like the chieftains in 
 Macaulay's lay. Usually unequal, seldom 
 playing anything so well that there was not 
 something weak in it, seldom anything so ill 
 that it had nothing great, Charles Kean was 
 on the whole, I think, at once the greatest 
 master of the drier humours, and in his best 
 parts the most impressive actor I ever saw. 
 And he knew the force of contrast. Himself 
 a small though splendidly knit man, he liked 
 a big Chi,teau-Renaud, who towered well 
 above him, and looked as if he could break 
 him in his hand. Fechter was a mere fidget 
 in that double-character, after him. 
 
 Louis XL was a greater feat ; the actor's 
 greatest ; for he made himself the man. I 
 
Hi BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 am by no means sure that it isn't one of 
 Irving's greatest achievements, too, showing 
 how differently two great actors may read the 
 same part. For except the grim humour 
 shown in different ways, the two bear no 
 resemblance. Irving might almost have 
 studied the avoidance of Kean's points, and 
 the invention of his own, from Kean, but 
 that he never saw him in the part. Irving is 
 the more subtle. Kean was the more intense. 
 There never was a false note or feature in 
 that picture all the way. Familiar, cruel, 
 superstitious, weak yet strong, fearful and 
 obstinate, a king through all. He made to 
 himself a wonderful walk for the part which 
 was all his own, a kind of trot which was 
 almost a run, yet curiously natural. He had 
 studied the character from the book of 
 " Quentin Durward," and his portrait had 
 nothing in common with the work of the 
 French actors, Ligier or Beauvallet, both 
 far his inferiors in the part. He thought out 
 every detail to a fascinating whole, incarnate 
 cruelty being his starting-point, and the result 
 remains alive with me to this hour, full-grown 
 Velasquez. I used to go and see it so often 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 143 
 
 that the great man grew suspicious of Carlotta 
 Leclercq's attractions.'^as the Dauphin, for 
 my youthful mind. Certainly never did maid 
 wear the lovely garnish of a boy more beauti- 
 fully. " Herbad," he said, " you're rather pre- 
 cocious, you dow. I don't believe you come 
 here to see be at all. It's Biss Leclercq's 
 legs." To a certain extent, I'm not sure 
 that it wasn't true. They had their charm. 
 
 Every really great actor leaves a name, 
 chiefly associated with one part, and not 
 a part from Shakespeare. We all discuss 
 their Hamlets and their Richards, but 
 Kemble's Cato, Macready's Richelieu, Phelps' 
 Sir Pertinax, Kean's Louis XI., Booth's 
 Foots Revenge, Irving's Bells? Is not the 
 reason pretty clear ? Shakespeare is too 
 great. It is literal fact that his greatness has 
 distinctly injured, and not helped, the pro- 
 gress of the playwright's art in England. It 
 sets up in the poetry of it an Elizabethan 
 standard to begin with, which cannot be 
 pulled down by the boldest Victorian raider. 
 All men who aim at the highest in the art 
 are brought to the one comparison. It is 
 like standing up for electrocution. And 
 
144 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 managers that speechify maunder all over the 
 place about the "coming man," for whom 
 they wait, helping thereby the poor old cant 
 about the lack of dramatists, which never 
 changes, and riseth from the hearts and pens 
 of the great multitude of ready writers, who 
 want to indite plays and cannot. Their own 
 are all right, of course, each speaking for him 
 or herself, the next and greatest need being to 
 get somebody else to think so. The maun- 
 derers mean that they want another Shakes- 
 peare. Well, they won't get him. There 
 will be a new drama when there is another 
 Shakespeare. There will be a new religion 
 when there is another Bible. Be thankful 
 for what you have, and don't be always sneer- 
 ing. Sneering is, in itself, proof positive of 
 conscious inferiority. 
 
 As with the authors, so with the actors. 
 Shakespeare crushes. The best of them 
 struggle under such a weight of language, 
 like Tarpeia under the golden ornaments. 
 The very words exhaust all human passion. 
 What is there to add ? But it is the actor's 
 work to add, not by the unwholesome thing 
 called gagging — though even that is some- 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 145 
 
 times not without its use — but by interpreta- 
 tion and by thought. There is a story of a 
 French author who grew very uncomfort- 
 able when Bouff6 was rehearsing a character 
 of his. The actor asked him if he had 
 any fault to find. " Mais Monsieur, vous 
 n'ajoutez rien ! " he said. With Shakespeare, 
 on n'ajoute pas. 
 
 Singular that to this rule I recall one 
 exception, and that, to his honour be it said, 
 a Frenchman. Fechter's appearance as an 
 English actor followed shortly after Charles 
 Kean's retirement from management, and, 
 too soon, from life. And Kean was more 
 amusing about " that Frenchman " than about 
 anything else. His own French, it must be 
 admitted, was purest Captain of the Boats. 
 " Shattow-Reddow," with a strong emphasis 
 on the first syllables, was his way of dwelling 
 on the duellist, whom Fechter dismissed as 
 " Chateaurenaud " all in one syllable, as the 
 man of Killarney contrived to do, they say, 
 with McGillicuddy's Reeks. That any 
 Frenchman should act in English at all was 
 too much for that Etonian spirit. But that 
 he should act any of his — Kean's — parts, was 
 
146 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 sacrilege. Why, it was worse than " Dillod." 
 Some rash intruder accused Kean of having 
 had hints from Fechter about his Mephis- 
 topheles — a strong stage picture of the 
 popular fiend from the jocular stand-point, 
 but memorable — and he admitted it with a 
 reservation. When he grew excited, his m's 
 and n's were wont to get more mixed than 
 ever with him. " Taught me, did he ? Dab 
 his impudence. I went to see him in Paris, 
 and he showed me how to bake by dose." 
 
 Nevertheless, it is by right of his Hamlet 
 and I ago that Fechter takes his rank with 
 me. Of all my actors of romance he was the 
 best, and in that light he made those parts 
 quite daringly his own. It has been told of 
 " W. G. " the cricketer, that when he made 
 his first appearance at Brighton with his new- 
 methods, Alfred Shaw the bowler, after the 
 match was over, complained to an old chum — 
 the umpire, who had not seen Grace before — 
 that he never bowled so well in his life, and 
 that he was always being hit for four or six 
 against the rules. "It's all very well," he 
 said, "but it ain't cricket." "Well Alfred, 
 I dunno," answered the pal. "If you bowls 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 147 
 
 him all you knows, and he cobs you out of 
 the ground every time, I calls it cricket, and 
 
 good cricket too." So did an astonished 
 
 world remark of Fechter's Hamlet that it 
 was very wonderful, but wasn't Shakespeare, 
 Well, perhaps not, though only Shakespeare 
 knows. But if a Hamlet fairly sweeps you 
 off your feet in a whirl of new excitement, in 
 the scenes in which you have been most 
 accustomed to methods of quite another kind, I 
 
 call it Shakespeare,and good Shakespeare 
 
 too. My umpire in this case was a quaint 
 old box-keeper who had served under Kean, 
 and remained at the Princess's when Fechter 
 was there. Of course we were old friends, 
 and when I went to see the Frenchman's 
 Hamlet, I asked him what he thought about 
 it before the play began. "Sir!" he said, 
 " it's wonderful. We all know Mr. Kean. 
 Mr. Kean was great. But with 'im, ' Amlet 
 was a tragedy, with Mr. Fechter it's quite 
 another thing. He has raised it to a meller- 
 dram." And in its stirring sense of action, 
 with his vivid stage-management, and with 
 his romantic, volcanic, lawless personality, 
 that is exactly what Mr. Fechter did. 
 
148 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 His I ago was another thing, and about 
 that there could be no mistake. It was 
 Shakespeare, and for the first time ; the 
 everybody's friend, the honest lago of the 
 poet's words. I have his photograph in the 
 part upon the wall behind me, and it should 
 stand for a picture of lago, with no name 
 attached. There never was such a portraiture 
 of the sheer triumph of mocking intellectual 
 power. Of all Shakespeare's tragedies 
 Othello is the weakest, for all its glorious 
 wealth of poetry and tongue. The motive is 
 so weak. So all unlike the motive power of 
 Lear or Romeo, Hamlet or Macbeth. "And 
 all that for a pocket-handkerchief! " (E tutto 
 questo per un fazzoletto !) was the Italian 
 lady's comment when she saw the play. A 
 question not only of the harmless necessary 
 cicerone, but such a widely Platonic one ! 
 Everything happens without excuse. Othello 
 is an ass — Desdemona an idiot — lago a 
 knave. lago's knavery, therefore, must rise 
 out of sheer exuberance of almost physical 
 delight, and a very athleticism of unscrupulous 
 roguery. He makes his fools his purses, 
 and his dumb-bells too, and all of them. His 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 149 
 
 is the central figure rightly played, as Boito dis- 
 covered when he wrote his poem for Verdi. And 
 without obtruding himself for a minute on the 
 scene unduly, Fechter played it so. They were 
 his puppets, all the rest, until Emilia turns, in 
 the one scene which, because it is so superbly 
 human, is the most powerful in all the play, 
 and gives the lucky actress of that little part 
 the much-loved "sympathy" denied to all 
 the rest. Even so has many a Macduff, to 
 the disgust of many a Macbeth, found him- 
 self the astonished hero of the hour. From 
 the moment of Emilia's burst, which found 
 him out, lago held his tongue. And Fechter 
 held it with a face, not of baffled villainy, but 
 of conquering contempt. Once, after the 
 council scene, he stayed alone upon the stage, 
 behind the rest, and having it all to himself 
 broke into one clear laugh of triumphant 
 enjoyment. Then sharply turned, and put 
 his finger to his lips, and went. His gestures 
 in the part were extraordinary, simply. His 
 pantomime alone, lightning-like, would have 
 made clear the meaning of the speech. 
 
 That I should wear my heart upon my sleeve 
 For daws to peck at. 
 
ijo BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 English actors are seriously hampered, a3 
 against the much-puffed foreign importa- 
 tions, by the fact that Englishmen do not 
 gesticulate, and that of acting gesticulation 
 is the life. For us, the less of it the better. 
 But Fechter, born of an Alsatian father, had 
 an English mother, and came from Hanway 
 Yard. Though his accent was marked, his 
 speech was clear, and his English scholar- 
 ship perfect. He knew his Shakespeare 
 through. And with him, appropriate gesture 
 was a part of his personality. 
 
 When Charles Kean retired from manage- 
 ment, and went for an acting-tour round the 
 world, a serious undertaking then, he wanted 
 me to go as one of the two actors whom he 
 took with him, as his Horatio or Laertes, 
 Bassanio or Gratiano, or what not. I wavered, 
 balanced, wished : but I was young and the 
 transition strong, and I let it go for what 
 it might have been worth. I wonder, was 
 I wrong ? I like to remember the Keans 
 most, I think, when they came out from 
 Exeter where they were acting, to dine one 
 Sunday evening at my grandmother's, a 
 country house some two miles distant. An 
 
CHARLES KEAN AND FECHTER 151 
 
 hour or so before they came, a country 
 parson-cousin of the true Devonian type 
 came out to call. He was very eccentric, 
 told wonderful stories, and would have made 
 his fortune as an actor. His son, heredity- 
 condemned, went on the stage in after years, 
 James Nutcombe Gould, and made himself 
 a good name of his own before he was too 
 soon lost to us. But he would not have 
 touched his father. When my grandmother 
 began to fidget as Parson Gould stayed on, 
 he asked if anybody was coming to dinner. 
 She said the Keans. So he said he would 
 stay. My grandmother, convinced that he 
 was dangerous — for she was very nervous — 
 consulted me as to what she should say to 
 the Keans. I suggested that she should say 
 nothing, and that they would get on capi- 
 tally. But conscience induced her to take 
 Mrs. Kean aside, and warn her that the other 
 guest was most eccentric. Kean, being 
 warned, too, grew nervous, and dramatically 
 fixed the parson with his eye. But one 
 anecdote told another, and one joke certified 
 another ; his new acquaintance became too 
 much for him altogether, and they were as 
 
152 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 merely boys as I was. It ended in Manager 
 Kean offering Parson Gould anything he 
 liked, if he would but accept an engagement. 
 Parson Gould would have been right glad to 
 do it. Dear old Devonshire home, now gone 
 away from me with all the rest. I have had 
 good times with you in many ways, in spite 
 of Fate. It was long after that that 
 when she was very old, my grandmother 
 suddenly asked me how old I was. I told 
 her. " Oh ! But then it's quite time for you 
 to marry." "So it is, grandmamma. Have 
 you anybody to suggest?" "I don't know. 
 But I could find out. Oh, but I forgot. 
 You've taken to play-acting or something 
 like it, haven't you. Of course you can't 
 expect to marry among the gentry now." 
 Dear old-world ladies of Jane Austen's school. 
 For how long yet will you be with us ? 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ABOUT MY BOYHOOD AND 
 LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 
 
 Yes, it was a quaint change of life at that 
 age, to turn suddenly from a Corsican 
 Brother masquer at the Princess's to a good 
 little boy at Harrow. For I believe I was a 
 good boy, when I was left to myself ; at all 
 events harmless. I never got flogged, or 
 did anything dreadful. But I was very 
 lonely, and felt a good deal of sympathy when 
 I read of Anthony Trollope's sufferings and 
 experience at the same school. The mistake 
 in my case was entirely of home com- 
 mission, and was a hard one. I was forced, 
 and a year too young for my place, all 
 through. Even my Balliol matriculation 
 came six months too soon. And a spirit for 
 ever struggling, first against the classical and 
 then the legal, bars — while always pining 
 
i§4 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 for free literary emancipation, has but a 
 fourth dimension kind of a time of it. I 
 could even draw inspiration on the subject 
 from the New Mystics of the day, and re- 
 lapse into the Freemasonry of Pythagoras, 
 whose followers knew each other by strange 
 turns of thumb, and looked for guidance and 
 inspiration to the Worshipful Master of their 
 Lodge, whose creed of Creation was Har- 
 mony — whose keys to it, Music and Numbers, 
 whose cosmos filled the space between the 
 moon and the fixed stars — whose Heaven 
 lay between the moon and earth, whose 
 source of life was fire, with the central fire 
 for Universe's Hub. I might imagine my- 
 self to have lived before in the congenial 
 days of Horace, and have walked down 
 Sacred Street according to my custom, medi- 
 tating trifles I know not what, and all in 
 them, but, unlike him, needy, and out of 
 work, and stopping at the columns, or book- 
 seller's shop, to pick up a second-hand 
 papyrus cheap, or ask if anybody wanted a 
 translation from the Greek on modest terms. 
 If, however, I have ever had glimpses of a 
 previous existence myself, they have been 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 155 
 
 usually after dinner, and the matter-of-fact 
 element in my composition militates terribly 
 against the new brotherhoods. In fact, I can- 
 not but agnize a certain mental flabbiness in 
 this the twentieth Age of Messianic Era, 
 mainly to be detected in an unwholesome 
 crop of double surnames betokening a 
 kind of hesitating and general uncertainty of 
 men as to what they really think, impartially 
 sown along the various paths of life. Chris- 
 tian-Scientists, Anglo-Catholics, Liberal- 
 Imperialists, Liberal - Unionists, Conserva- 
 tive-Democrats, Garden- Architects, all seem 
 rather representative of the Age of the 
 Mixed Ideas. 
 
 Oh, sympathetic reader, should I meet 
 with one, you will feel that mine was not a 
 happy boyhood, in spite of Thespian excite- 
 ments none too wise at that age. All very 
 well perhaps, if instead of turning actor or 
 even scribe, the authorities had not insisted 
 on my making a lawyer of myself Love- 
 lessness and violent bickerings on the hearth 
 are not a healthy school, and I was a good 
 deal worn out with it before my days of adoles- 
 cence. I do not on reflection recognise mine 
 
10 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 either as an unkindly or ungenerous nature, 
 but " Put him out of the way anywhere " 
 was always the family device where my poor 
 person was concerned. So it is now, for the 
 unnatural tradition has been thoroughly well 
 kept. And up to sixteen or thereabouts I 
 was a very small person indeed. Precocity 
 appears to have been my sin, and it is a 
 fearful nuisance. But it was not my fault if I 
 was set on tables to recite — usually "Young 
 Lochinvar," or selections from the " Battle of 
 the Lake Regillus." I recite the last in 
 private still in hours of weakness. But I 
 must have been a rather dreadful boy, through 
 no fault of my own, at moments such as 
 these. Only the other day I met again a 
 very old lady, who remembers me well in 
 those days, and heard me. And she says I 
 was. Nor was precocity sufficient reason 
 for robbing an imaginative child of all home 
 influence, for what it might have been worth, 
 and of all home care when he was only eight 
 years old, and pitching him headforemost 
 into a private school of the Dotheboys order, 
 commoner in those days than I hope they 
 may be now. I was far the youngest and 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 157 
 
 smallest of all the young and small boys 
 there, and to this hour I can recall my heart- 
 breaking sobs at evening, when I found 
 myself in the garden of the school-house all 
 alone, the servant who had brought the new 
 boy down having departed for the home that 
 had cast forth his infancy. It was weak of 
 me to cry ; unmanly, the schoolmistress that 
 very night informed me with a glare through 
 spectacles. But I was only eight. 
 
 The discipline of that uncomfortable place 
 did not improve my early battered nerve, 
 shaken at its most sensitive period by such 
 cold, hard measure from the authorities at 
 home. The master and mistress of the delect- 
 able academy might upon such precedent be 
 excused, perhaps, if they regarded me as a 
 plant worth neither cherishing nor tending. 
 But their joint effect was singularly bad on 
 everybody. One of my fellow sufferers 
 there, a fine fellow and an able one, who 
 died in the after years with a disordered 
 mind, said steadily and always that his 
 temper never recovered the effects of that 
 private school. Nor has mine, aver, for 
 temper turns on nerve. And nerve on 
 
158 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 training, subject to constitution, which in my 
 case happily both stood and stands, through 
 everything that nearest and dearest with the 
 help of a bosom friend could or can do to 
 kill it, illogically strong and cheery as it was. 
 But then, in my case, as compensation rules 
 in all things, marriage was to prove, after 
 long years of one unbroken trial, the reward 
 for all and more. And oh, how the nearest 
 and dearest cried out upon that marriage, 
 and would have stopped it if they could. 
 But as it so happened that at that crisis of 
 my life my n's and d's — but female then, my 
 father being dead — had lovingly deserted 
 me in illness they had caused, and left me to 
 sink or swim with a fervent aspiration for 
 the first, they were not in a position to forbid 
 the banns. My ladye was not afraid, and 
 took me up. But my family affections 
 take some colour from Thackeray and The 
 Newcomes. 
 
 Of course I was bullied at Little Dothe- 
 boys, badly and righteously. I don't com- 
 plain of that, it's boy-humanity. And I sup- 
 pose that boy-nature in those respects is 
 best set forth in the little fellow who was 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 159 
 
 taken to the bosom of the kind old lady who 
 condoled with him when he poured forth his 
 complaints about being " tunded " by the 
 big boys at school. " Never mind, dear, the 
 lesson will do you good. When you're a 
 big boy in your turn you wont tund the 
 little ones." "Oh wont I .■* " I was well 
 tunded, certainly, and the schoolmistress 
 began it. My poor little games of imagina- 
 tion were all stopped. " Thank goodness," 
 said a relative who shall be nameless, of my 
 weaknesses in that way, "we knocked all 
 that nonsense out of him." And indeed 
 they did, for a time and for a long time. 
 But the result of expelling Nature with a 
 fork was long ago proverbial. It would 
 crop up again. Even if my bricks were 
 impermissible — it seems so odd to me to 
 think that I was only eight, when I was 
 turned out of home to be so ruthlessly sup- 
 pressed in this way — I should have liked my 
 toy-stage, with paper figures, on which I 
 tried to produce my miniature tragedy. 
 Finding it ineffective as an acting play, I 
 fell back upon Grindoff ; or the Miller and 
 his Men. Such mischievous pastimes were 
 
i6o BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 no more for me, and I ground the classical 
 mill of those days with a very weak and 
 early hand indeed, and even with a weaker 
 and a lesser heart. I wonder often how I 
 ever learned to love and to write plain 
 English in spite of destiny. But it was 
 always my one ambition, and somehow I 
 think I do. 
 
 The schoolmaster of Little Dotheboys, of 
 whom let me speak respectfully as Wanks, as 
 a name that can injure nobody, was a weak 
 and gentle, handsome and generally ignorant 
 clergyman. His wife, my schoolmistress, and 
 so to speak our boss, was his elder ; coarse, 
 strong, and loud, and usually a little drunk. 
 Ushers supplied the learning as best they 
 could. There were no young male Wankses, 
 but four young female, all in residence. The 
 boss began on me at once by cuffing me hard 
 on the head at a very early stage of my 
 school career, for hooking my paint-box on a 
 Sunday. And when I murmured "Oh dear!" 
 under my youthful breath, she vowed I said 
 " Oh damn ! " — I don't think I then knew the 
 expression — and ever after I was viewed as 
 an early and hardened reprobate. I was so 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS i6i 
 
 much talked about from this point of view 
 before I was nine, that I began to believe in 
 my own wickedness. Everything in my story 
 so far would go to prove that I was, and am, 
 a very bad character indeed ; and unless 
 others are, I must be. At that stage I had 
 little left to do but glory in my evil, and, 
 I ago-like, I assumed a scowl. It grew into a 
 dangerous habit I have never quite lost, and 
 made me in early youth solitary and un- 
 popular. I didn't make a friend in the world, 
 I think, before my Oxford days, with the 
 strange exception of my beloved Harrow head- 
 master. Dr. Vaughan, unless it was Charles 
 Kean, and the two nurslings of his who are 
 so still. No wonder either, for I was young 
 and sensitive, and too entirely cowed. How 
 I did loathe that preparatory school — pre- 
 paratory, thank heaven, for a life that was 
 not to be. Mine has not been, and was not, a 
 dull one, or an unhappy one, after all. Was 
 it not Dumas, the elder, who declared that 
 the broad life of art and letters, with all its 
 fights and drawbacks, was the one best worth 
 living ? Throw in a dash of most things else 
 all round, and in my case he was not far from 
 
i62 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 right. There is enough of the vowel I in 
 this, to begin with, but so it mote be. So 
 there has been among most of the worthy- 
 gossips and egoists, to whom it is the pur- 
 pose of this vivacious history to add another 
 bore. 
 
 Shortlyafter that early castigation — Sunday 
 if not Sabbatical for my soul's good, and so 
 conducive to future Sunday observance for a 
 child — in the absence of the much-crushed 
 master the mistress studied my primitive 
 Greek exercise. Even then I had learned 
 something somehow. And she clouted my 
 bothered little head more stunningly than 
 before, for not having dotted my i's and 
 crossed my t's. I said that the Greeks didn't. 
 She said I was a liar, for Greeks were not 
 fools like me, and clouted me again. When 
 Dominie came home he took my side with a 
 submissive hesitation. He, too, said that the 
 Greeks didn't. She fiercely answered it was 
 time they did. I must have been quite nine 
 by that time. 
 
 I don't remember flogging at that school. 
 The ceaseless torture was more deadly, more 
 refined. The food was good, and in appear- 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 163 
 
 ance plentiful. Brimstone and treacle were 
 not in the bond. But it was always removed 
 when infant stomachs craved for it. If such 
 a poor little Oliver Twist as I suggested a 
 thought more mutton, the lady thundered, 
 " Take his plate away ! He has had quite a 
 pound of meat already ! " The games of that 
 Elysium I forget, except the " Rounders," 
 which I vividly remember. Somebody threw 
 a ball to me. If I hit it, fairly good. It was 
 so thrown that if possible it might be missed. 
 If I but missed it thrice, I had but to run 
 as best I might, and for the nearest goal. 
 Such as they were, my trousers were but 
 tight below my little jacket, and an usher, 
 standing behind the crease, hurled with much 
 force a tennis-ball at the unprotected part, 
 and rarely missed it. I didn't like that game. 
 Oh children ! children ! what a time you had. 
 When we retired at eventide. Orientally 
 we had to take off our shoes or boots, and 
 place them on the mat outside the door. 
 Then we passed in review before the assembled 
 family, and said, " Good-night, Mr. Wanks ; 
 Good-night, Mrs. Wanks ; Good-night, Miss 
 Wanks ; Good-night, Miss Jane Wanks ; 
 
164 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Good-night, Miss Amelia Wanks ; Good- 
 night, Miss Thomasina Wanks ; " and got 
 to bed. We were washed every Saturday 
 night, that we might be clean for Sunday, 
 and religiously disposed, in order to go twice 
 to church, and pray from out our youthful 
 hearts that all the nobility might be endued 
 with grace, wisdom, and understanding. Like- 
 wise the bishops, and the Houses of Parlia- 
 ment during their session. Out of the ses- 
 sion, apparently, it didn't matter. To the 
 fullest extent, our prayers have not so far 
 been visibly answered. Anyhow, I do re- 
 member to this hour a certain rebellious feel- 
 ing, that it couldn't matter much to me. I 
 was wont to pray rather hard for my unlucky 
 little self, but that was outside the business. 
 The servant girls who washed our sinful 
 bodies every Saturday were kind and 
 sympathetic, as a rule, but scarcely in it. 
 Upon their own accounts, they hadn't a good 
 time. 
 
 Many years afterwards I visited as an old 
 pupil that deadly place once more. Little 
 Dotheboys was a desert, merely. Pupils there 
 were few, if any. The school had gone to 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 165 
 
 well-deserved grief. The grounds and parson- 
 age looked small, and mean, and miserable, 
 and deserted. I wondered from the heart of 
 me how I could once have thought the space 
 so large. Mr. and Mrs. Wanks were still 
 there, but quite ineffably run to seed, and 
 looking quarrelsome. For Nemesis had 
 fallen. They both made much of me, as I 
 had then made something of a name, but I do 
 not believe that either of them remembered 
 me in the very least. Apparently there were 
 no hapless ushers left to keep the tradition of 
 some learning up. Whither the various young 
 ladies had departed I know not ; to happi- 
 ness I hope ; for two of them at all events 
 were not unkindly girls ; and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Wanks both pleaded hard with me not to 
 forget them, and to recommend the school, 
 remembering what it had made of me ; and 
 rather sore of heart I went away ; and from 
 that hour have heard of them no more. In 
 that uncomfortable nursery of mind and body 
 I passed three wretched years. 
 
 Harrow? ah, why go on, except for 
 Vaughan ? Bullied and worried, more and 
 more and more. In the fifth form when I 
 
i66 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 was only twelve, I had to wear a tail-coat. 
 My Exeter tailor made it, and said he never 
 made one for so small a gentleman before. 
 I walked with pride into the streets with it, 
 and the Exeter boys jeered at me, very 
 rightly. The Harrow boys at once pulled 
 one tail off, and I went about in the other 
 like a de-tailed cock. The doctor himself 
 looked a little astonished, when after a keen 
 examination he placed me in the upper stall, 
 the highest to a new boy available ; and 
 when I went in to take my place there, 
 "everybody larfed," as Thackeray says, 
 and observed that there must be a mistake 
 somewhere. Indeed, I think there was. 
 It was May i, 1851, and in the morning I 
 had seen Paxton's exhibition opened ; and 
 after my instincts I was rather full of it. All 
 was a little sad and premature and hard, I 
 think ; and when many years afterwards I 
 was cheered on the school steps, much to my 
 astonishment, as an eminent Harrovian, side 
 by side with a new-made bishop with whom 
 I had driven down on Speech Day — "Bishop 
 and dramatist, lamb and lion together ! " 
 as Dr. Butler, head of the school when first 
 
MY BOYHOOD AND LITTLE DOTHEBOYS 167 
 
 I went there, said — it was like an odd, con- 
 fused, and quite unlicensed dream. Most of 
 my Harrow days, five years of them — I 
 think I dreamed in my odd solitary soul 
 away, except perhaps when we got up the 
 principal scene of the Merchant of Venice, 
 in Vaughan's house by permission, for boy 
 performance, and Lord Spencer, a senior boy 
 (Lord Althorp then), came in to gaze on 
 me. " Which is the boy who knows Charles 
 Kean ? " he said. I was enacting Launcelot 
 Gobbo, and thinking that I should have 
 been cast for Shylock. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW- 
 ON-THE-HILL 
 
 We played three scenes from the Merchant 
 at that bold school show. The wager, the 
 scene of the two Gobbos, and the trial. I 
 think the Gobbos and I were imported, on 
 the thrilling discovery that I knew Charles 
 Kean at home. Otherwise I was of not 
 much account. But, once set up as an 
 authority, I assumed much knowledge that I 
 hadn't. I was asked what an acting-manager 
 was. I hadn't noticed that item on the play- 
 bill at that age. So I affirmed at once that 
 there were two — a tragic-acting-manager 
 and a comic-acting-manager. As Launcelot, 
 I appointed myself the last, and Shylock by 
 similar right assumed the other post. I was 
 asked what the Venetian council-room ought 
 to be like. I replied that, as the case was 
 
OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW 169 
 
 one of life and death, the Doge's palace 
 would have been all hung with black cash- 
 mere as the proper thing, and cheap. Doges 
 were always in Adriatic straits. Whereupon 
 I had a line to myself in the programme, as 
 having designed the scenes. 
 
 In my precocious daring I had done more 
 than that. I wrote to the great Princess's 
 manager to confide to him our plan, and 
 asked him to tell me how we ought to dress. 
 His kindly antiquarian spirit was moved to 
 interest, and he wrote me many sheets of 
 historical advice, which took my breath away. 
 Some of us boys — a kind of inner cabinet — 
 sat down in council over it, and agreed that 
 on economical principles it was not to be 
 done. Our Shylock was a handsome boy, 
 called Daniel, which moved our audience, 
 when the night came, to the warmest applause 
 of all. " A Daniel come to judgment, yea, 
 a Daniel ! " was the signal for uproarious 
 applause, and it was generally voted that, as 
 far as the bard was concerned, he had never 
 written anything so good as that. Daniel- 
 Shylock entirely declined the unbecoming 
 garments suggested by Charles Kean, re- 
 
1 70 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 quiring something much more striking, to 
 indicate, as he said, the character, and he 
 finally appeared in an appropriate kind of 
 conjurer's robe which his sisters made for 
 him, all black, but profusely embroidered 
 with little yellow devils and cross-bones, till 
 he looked like a victim of the inquisition 
 prepared for the Act of Faith. Which, of 
 course, is exactly what the Jew ought to 
 have been, and in his proper surroundings 
 would have been. Our Portia was one of 
 the irrepressible Ponsonbys, those gallant 
 votaries of the stage and of the cricket-field ; 
 though my especial mate, in after days to 
 become a dear friend now gone, was to find 
 his line of work in a single-hearted and 
 active devotion to the Church. A good man 
 if there was one, but great company and a 
 delightful humorist. His youthful task was 
 simple, as he appeared only in his lawyer 
 guise. He borrowed of a rising junior the 
 necessary wig and gown and bands, and 
 addressed the Doge's Court in boyish mimi- 
 cry as a man would the Recorder's, with one 
 foot on a chair, his right fist pounding his 
 brief as drawn up for him by Bellario who 
 
OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW 17 J 
 
 instructed him, his wig a little bit awry and 
 his left hand underneath his gown behind 
 him. " May it please yer, m'lud," was in 
 every line of him, and in the mercy-speech 
 one fairly missed a jury. The Venetian 
 legal system was incomplete without it. 
 
 Our Dook was a great Dook, whose name 
 in English flesh was Meade. He, too, fol- 
 lowed forensic precedent by dressing as near 
 a judge as he could, in a full-bottomed wig 
 with a small gilt coronet on top and scarlet 
 robes so heavy that he was uncomfortable in 
 them when he moved. But he preserved 
 his dignity by keeping as rigid on his seat, 
 half-throne half-bench to point the double 
 nature of the part, as he well could, and in 
 one line, in spite of prompters, persisted in 
 a reading of his own. He steadily refused 
 to address the Jew according to the text, 
 with : 
 
 Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. 
 
 With more respect for position than for 
 rhythm he insisted upon substituting through- 
 out : 
 
 Shylock, I think, and the world thinks so too. 
 
172 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 As for myself the Launcelot, I took a cab 
 from the paternal home in Westbourne 
 Terrace and drove to a large ready-made 
 clothier's establishment in the Edgware Road, 
 where I invested in a huge rustic smock- 
 frock coming down to the ankles and belted 
 with leather at the waist. The seller assured 
 me that he supplied like garments in the 
 gross to the village crowds at the Marylebone 
 Theatre in Church Street hard by. And 
 I think there was a play fitted ; though, 
 while figuring as Comic-Acting-Manager and 
 Designer of Scenery on our playbill, I was 
 perhaps not sorry to escape the responsi- 
 bility of designer of costumes. 
 
 Our farce to follow was of course Box and 
 Cox. Nobody ever presumed on anything 
 else in those days. My dear old Fred 
 Ponsonby relieved his Portia by the printer 
 Box, and a Hawkins, of much legal fame to 
 follow, supplemented Gobbo Papa by Cox 
 the Hatter. As Mrs. Bouncer I absolutely 
 refused to figure, so Antonio did it. A 
 good-looking and melancholy boy, to whom 
 the merchant and the lady of the lodging- 
 house came all as one. Melancholy being the 
 
OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW 173 
 
 key-note of both those human characters as 
 drawn by master hands, that was as it should 
 be. So — being as comic-acting-manager 
 obliged to figure in the farce — I took the post 
 of prompter, and sat in my smock-frock 
 with the yellow book, under a convenient 
 bracket with a tallow candle on it, which 
 discoursed its troubles on me in bewildered 
 streams till that hard hour was over. I was 
 very glad when it was. But I honestly be- 
 lieve that I was among the first who were 
 guilty of profaning a classic education with 
 theatricals at Harrow, as I was at Balliol 
 afterwards. Now they are part of the school 
 curricle everywhere. For good or ill, who 
 knoweth ? Once encouraged in acting, 
 school-boys care less for anything beside. 
 Man's an acting animal, from cradle up. 
 The evil masters do lives after them. They 
 enjoy the acting. 
 
 I was lonely and not happy as a Harrow 
 boy. The iron of that awful private school 
 had entered too deeply into such a nervous 
 child. I only got two prizes at Harrow, 
 having but tried for three. In my English 
 poem upon Westminster I ran a good second 
 
174 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 to George Trevelyaii, who emancipated him- 
 self from the eight-syllable fetters when I 
 dared not, and made a gallant dash into the 
 ballad-metre of his uncle Macaulay. One of 
 his couplets I remember now : 
 
 There the good Bishop of Bayeux unHke a bishop rode ; 
 A milk-white steed of Flemish breed the fiery priest be- 
 strode. 
 
 Alas ! what a loss it was to literature, when 
 George Trevelyan took to politics. One of 
 my own boy-couplets I remember too : 
 
 In one broad stream the fighting currents met. 
 And England crowned her first Plantagenet. 
 
 I carried off at Harrow the first of the 
 modern-language prizes, finding myself in 
 exactly the same perplexity as my bright 
 ally. Max O'Rell, since then. When he 
 was teaching at St. Paul's, he was asked his 
 terms for a series of lectures upon French 
 and German. He answered — so much for 
 French, though I forget what. And for 
 German ten times more. Applied to for his 
 reason for so vast a difference he explained, 
 " I should have to learn German." So had 
 I. French from the first came natural to 
 
OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW 175 
 
 me, I don't know why. Not so the other 
 tongue. And we had, at Harrow, to take 
 up two languages. So I took off my coat 
 for German with a month to do it in. 
 Happily for me, our modern language master 
 was a Briton, with very long red whiskers, 
 and a gentle Briton too, who, as I have since 
 then thought, knew very little about any 
 languages at all. His was a mild nature, 
 much played upon by naughty boys. Once 
 when he was holding his class there was a 
 talk of earthquakes in the papers. I fastened 
 a string to one of the legs of his magisterial 
 table, and gently jerked it as the lesson went 
 on. He scratched his chin and gazed into 
 the ceiling as was his wont, and said nothing. 
 But he interviewed the headmaster. Dr. 
 Vaughan, afterwards on the subject, on 
 scientific grounds, assuring him that in full 
 daylight he had experienced three slight but 
 very distinct shocks of the earth, coming up 
 through the legs of the table. The incident 
 has ever since recalled to me the Pickwickian 
 episode of Prodgers and the lantern. How 
 that beloved headmaster chuckled when I 
 told him. For, of course, I did. In French 
 
176 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 I knew that I was safe when the modern 
 language fight came on. But German — no. 
 I managed to get through my examination 
 upon paper passably enough, but when the 
 dreaded vivA voce came? No matter, my 
 earthquake friend was in the chair, divinely 
 absent in his mind as always. He called on 
 me to translate the passage from Schiller's 
 " William Tell " about the storm. Whereat 
 I stood up in my place, and in language of 
 vigorous improvisation — for improvise I 
 certainly could, in prose or in verse either — 
 declaimed all that I knew about the legend, 
 the story of our first — and then only — William 
 shooting the apple off his boy's head, in the 
 market-place of Altorf The other boys 
 looked on in awe and ignorance, and I was 
 too awake to give myself away. The master 
 listened in a dream, and scratched his head. 
 " Most excellent," he said. " I have not 
 been able to detect the smallest trace of 
 hesitation." And so I got full marks ; and, 
 afterwards, the prize. Conscience has 
 gnawed at times till this confession. 
 
 My other prize was for reading aloud, 
 when Trench, the archbishop's brother, gave 
 
OP DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW 177 
 
 One. A little hard on me, for at that hour 
 my youthful voice was cracking, and at im- 
 passioned moments dashed into a squeak. 
 And so discordantly, that after the first two 
 essays of the whole sixth-form before Dr. 
 Vaughan, I was placed on the retired list. 
 But the doctor was pre-eminently just, and 
 on reflection gave me another chance. I 
 took advantage of that chance, and won, by 
 the most determined efforts after modulation. 
 Murmur I might, but would not squeak 
 again. Oh, but how quaint was that incom- 
 parable doctor over it. We read a chapter 
 from Macaulay in succession. It fell to one 
 boy's turn — a good little chap pre-eminent in 
 cricket — to read the passage descriptive of 
 Bentinck's devotion to his Dutch king 
 William in illness. Pardon me for not re- 
 membering the exact words, but let us say 
 they ran like this : " I could not want a glass 
 of water, I could not want my pillow 
 smoothed, but that Bentinck was always 
 near me." With infinite and sarcastic disgust 
 the boy declaimed it all the wrong way on, 
 and in full tide of wrathful indignation. " I 
 couldnt want a glass of water ! I couldn't 
 
178 BAk, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 want my pillow smoothed, but that Bentinck 
 was always near me." The school-room 
 shook with laughter, the doctor leading suit. 
 It was a curious contest that. Boys were 
 eliminated, one by one. Then Dr. Vaughan 
 called in his counsellors, and it ended in 
 three of us boys, for an hour and more by 
 Harrow clock, reading aloud from ^schylus 
 and Shakespeare and other of the deities, to 
 three united Dominies sitting up in banc. 
 Whence I alone survived ; and, as for ever 
 I shall gratefully remember, gratefully to the 
 mightiest master of heart and language in 
 the universal world, since somebody or some- 
 thing set it rolling, I owed it to my reading 
 — cracked or no — of the shortest and most 
 perfect love-scene upon earth, maybe in 
 heaven either : 
 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark ! 
 
 Dear Dr. Vaughan ! My master ; more, 
 my friend. It was a pain to him when I left 
 Harrow just one year too soon, as just one 
 year too soon I entered it. He hated my 
 being taken away from him, for, as he often 
 told me, he had not enough special time to 
 
OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW 179 
 
 devote to more than one or two, at the end, 
 of those whom he believed to be his most 
 promising scholars, and — I am not speak- 
 ing without book — he believed that in another 
 year he would have fashioned out of my law- 
 less boyhood a classic scholar worthy of my 
 forbears. Thanks to those forbears, only it 
 was not to be ; and honestly, with my un- 
 chartered love of English, I can't say I regret 
 it. But he made a friend of me. Night after 
 night in my last Harrow summer, when the 
 house was all abed, did he and I go out for 
 night walks, round Harrow Park, and about 
 Harrow Hill. In all the loving and delight- 
 ful converse, which keen and listening youth 
 like mine can hold with mature and humorous 
 wisdom such as his. Oh — but he was humorous 
 — to those who knew, he of the Rugby manner 
 as we called it, bred in the school of Arnold, 
 with the velvet glove hiding the iron hand. 
 He, the one living instance of the "nolo 
 episcopari," who refused Bishoprics one after 
 another to hold upon his quiet way, yet in his 
 steady pride of dignity, when he accepted for 
 repose the post of Master of the Temple, for 
 the first time taught the big wigs who 
 
i8o BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 regarded chapels as a nuisance that as Master 
 he should hold his place amongst the best of 
 them. Of his infinite though little-known 
 spirit of unconquerable fun, I could give many 
 instances. One is enough, which always de- 
 lighted me. A frightened child called Dodd 
 was brought before him, charged with some 
 dire scholastic offence. "What is your 
 name?" said Dr. Vaughan, with due severity. 
 "Dodd, sir!" answered the trembling boy. 
 " Dodd ! Do you spell it with one d, or with 
 two?" "Yes, sir, three," stammered the 
 infant. The doctor put his head upon the 
 desk, covered it with his hands a moment, 
 and then dismissed the dangerous criminal 
 with a warning. He told me of it afterwards, 
 when I was drinking tea with him in his 
 room, to which he delighted to ask me, with 
 a great enjoyment. " I could no more have 
 punished that boy than flown," he said to me. 
 " Nobody before ever gave me such a lesson 
 in spelling." I was but a head-boy when he 
 said that to me. 1 am glad to remember that, as 
 a Harrow monitor, I was able for my master's 
 sake to let that same thrice d'd young Dodd 
 off various compulsory footballs after that. 
 
OF DR. VAUGHAN AND HARROW i8i 
 
 Our curious friendship lasted to the end. 
 Many, oh many years afterwards, when I was 
 married, I brought my wife to introduce to 
 the doctor, at luncheon in his Temple home. 
 " Mrs. Merivale," he said to her as I was 
 talking with his own delightful partner, a 
 Stanley of the Stanleys worthy of him, " I 
 want to show you something in my study." 
 My wife was perhaps a little tearful, when she 
 told me of their talk. It was a picture of 
 myself, over his fireplace. " That was my 
 favourite pupil, Mrs. Merivale, through all 
 my Harrow years." Have I some reason to 
 be proud of that ? At all events in all this 
 world, no pupil ever had a more beloved 
 and congenial master. What is the least 
 talked of, may one day be the best known. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 HARROVIANA WITH DIGRESSIONS 
 
 I NEVER shall, and never could understand 
 the principles on which I was educated. Why 
 was I pitchforked into a bad private school 
 at eight? Why was I made a fifth-form 
 Harrow boy, when I was only a nervous child 
 of twelve ? Why was I withdrawn therefrom 
 just when I was ripening under Vaughan, to 
 matriculate at Balliol when I was not quite 
 eighteen ? Why was I not discouraged more 
 consistently — as I was not to be encouraged 
 — in all sorts of literary and theatrical bargains, 
 when at twenty-five I was to be, by an ex- 
 pensive modernism, dumped down at a Bar 
 which from my heart and soul I loathed ? 
 Why was I permitted — nay, obliged — to live 
 the extravagant life of an Oxford under- 
 graduate of the day, with wines, and rides, and 
 tennis-courts, and all the rest of it, and then 
 
HARROVIAN A WITH DIGRESSIONS 183 
 
 mauled severely over the parental coals be- 
 cause I left college with a few — a very few — 
 small debts behind me ? For ten years like 
 a man I stuck to my detested calling, haunted 
 always by an uneasy sense that I had no 
 earthly business to be championing causes 
 which I felt to be all wrong, with the same 
 happy complacency as when I knew them to be 
 all right. I wonder if that is why the lawyers 
 never let their meetings pass without a general 
 vindication of their virtues and a holding forth 
 about their honour ? Who's a-deniging of 
 it, Betsy ? I stuck to it to please the home- 
 authority which afterwards left me nothing at 
 all in life to go on with, after so long a course 
 of deliberately misdirected education. That 
 money was spent on me like water there can 
 be no doubt. But it did me no good, being, 
 as it were, mechanically done, as a presumed 
 fulfilment of the whole duty of parents. Indeed, 
 by the irony of fate, it seemed to take especial 
 delight in being spent on the wrong thing. 
 Expensive as need be was my whole legal 
 curricle. First the chambers of a pleader and 
 then those of a conveyancer, with agreeable 
 attendances on the mysteries of the Courts 
 
1 84 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 of Law, and the wondrous series of Inns of 
 Court dinners, by which the sucking barrister 
 is, I suppose, held to eat wisdom into his 
 mental parts, by road of stomach. And then 
 the Western Circuit and Sessions, with ex- 
 pense more free than ever, the society of 
 pleasant chums, claret and champagne for a 
 favourite mess drink, and all things that make 
 the budding lawyer's life so valuable a one. 
 And when after a few years of casual briefing 
 I came into a pleasant little junior's practice, 
 it was in a specialty of Indian appeals in the 
 Court of Privy Council, for the which all the 
 pleading, and the conveyancing, and the 
 dining, and the circuiting, and the humbugg- 
 ing, and the golden guineas lavished there- 
 upon, had literally served no purpose what- 
 soever. And thus it was that, in spite of 
 all this struggle against the grain, by follow- 
 ing all the time in spite of me my own in- 
 veterate prepossessions, I feel myself to be, 
 in spite of appearances and years of costly 
 training in nothing, that person so much talked 
 about, the man self-educate. I just taught 
 myself, as best I could, what other's teaching 
 left me time to learn. 
 
HARROVIANA WITH DIGRESSIONS 185 
 
 I am not the only man of my time with 
 whom the sink-or-swim business has been 
 regarded as the shortest cut to education. I 
 do remember one of a learned pundit who 
 had two stalwart sons. " A very odd man, 
 that," said one of his acquaintance. "He 
 sends one of his boys into the navy to pre- 
 pare him for the Bar, and the other to Balliol 
 to prepare him for the army." And I as I 
 said made my first Harrow bow at twelve, 
 to be made a butt of from the start. For I 
 was in those days a mite even for my age, 
 but placed by the doctor in the upper shell 
 after a brief trot-out in Greek (Greek ! at 
 that hour of the day !) which was the highest 
 place to which a new boy could aspire. 
 I was agreeing with an early brother- 
 Dotheboys, the other day, that somehow 
 there must have been some seeds of learning 
 sown at that early seminary, though as far 
 as I can remember few of us picked them 
 up ; and when I was marched into the 
 upper shell room — it was a week after the 
 regular opening — the class-master regarded 
 me through a magnifying-glass and marched 
 me out again, saying that there must be some 
 
1 86 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 mistake. At the end of the first school term 
 I was moved up into the fifth-form, which 
 wears tail-coats of all absurd monstrosities. 
 
 Antony Trollope had no worse a time 
 at Harrow, for I was very wretched. My 
 first bedroom I shared with three scions 
 of the nobility, as the novelists of that day 
 called them. One young lord and two young 
 honourables, and all three vied as to which 
 could bully me the hardest, which has been 
 perhaps the cause of subversive tendencies 
 in the blood with me, ever since. In such 
 strange ways does the world-stream mould 
 characters. It was a little sad, all of it, I 
 think, for I doubt if there is a harder lot in 
 some ways in this world than being mis- 
 understood, and I was always fretting. All 
 the odder the contrast between that, and 
 being presented about that time to Charles 
 Kean's colubbide who patted me on the 
 head and talked to me like Miss Fotheringay, 
 in the wing by the prompter's box. I doubt 
 if that premature vision of pink silk tights 
 at close quarters ever quite faded from my 
 memory. 
 
 Mostly I mooned away my time at Harrow, 
 
HARROVIANA WITH DIGRESSIONS 187 
 
 always in odd day-dreams about authorship, 
 which were one day to come true within 
 their Hmits ; a more born scribbler never 
 lived. When I have nothing else to write 
 I have always written letters, and deeply 
 mourn, in these degenerate days of type- 
 writing, the disappearance of that pleasantest 
 of figures, the correspondent-friend. Among 
 women a few linger ; amongst men, none. 
 They nearly all write at you through their 
 secretaries ; and the secretaries, whose only 
 business is to write, will but be rude through 
 typewriters. I do detest playing literature 
 on a sort of pianoforte. What delightful 
 correspondences have I held, before those 
 things came in, with such close friends as 
 were to me George Bentley, the publisher, 
 and Hutton of the old Spectator. The style 
 of a typewriter, like his handwriting, is always 
 just the same. Pens help a man to think, 
 and English disappeareth with them. And 
 so I mooned at Harrow, in the churchyard 
 by Byron's tomb — and wondered at the epi- 
 taphs — particularly two, one on a railway - 
 guard called Port, who was run over on the 
 line : 
 
1 88 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Bright rose the dawn, and vigorous rose poor Port ; 
 Gay on the train he used his wonted sport. 
 Before the eve his mangled form they bore, 
 AVith pain distorted, and o'erwhelmed with gore. 
 But when night came to close the fatal day, 
 A ruthless corpse the gallant sufferer lay. 
 
 The other was reflective, but yet more 
 wonderful. 
 
 Remember me as you pass by ; 
 As you are now, so once was I. 
 As I am now so you will be ; 
 Remember Death and follow me. 
 
 Under which Hnes some most irreverent wag 
 cut out an added couplet. Thus : 
 
 To follow you I'm not content, 
 Unless I know which way you went. 
 
 I wonder if those poems yet endure. But 
 most I delighted in summer, to moon to and 
 around Duck-Puddle, as our swimming-bath 
 was called, where, as I always loved swim- 
 ming, I used to bathe three or four times a 
 day. Indeed I had forgotten amongst my 
 school honours that I once won a prize for 
 headers. " Ars ithyocephalica " or art of the 
 straight head, the master who gave the prize 
 christened it in choicest Graeco- Latin, which 
 
HARROVIANA WITH DIGRESSIONS 189 
 
 even at that age offended my classical sense 
 of propriety, very much. For if you take a 
 header with a straight head, you break it, or 
 at all events hurt it considerably. It's just 
 what you mustn't do, except in Greek. 
 
 I loved my rackets, as afterwards my 
 tennis, very dearly. My cricket a little, but 
 not much. Football I loathed as horse-play, 
 and because we were obliged to play it as 
 part of the school course. Wherefore the 
 little boys like me were treated by the big 
 ones as so many extra footballs. I only liked 
 the warm bath afterwards, and then the 
 sausages and mashed potatoes at Parsons's 
 stuffy little grub-shop down the hill by the 
 cricket-ground ; Parsons — long since gathered 
 to his fathers and forgotten, having been a 
 very odd old Harrow character indeed. He 
 kept a kitten with six legs embalmed in a 
 case, whereof he was most justly proud. 
 Likewise he had a cunning knack at snufifing 
 candles with his fingers, and swallowing the 
 bits ; and he had an aged wife who cooked 
 the sausages before our eager eyes, and was 
 as funny in her way as he was. He and one 
 Billy Warner — a semi-cracked old boy who 
 
J90 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 sold brandy-balls in a very long red coat with 
 very large brass buttons — were the two town- 
 patriarchs of my Harrow day. 
 
 Cricket — may I confess it ? — always a little 
 bored me when I wasn't either batting or 
 bowling. The fielding and crossing over 
 when no balls came to you, seemed to my 
 impatient soul something in the proportion of 
 Falstaff s sack ; while the loafing about when 
 your side was in and you wasn't, was even 
 more difficult to get through. So my attain- 
 ments didn't rise above my house-eleven. 
 But I loved, as I do still, to watch a good 
 game, and fell upon the very prime of Harrow 
 cricket, when Billy Oxenham's house could 
 play the school, when Chandos Leigh and 
 Kenelm Digby were the captains, and the 
 mighty Walkers — precursors of the Graces 
 and cricket-founders of the county of Middle- 
 sex, carried the cricket world before them. 
 Great were the B Myites — thus called with 
 base familiarity — in those days of the game ; 
 and great was the famous chaffing-gallery 
 at Lord's, where once in every year, after the 
 summer half or quarter, or whatever you 
 called it, according to your school, was over, 
 
HARROVIANA WITH DIGRESSIONS 19I 
 
 Eton and Harrow and Winchester met, in 
 and out, for a whole week of battle. 
 
 It was in the early days of the Walkers 
 that I joined the chaffers first upon that crazy 
 gallery, outside the tennis-court, when that 
 good old game meant beauty — the beauty of 
 the bent body and the scythe-like stroke — 
 and the ball killed dead by steely wrist and 
 quiet skill, within the limit of the half-yard 
 chase. Seven Walkers were they — in the 
 land might none more mighty be — from J., the 
 eldest, the big wicket-keeper, down to I. D. 
 and the placid and elusive R. D., who, whether 
 at rackets, or tennis, or cricket, always put 
 the ball wherever you were not, and was 
 wherever you put it. I fought for rackets 
 with him afterwards, at Oxford with all my 
 wrist, and legs, and eye — I was rather pleased 
 with myself when we began — and remember 
 the state of heat in which I retired beaten 
 right off, and the unperturbed coolness of the 
 victor. So did another of these born game- 
 players, an Austen Leigh, after completely 
 exhausting a rival in two hours of Brighton 
 tennis, with hair unturned, and quite uncon- 
 scious calm, remark, " Now I must go and 
 
igz BAR, STAGE, AND ?LATPORM 
 
 take some exercise." The fourth of the 
 brethren, A. H., was one of the heroes of my 
 first Harrow eleven, and remains on my mind 
 as a boy who could do anything in the field, 
 from bowling to keeping wicket at a pinch. 
 I remember a long field throwing the ball up 
 over his head, instead of to his hands, when 
 he was doing so. Up shot the good right 
 arm, and with the same sweep he caught the 
 ball and cleared the bails off before the runner 
 could get home. As for V. E., the flower of 
 the whole flock, played for his fast round 
 bowling, he broke down from overstrain at 
 Harrow in the middle of an over, finished it 
 by improvised lobs, and then and there 
 became the lob-bowler of all time, till in a 
 match between all England and the victorious 
 Surrey of that day, I saw him go in late and 
 make his hundred and eight runs — a big feat 
 then — having begun by taking all the ten 
 Surrey wickets with those deadly slows. 
 When V. E. fielded at point or cover-point, I 
 used to gaze and wonder what on earth he 
 was made of. He was everywhere, and you 
 might have said of him what was said of 
 E. M. Grace, that there was nothing the 
 
HARROVIANA WITH DIGRESSIONS 193 
 
 man couldn't do except catch you at long- 
 stop — there were longstops in those days 
 — off his own bowling. It didn't matter 
 to V. E. at what part of his person the 
 batsman hit the ball, or how hard he hit 
 it. He caught it and kept it, and there an 
 end. 
 
 It is an odd thing, a cricket memory. But 
 curiously tenacious when you have watched 
 the game. Playing in the Western Circuit 
 team, I made acquaintance with an elder 
 whose name attracted me some thirteen years 
 after I had watched him from the chaffing- 
 gallery. " You were the Winchester captain 
 in the year blank," I said — I remember the 
 year but shall not specify— "and you made 
 sixty-five and forty-eight against Harrow, and 
 one hundred and twenty-six and two against 
 Eton." He admitted the impeachment, as 
 even but three or four years ago I found 
 myself at some chance hotel opposite a face 
 I remembered, but for the moment could not 
 fix with a name. We talked a little, and the 
 link was mended. " I know who you are," 
 I said to him. " You went in seventh wicket 
 down for Harrow against Eton in fifty-dash, 
 
194 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 and made eighty-five not out. I saw you." 
 Grey and severe, he took me for a kind of 
 Cagliostro. 
 
 In my first summer quarter at the school, 
 Montagu Butler was head-boy, and point in 
 the eleven. Afterwards to be head-master 
 for a good span of time, and then to follow 
 worthily in the wake of scholars like Whewell 
 and Thompson, in the unique post of Master 
 of Trinity, Cambridge. " Eheu fugaces, 
 Postume ! Postume ! " No matter — it's a 
 way they have. Five shillings, please ! And 
 one of my odd proud moments was when, 
 many years afterwards, I found myself, much 
 to my wonder — for such an unlicensed being 
 — cheered on the old school steps as an 
 eminent Harrovian, side by side with a con- 
 temporary friend and new-made bishop, with 
 whom I had driven down on Speech-day. 
 "The dramatist and the bishop ! The lion and 
 the lamb ! " as Butler said. But the bishop 
 rather grumbled. He declared that he was 
 only cheered professionally, while I got my 
 tribute on my own account. It was like a 
 confused kind of dream appropriate to my 
 strange Harrow life, unlike a boy's I think in 
 
Harrovian A with digressions 195 
 
 many ways. For most of those Harrow days 
 were dreamed away, except perhaps when 
 the Merchant of Venice was enacted under' 
 my comic-acting-management. 
 
 Somewhere about sixteen I gave up being 
 a small boy as altogether a mistake, and 
 suddenly began to grow, outgrowing every- 
 thing upon me, tails and all. I did it so fast 
 and got so weak with it, that I was sent away 
 to Sidmouth and Dawlish that I might 
 perform the mango-trick on myself, apart 
 from the observation of rude boys. I re- 
 member vividly a very Egyptian miracle of 
 boils and blains that I passed through. 
 They vanished, and the growth remained. 
 Horizontally my figure then shot up. Times 
 have now changed, and it moves in circles 
 with me. It was a drawing-room figure 
 once. Now it is a dining-room one. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 AT HARROW 
 
 I PAID one bitter penalty for being under- 
 sized at Harrow, and have often wondered 
 how much effect the incident had on my 
 career. " Great effects of small causes " 
 should be a good subject for a new philoso- 
 pher's speculation. In due course, and rather 
 fast, I had arrived at the upper-fifth form, 
 which came in order first below the sixth, 
 that Mount Olympus or high table of the 
 school. Every week happened what was 
 called the placing. According to his work 
 during the seven days, each boy was seated 
 in due order for the following week. In the 
 upper-fifth the head-boy of the week was 
 in himself a cynosure, in that he was seated 
 in solitary state at a small side-table near the 
 masters, the other boys ranged upon benches 
 in the centre. I was proud of that post, and 
 
AT HARROW 197 
 
 it gave me a stimulant I had never felt before, 
 having been content with moderate successes 
 that left me free to cultivate my own tastes, 
 and I unwisely resolved to keep it all the 
 time. But a catastrophe had occurred in the 
 school. An upper boy had caned a lower 
 boy by monitorial law ; and the lower boy's 
 parents raised an outcry. Richly the lower 
 youth deserved it ; but he was of noble 
 origin, while the smiter was humble. So 
 there were ructions, and they ended in the 
 promotion in order of some of the bigger 
 upper-boys of the fifth-form, to make an 
 under-sixth, but sharing the upper-fifth class- 
 room. I was passed over as too small, and 
 after three days' glory marched out of my 
 seat of honour, to be ranged upon those 
 common benches while a big boy took my 
 seat. Never shall I forget the burning sense 
 of injustice which took possession of my soul. 
 It is a feeling I have always deeply realised, 
 on my own behalf and that of others, which 
 is unworthy in a lawyer. But as a boy I 
 felt it acutely. Why should I be publicly 
 degraded as a scholar because I was small, 
 and a big boy whom I didn't know had 
 
198 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 thrashed another one I didn't know either ? 
 Thereon I registered a different vow, never 
 to waste another hour that I could help on 
 ancient scholarship ; and it was a vow that 
 more or less I fear I always kept. The next 
 week, in place of being primus inter pares, I 
 came out number twenty-three in the reduced 
 fifth form. When my days of close alliance 
 with Dr. Vaughan arrived, I told him of my 
 plight, and frank, if late, I remember, was 
 his regretful acknowledgment of the wrong. 
 He had kept some letters on the subject 
 from my family, it appeared, who on this 
 occasion seem to have been quite exception- 
 ally active, consigned to a crowded pigeon- 
 hole which, as he confessed to me with a 
 chuckle, he labelled " Indignant Parents." 
 
 There was rather a small and silent circle 
 of masters when first I went to Harrow, and 
 prominent among the figures by the side of 
 Billy Oxenham was Ben Drury, my own 
 cousin of the scholar blood, whose Bennites 
 for some reason were held in small considera- 
 tion in the school. Wherefore I felt some 
 satisfaction in being a Vaughanite in spite of 
 kindred — apart from the obvious advantage of 
 
AT HARROW 199 
 
 belonging to a race called after a surname 
 instead of with undue baptismal familiarity, 
 which none the less implied a pleasant sort 
 of feeling for the masters who suggested 
 it. The tribal instinct prevailed in the young 
 Vaughanites and Steelites — abbreviation in 
 the Simmyites and Middlemites — Simpkin- 
 sonians and Middlemisters being clearly 
 impossible, and a grave reflection upon a 
 master's personal semblance in the Monkey- 
 ites. Ben Drury was a fine, courteous, and 
 manly specimen, old school to the last degree, 
 who wisely declined to encourage my youth- 
 ful and sentimental attempts to make a kind 
 of home-side in his house, and showed no 
 preference for me over his other pupils, the 
 boys at Vaughan's being distributed among 
 different pupil-rooms for their private instruc- 
 tion out of school to safeguard head-magis- 
 terial dignity. New ideas were feeling their 
 way to the birth at Harrow in my day which 
 proved to be the beginning of changed 
 phases of thought, and wider ideas of educa- 
 tion. The modern side was soon to come to 
 light, and my excellent friend of the _ earth- 
 quake and the apple to drop out of the 
 
200 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 running. Even as I should have found some 
 difficulty in winning a German prize on such 
 inadequate grounds not very long afterwards, 
 it was, to say the least of it, incongruous that 
 our French master should have been an 
 Englishman of rather shallow French, and 
 our mathematical teacher a Frenchman of 
 very superficial English. Mathematiques he 
 called his mystery, and in compliment to that 
 and to his nationality, we knew him with 
 some affectionate contempt for frog-land, 
 as old Teek. His son, otherwise young 
 Teek, was once captain of the eleven. He 
 was tall and dark and sinuous, and very pre- 
 hensile at long leg. But soon a whole wild 
 horde of additional new masters descended 
 on the school, which under Vaughan's rule 
 was growing out of memory in numbers, 
 whom we, the senior boys, when some of 
 them came, regarded rather with patronage 
 than with any other feeling. I remember 
 one of them presuming to give me fifty lines 
 to write out for something that offended him, 
 and with a courtly bow — for I had grown up 
 then — I replied that I must decline, and 
 should refer him to the head-master. The 
 
AT HARROW 201 
 
 head-master didn't like liberties being taken 
 with his monitors and lieutenants, and treated 
 Dominie junior to a severe lecture on the 
 proprieties. Let us hope that he understood 
 his place, as a master, better afterwards. 
 My Gobbo days had past, and I was nothing 
 if not the Doge. 
 
 Another of the junior masters imported in 
 my day was Westcott, gentlest of scholars 
 and sweetest-natured of men, lost to us as 
 Bishop of Durham only the other day, a kind 
 of replica of Dr. Vaughan, he always seemed 
 to me. His very personality gave a mean- 
 ing to the old expression for the classics — the 
 Humaner Letters — while another churchman 
 of the future came to Harrow at about the 
 same period, in the person of Canon Farrar 
 that was to be. His was a figure of a less 
 convincing sort, and he came armed with 
 methods which were to regenerate boy-kind, 
 but didn't. In theory his course was noble. 
 If the unregenerate one was accused of some 
 breach of discipline, he was called upon to 
 give his honour if he was guilty or not guilty. 
 If he confessed, he was duly punished, other- 
 wise his honour was accepted. And when 
 
202 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 with gentle mien and downcast eyes the 
 future canon climbed the street that led to 
 the school-gates, becapped and gowned and 
 on his way to business, small boys would be 
 seen clinging and trotting about his skirts 
 and lavishly bestowing on him their thoughts 
 as to everything that turned up. One little 
 fellow cunning in the Farrar school, was 
 brought before Ben Drury for some young 
 offence, as caught in flagrant delict. Brief 
 and to the point, " Ben " told him to write 
 out a hundred lines. The boy smiled a smile 
 of compassion, and bowing, laid his hand 
 upon his heart. " I give you my honour, 
 sir," he said, " I was not there." Ben sat 
 back in his chair, looked at the boy, and 
 gasped: " What? a boy's honour! What? 
 Write me out two hundred." Brutal, but 
 not without philosophy. That boys will be 
 boys and are, is as true as proverbs in 
 general and truer ; and a master has ever 
 been a boy's fair game. Angels are not 
 made out of school-boys, except in " Eric," 
 and even in dawning manhood the more 
 delicate virtues are not always sacred. It is 
 in the latter stages of life, if any, that to have 
 
AT HARROW 203 
 
 learned the ingenuous arts faithfully softens 
 the manners and does not permit them to be 
 wild. During the process, it has a tendency 
 to make them wild rather than not. Such 
 at least has been common experience during 
 commemorations and in lawless festivals in 
 Tom Quad or Peckwater ; and I count 
 among my friends a scholarly tragedian, who, 
 in the after days when Oxford boasted a 
 theatre, appeared then in a Shakespearean 
 play, and a little tired the unsophisticated 
 youth of I sis. Towards the end they became 
 uproarious, and he addressed them in shrewd 
 terms of rebuke. " I thought,'' he said, 
 " that in classic Oxford Shakespeare and 
 myself would be safe in the hands of gentle- 
 men." The appeal struck the wrong chord 
 in the rising mind altogether, and shouts of 
 delight greeted the tragedian. No, no ! 
 Yah-yah ! Hear hear ! Till one under- 
 graduate more enterprising than the rest 
 called out for silence, mounted the big drum 
 in the orchestra, and made a speech. 
 " Either this gentleman is a great tragedian 
 as reported," he concluded, "or he is not. 
 If he is, let us listen with respect. If he isn't, 
 
204 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 what on earth does he come here for ? " 
 Oh fortunati nimium, sua si bona norint ! 
 What fun it all was, the salad-time, for in 
 spite of the drawbacks of such mistaken 
 training, Oxford was my emancipation and 
 my start. 
 
 As there were no theatres then except the 
 singular play-houses we constructed and 
 acted in for ourselves — whereof more anon — 
 we heckled wandering lecturers or enter- 
 tainers who fell rashly into our hands. 
 Chiefly in that connection do I remember 
 an excursion into electro-biology, a craze of 
 the hour. A person of strong will caused a 
 person of weak will to look fixedly at a brass 
 disc in his hand until his will was absorbed. 
 Whereon he believed and did everything he 
 was told ; if told he was a horse, he pawed 
 the ground ; if told to stand on one leg and 
 support a chair on the other he did so. Our 
 electro-biologist was a handsome young 
 woman of a decided turn, and of the effective 
 name of Eagle, who held undergraduates as 
 dross. When one of her victims was pranc- 
 ing horse-like on the platform, a sharp 
 Oxonian asked him when he recovered : 
 
AT HARROW 205 
 
 " What does a horse feel like ? " Before the 
 applause that greeted the conundrum passed, 
 "What does a boy feel like, sir? Can you 
 tell me ? " was the lady's counter. And the 
 CO- Oxonians, glorying in manhood, followed 
 its instincts and sat upon the crushed. One 
 result of that weird pythagorean show was 
 curious. We all of us wanted to test our 
 powers of will, and to electro-biologise each 
 other. So we bought discs and did — at 
 Zoroastrian meetings, for the purpose held 
 in our different Balliol rooms. Which was 
 the weaker will and which the stronger was 
 the problem, until it was proved by indisput- 
 able evidence, that whoever could most easily 
 electro-biologise was likewise in his turn the 
 most easily electro-biologisable. This led to 
 confusion of wills, and so many animal shapes 
 did we assume — or think we did — that our 
 mystic meetings became a sort of Zoological 
 carnival. I even remember one young man 
 who had to explain that he had brayed, the 
 particular utterance not having been generally 
 recognised. But when we knew his animal 
 we quite believed him. I confess that I 
 cannot feel that the latter-day religious 
 
lo6 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 scientists have ever come near this earhef 
 development of the unseen. In our young 
 hands, and in ours alone, acting but as in- 
 struments of powers mysterious, has the 
 Pythagorean soul taken a return ticket, and 
 gone into a brute and back again without 
 effect upon the principle of life. 
 
 Of some of our college-breakfasts over, the 
 Dean of Chapel's head — a pleasant dark-blue 
 link in the chain of memory having, as my 
 readers will see, without effort connected 
 Harrow-on-the-Hill with Balliol at the bottom 
 of it — I discoursed out of due time in an earlier 
 chapter of this work. That Dean of Chapel 
 had a time with us, and in the after years was 
 to suggest to me much harmless oddity of 
 Oxford life, which in partnership with my 
 wife — gifted with a keen woman's turn for 
 story — I used in what turned into a popular 
 comedy, called The Don. It was enacted by 
 that king of pure low-comedy and friend of 
 many men, Johnnie Toole. The play, which 
 first introduced Violet Vanbrugh — dear 
 daughter of an early Devon friend — to London, 
 IS full of pleasant memories to us, darkened 
 but by the constant pain of poor Toole's now 
 
At harrow 26:7 
 
 cfuel suffering and illness. He was difficult 
 to manage, Toole ; for " gagging " was his 
 dream ; and gagging, for the information of 
 the uninitiate, means the improving of the 
 author's language by the actor's own. In an 
 earlier comedy of ours called The Butler, we 
 gave him a free tongue. But in The Don we 
 made a bold attempt to legitimise him, some- 
 what in vain, I fear. For Dons should never 
 gag, though butlers may. Johnnie was rather 
 awe-stricken at first, by such unwonted rise 
 in social place, and he stuck to his text and 
 behaved very well — for him — until he began 
 to feel at home. After the play had been 
 running for about a month I went into the 
 dress-circle unbeknown, to watch, and he 
 came on with a rather large red nose, though 
 there was nothing bibulous about our Don 
 whatever. Likewise he had, in course of 
 part, to ask a languishing young widow how 
 she had liked India. " It was very hot," she 
 sighed, and the subject changed. But Johnnie 
 had risen to the occasion then, and took her 
 up. "Ah! that," he added, "was because 
 of the pickles you ate." Nobody laughed. 
 Such, my good friends, is gagging. Neither 
 
2o8 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 as author nor Oxonian did I quite approve. 
 After the act I rushed round to his room and 
 shook him. He had no idea that I was there, 
 and apologised anxiously. "Got to be done, 
 my dear fellow ! " he said. " They expect it 
 of me. I call it thickening the part." " Do 
 you?" quoth I. "I call it thinning the 
 house." Johnnie was of manager-actors the 
 kindliest, in never grudging laughs to any one. 
 But it was not usual in his plays to have any- 
 thing to laugh at, till he himself came on. 
 When The Butler ^■as, first produced at Man- 
 chester, the opening scene between two of 
 the characters caused, as it happened, a good 
 deal of merriment at once. Toole heard the 
 laughter in his room, and sent his dresser 
 down, to ask, "what had gone wrong in 
 front." Never was actor, in one sense, so 
 amenable. Too amenable, by far. For at 
 rehearsals, when he was not on the stage 
 himself, he sidled off to his room to write 
 several little letters, about nothing, leaving 
 the author and the stage-manager to do the 
 rest. And always had to he summoned for 
 his cue. One day in Newcastle, when we were 
 rehearsing The Don with his company, he 
 
AT HARROW 209 
 
 disappeared altogether, in the middle of the 
 day, for the short luncheon interval. I was 
 something of a martinet at rehearsals, as 
 indeed with him one had to be. We waited to 
 begin the scene, in vain. Half an hour passed 
 — an hour — and still no Toole. We fretted, 
 waited, looked at our watches, till at last I 
 took it on myself to dismiss the rehearsal. 
 Toole must have been called away on pressing 
 business. My wife and I strolled homewards 
 to our lodging, and three streets off met 
 Toole, careless and happy, arm-in-arm with his 
 fidus Achates and nurser-in-general, excellent 
 George Loveday. He had no idea of the 
 time, and simply gasped when I told him what 
 I had done. The dear old fellow had been 
 in the flower-market, buying for my wife the 
 choicest nosegay he could find. That was 
 the man, on both sides, and at once. Only 
 the other day my wife and I met him once 
 again at Brighton in his bath-chair — as he is 
 now. For some five minutes we talked quite 
 cheerily about the past. Then he broke 
 down, and I left him — for all memory of us 
 seemed gone. It wasn't, for at the hotel 
 where we were staying, my wife received from 
 
2IO BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 him that evening a beautiful bouquet of 
 flowers. Upon our wedding-day, twenty- 
 three years before— of which we didn't even 
 think he knew more than of her address — he 
 had sent her in the early morning the bridal 
 flowers she carried. Such thoughts live. 
 
 I shall not forget reading The Don to him 
 and Loveday first, in the Old Ship at 
 Brighton this time. For he was a wandering 
 star, whose author wandered with him, keep- 
 ing guard. Loveday and I were in a deep 
 conspiracy together over The Don, having 
 carefully concealed from Toole the fact that 
 we meant to risk him, for the first time for 
 years, in a higher class of comedy altogether. 
 "Now listen," Loveday, who knew the play, 
 said, " this will frighten him out of his wits, 
 to start with, and when you've finished, it 
 will take me a week to persuade him to do 
 it. Then it will be all right, so don't mind." 
 And so I read. Loveday in an arm-chair, 
 chuckling ; Toole on a sofa, silent and 
 absorbed. After the first act he seemed so 
 meditative, and smileless, that I secretly asked 
 Loveday what on earth he was thinking 
 about. "All right," was the answer. "He 
 
AT HARROW 211 
 
 likes it. He's thinking about his gags." 
 Then came a scene for the scout or gyp — 
 called skip, as I wanted to mix the universities 
 — that well-known male appendage of the two. 
 When I had finished it, Toole spake at last. 
 " I suppose, Herman," he remarked, " that 
 that is to be Emily Thome's part." For an 
 act and a half, he had taken my scout to be 
 an old woman ; and I thought that I had 
 read so well. 
 
 Oxford to the rescue, for later tragedies 
 take one off the line. So thoroughly had my 
 last Harrow six months, under the torturing 
 personal care of the most finished of all the 
 classical scholars I have ever known, in his 
 beloved Greek especially — head-master and 
 best friend in spite of that anti-classic resolu- 
 tion of mine — set me up, so to speak, in the 
 best Greek poets and prosists, that I fear I 
 practically lived on my little capital as a 
 spendthrift ever afterwards. Dr. Vaughan 
 was not much attracted by divine philosophy, 
 I fear. Neither was I. We have it on 
 Milton's authority that only fools can think 
 it harsh and crabbed. Therefore I was a 
 fool, for I did so do, which only means that 
 
212 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 tastes must differ after all. Indeed no crab, 
 however backward in his walks abroad, 
 struck me as to compare for pace and claw 
 with him whom we called the Staggerist. 
 Whenever I struggled with the involved 
 periods of Aristotle, and vainly strove after 
 the smallest interest in the powers and 
 energies of the apolaustic man, I used re- 
 belliously to reflect that, with a little more of 
 Vaughan, I could have written better Greek 
 myself As for Plato, heaven forgive me, 
 he used to strike me as a writer of pretty 
 children's books with a carefully transparent 
 style, which ought to have been illustrated 
 with pretty pictures to carry the illusion out. 
 The Socratic method offended my sense of 
 justice, and of logic too. I didn't believe, 
 being still young and always imaginative, 
 in the dummies whom Socrates stuck up 
 only to knock them down, with long conun- 
 drums leading to no answer whatsoever. It 
 was like a dead shot popping at the Aunt 
 Sallies in a French booth, and most unfair. 
 When one of the most monstrous of those 
 Tales of a Tormentor ended, I felt inclined 
 to call out, with the small boy when he was 
 
AT HARROW 213 
 
 told of Jonah and the whale, or Professor 
 Huxley confronted with his favourite bug- 
 bear, the Herd of Swine — " I don't believe 
 that story." 
 
 Hence it was that that rebel-resolve against 
 the classics, in abeyance during my Vaughan 
 half-year, came to the front again. Twice I 
 tried for the Balliol scholarship. The first 
 time from Harrow, though as usual a year 
 too soon. But I ran near enough to winning 
 it to be admitted to the college without the 
 ordeal of being examined for matriculation. 
 In the next season I tried for it again, being 
 then a first year Balliol man. The spare 
 autumn between Harrow and Oxford I had 
 spent under a reverend private tutor in 
 South Wales among the pools and mosses of 
 the Wye, which attracted me more than my 
 books ; and as the temporary guardian of my 
 mind was careless if it improved or not, it 
 didn't. So from my second essay for the 
 Balliol ribbon, I emerged in the ruck not 
 anywhere at all. But for all that the charm 
 of my classic favourites and Vaughan's, 
 ^schylus and Aristophanes and gossip 
 Herodotus, and Homer the apocryphal, 
 
2t4 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 and, on the Latin side, fiery Juvenal, and 
 take-to-bed Horace, and the gentle Virgil, 
 abided always, and abides even now. I 
 cannot profess to give any reason whatever 
 for holding, that they refined and moulded 
 in some unknown way my inborn love of 
 English letters. But I am quite sure they 
 did, and deeply do I thank my doctor, and 
 those dead teachers for it. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ON MEN OF BALLIOL AND OTHER THINGS, 
 WITH SIDE-LIGHTS UPON JOWETT 
 
 Balliol College, the famous creation of John 
 de Balliol and Devorguilla his wife, was in a 
 high state of prosperity in the days when I 
 was first numbered amongst her children, 
 
 Proud in the beauty of her matchless charms, 
 Supreme in science, and supreme in arms, 
 
 — a couplet which still remains on my ear as 
 the opening of a Harrow prize poem of Mon- 
 tague Butler's on the subject of Athens. She 
 had certainly won herself a notable position 
 at Oxford. She played fine cricket, and shone 
 conspicuous at the head of the river. She 
 was displeased with herself if she monopolised 
 less than half of the first class in the schools ; 
 she took in prizes and medals as largely as 
 she sent out Fellows to mould half the other 
 
2i6 BAR, STAGE. AND PLATFORM 
 
 colleges of Oxford. My three surviving links 
 with the University are all heads of their 
 various colleges now — Lincoln and Exeter 
 and Oriel — and all these were Balliol men of 
 my time. The first of them was an especial 
 ally of mine when we were there, and being 
 just as much my senior as the relation required, 
 officiated for me one summer as my tutor, 
 with a reading-party in the English lakes, 
 upon the plain of reedy Grasmere. I sup- 
 pose we read. I am quite sure that we 
 played, and both of us being full of fun and 
 of high spirits, though my own were always 
 subject to eccentricities of mood and relapses 
 into solitude, we established quite a new lake- 
 school in our way between us. The coinci- 
 dence of name between Merry and Merivale 
 was a windfall for the local wags, and by dint 
 of pleasant introductions, most of them of our 
 own audacious contriving, we found ourselves 
 at home in various pleasant circles of the 
 place. Very nice parents introduced us to 
 very nice girls ; and that attractive class of 
 humanity — which, as far as I can judge, has, 
 in spite of the wisdoms, never been much 
 improved upon — was known to us both by the 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 217 
 
 pleasant and familiar style of "the Maries." 
 We got on with the Maries very well, and 
 rowed them on the lake in the afternoons, or 
 listened to them singing in the evenings, and 
 did not — from the point of view of life-expe- 
 rience — lose as much time as perchance we 
 did in other ways. In our segregate male- 
 hours, when books were closed, we swam in 
 the lake, or played yard-cricket with balls of 
 india-rubber against the door of our little 
 tenement, rented close upon the water for our 
 vacation-space. Or we had long afternoons 
 of climb on the surrounding hills and fells, 
 under the energetic guidanceof the responsible 
 chief of our party — we were five in all — one 
 of the college tutors, affectionately known as 
 Jemmy Riddell — climbs which from an inborn 
 and unconquerable dislike for walking exercise 
 I was wont to shirk when possible, preferring, 
 where tennis and rackets were not, to moon 
 or boat about the lake, not unfrequently in 
 Merry's congenial company. We liked to 
 sit upon a sloping height and hurl huge stones 
 into the lake below, which we called corriging. 
 And one day when he had gained a higher 
 level than I, and I was lying luxurious on my 
 
2i8 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 back, I felt a hurtle in the air and raised my 
 head, to find it narrowly shaved by a large 
 flying boulder. My friend had nearly cor- 
 riged me on the skull, and brought this vera- 
 cious history to a premature end. It was 
 dangerous, no doubt, but better than walking 
 with an object. If the object is not to be other- 
 wise attained, why not drop it ? The great 
 lake feature of that year was a comet. And it 
 was one whereof the Ettrick shepherd 
 might have been thinking when he sang : 
 
 Oh, on thy sparkling prow to ride. 
 
 To cleave the depths of heaven with thee ! 
 
 And plough the twinkling stars aside. 
 Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea. 
 
 I am inclined to think that Riddell's 
 finished scholarship had much to do with 
 Balliol's success. Scott was the master of 
 my day ; Jowett its more famous tutor. No 
 character that has attained to equal eminence 
 in my time ever more completely puzzled 
 me. Never has a great reputation been to 
 me more of a bewilderment. The lovable 
 nature of the man was always with him, and 
 a pleasant attraction to his young pupils and 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 219 
 
 associates. Though not by office my tutor, 
 he showed me great personal kindness and 
 attention, almost after the manner of Dr. 
 Vaughan, and took me for many walks with 
 him, my objections to the exercise having to 
 suppress themselves for those occasions. 
 There never was so silent a companion, or 
 one, I am bound to say, with less that I could 
 ever discover of the sense of humour with 
 which he was always credited. The quaint 
 sayings recorded of him were quaint in sheer 
 unconsciousness, such as his famous remark 
 to the stern Chancellor and his myrmidons 
 who waited for him to sign the Thirty- 
 Nine Articles as Greek Professor, when he 
 was suspected of combustible heresy in com- 
 mon with the present Archbishop of Canter- 
 bury, of all men, for so do even heresies pass 
 away. " Will you not sign the articles, sir ? " 
 as Jowett stood unmoved before them. He 
 looked prepared for martyrdom and they for 
 action. But after a little pause he put his 
 head on one side, and in the cherubic treble 
 that matched the cherubic face, he said : 
 " Yes, if you'll give me a pen." 
 
 He was always putting his head on one 
 
220 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 side, and humming to himself, in place of 
 conversation. As silence, I am afraid, has 
 never been my failing, he was fond of letting 
 me wander on to him about book-fancies and 
 imaginations and anything in my head, 
 listening always with a kind of composed 
 smile settled at one corner of his mouth, as 
 who should say, " I could an if I would, but 
 won't." He listened, for if I stopped he 
 drew me out with some short question or 
 another. But he never would add anything. 
 Sometimes he volunteered some strange re- 
 mark, as when once he stayed me on our 
 walk, and said : " I can't quite make you out. 
 I think your mind stops somewhere." I 
 wonder if that is how men gain credit for 
 profundity. I could attach no meaning to 
 that theory, and cannot now. All that I 
 could answer was, " I don't know. I suppose 
 so. I find it stopping in all sorts of places." 
 Was Jowett occupied in building up out of 
 my personality a theologic theory of man of 
 the kind so supposed to occupy him ? One 
 thing I will say, that in all my experience and 
 knowledge of him I never knew him utter 
 one syllable or suggest one thought which 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 221 
 
 could disturb the faith and contentment of 
 any man. Nor do I believe he ever did. 
 Theological discussions have not been in my 
 line. Perhaps my life, at that date, was too care- 
 less to leave room for any interest in doubts. 
 But I know of instances in which more in- 
 quiring friends of mine tried anxiously to draw 
 him out upon such topics, and were quietly but 
 firmly discouraged. Jowett's own faith, I must 
 frankly say, seems to me, from the evidence 
 before the world, and from all that is known 
 of him, to have been in a pure state of 
 doctrinal solution from first to last. His 
 heresies, if such they were, were founded upon 
 shifting but very gentle sand. He had deep 
 faith in goodness and in kindness, and, in 
 true Christian spirit, he practised it in his 
 life. But to put him or his sermons and 
 essays into any recognised category at all is, 
 in my judgment, idle. He was not even a 
 broad Churchman in the sense of Dean 
 Stanley. 
 
 My walks with him were not as my walks 
 with Vaughan. In that dear master's over- 
 flowing talk — abundant humour, delicate 
 scholarship — I found a fund of teaching, 
 
2 22 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 which, to do myself justice, I have always 
 loved to turn to my advantage from elder and 
 congenial minds. It was a far greater treat 
 to me to listen to him than to talk to Jowett, 
 as was expected of me. Once I grew fairly 
 tired of such enforcement and took revenge. 
 We started on our walk, and I said nothing. 
 A mile went by — two miles — I didn't speak. 
 Jowett began to fidget, whistle, look at meat 
 an early stage upon that silent promenade. 
 At last he couldn't bear it, stopped in the 
 walk, and addressed me with : " Won't you 
 say something ? " But I was obstinate, and 
 said it was quite time that he began. 
 
 How much of Jowett's fame came of his 
 gift for saying nothing is not for me to say. 
 He was a good man, as I knew him, if there 
 has been one in his kind. I have not cared to 
 inquire about him more. But I fear that he 
 a little loved to make sport with me for Phi- 
 listines. I was, if I may say so, rather a 
 favourite plaything with him. He was fond 
 of me, I think ; but he declined to take me 
 seriously. When afterwards he heard that I 
 had written a tragedy he didn't believe it. 
 With Swinburne — a Balliol contemporary — 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 223 
 
 it was quite another thing, and as it should 
 be. Jowett — be it whispered, and very much 
 to his credit — obstinate college-bachelor 
 though he was, was by no means above an 
 amiable weakness for the Maries. Maries 
 matured, no doubt. But Maries. He loved 
 to have little breakfast-parties for ladies from 
 London. And he liked to ask me to meet 
 them. At one such feast he put me to a 
 cruel trial. It was a dull party, and nobody 
 said much. I felt uncomfortable in so much 
 silent splendour, and was thinking of a tennis 
 match I was to play that day. Suddenly, 
 and in an awful pause, he set his head — may 
 I say cocked it ? — in the usual place, and 
 looked at me. And without any preamble 
 observed : " Merivale is a man who looks at 
 everything from a Shakespearean point of 
 view." All the double-glasses went up icily, 
 and I nearly sank through the floor. I was 
 not among his guests at his famous under- 
 graduate breakfast, when nobody said any- 
 thing all the time. When the hour came he 
 opened the door and said : " Good-morning, 
 gentlemen ; cultivate the art of conversa- 
 tion." 
 
224 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Casual as they seemed, the spasmodic Lake 
 teachings of my colleague Merry did my 
 modest classical aspirations more good than 
 those of anybody else ever did, Vaughan 
 excepted. Bright and light and practically 
 of my own years, he read with me more on 
 the footing of a fellow student than a tutor, 
 and had the gift of understanding his man, a 
 matter over which the authorised tutor 
 troubles himself but little. He carries his bed 
 of Procrustes about him by way of a curricle, 
 and jams his pupils in or pulls them out for 
 the length of it, regardless of the size or make 
 of their mental bonework. For a time I 
 studied, in a sudden rush of desire for depth, 
 under the eminent judge and amateur prize- 
 fighter that was to be, of whose breakfast 
 over the decanal head I discoursed before. 
 He was a great scholar, but, O Lord, how 
 dull ! I would as lief have sat at the feet 
 of Aristotle himself, or of the complicated 
 historian known to our youth as Thick- 
 sides, from his dyspeptic pastry of obscure 
 diction. " D'abord de la clart^ puis de la 
 clartd, et toujours de la clart^ ! " said Anatole 
 France when somebody ask^d him the re- 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 225 
 
 ceipt for writing to be read. But the wor- 
 ship of the obscure remains what it always 
 was, seeing that it makes a man look so 
 clever — to the mass who feel obliged to take 
 him at his own valuation — to profess to under- 
 stand that which cannot be understanded. 
 Ask him to explain, and it's a different thing. 
 It's the contemptuous but facile answer of, 
 " Why, good heavens ! don't you see ? " 
 You don't ; but you fear to be called stupid, 
 and you pretend you do. The Thucydideans 
 and the Aristotelians must have been the 
 Carlylese and Browningites of their day. 
 For those two authors, even as these two, 
 had much that was well worth saying to say, 
 but they either couldn't or wouldn't take the 
 trouble to say it in plain Greek. So the 
 usual host of witless imitators saw their 
 chance, and imitated all the masters' obscurity 
 without acquiring any of their meaning. 
 Once in the summer-shades of Surrey I dis- 
 cussed Browning with a famous sculptor- 
 author, and stuck to my favourite text that 
 our share of time is too small to allow us to 
 read our own tongue with a dictionary, and 
 that an author who won't take the pains to be 
 
 ? 
 
226 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 readable as well as wise ought not to print at 
 all. He inveighed against my ignorance, 
 maintaining Browning to be like a stream of 
 crystal to those who had souls of sympathy. 
 So I took up a volume of Browning and read 
 him a passage of blank verse with all due 
 emphasis, then asked him if he honestly 
 understood it. He shrugged the shoulder of 
 superiority, and, smiling, put the question by, 
 like the gentleman in Tennyson. Of course 
 he did, but couldn't help me if I didn't. 
 Well, I did not, and said so. I had read out 
 the passage in an inverted form, from the 
 bottom of the page upwards. Literary affec- 
 tation is a dreadful thing. Bulwer Lytton, 
 as we know, is as a name of scorn to the 
 superior persons who never read him, but 
 apparently only read each other. But a 
 pithy sentence of his Sir John Vesey's con- 
 stantly recurs to me about it, as a small 
 picture of whole waggonloads of letters. " All 
 humbug — humbug upon my soul ! " 
 
 So, then, it fell out that the coming judge 
 was deep, but likewise obscure and dull. 
 That was as it should be, for he was born to 
 deliver judgments and keep costs and appeals 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 127 
 
 going. Yet, as I have said, he had in his 
 way grim humours of his own, but thought 
 himself bound to keep them out of business. 
 During another long vacation — and my first 
 — I went for some weeks to be tutored — 
 good heavens ! the number of them we all 
 have, as if continuity of mind were in itself as 
 nothing ! — down on the shore of the beautiful 
 estuary which lies between Barmouth and 
 Dolgelly. There was this wild confusion of 
 instruction duly made worse confounded. 
 My new classic was a Jelf, and a ripe 
 scholar too. But he was, of course, unlike his 
 predecessors, as two loving Merrys are not 
 moulded on one stem. He was quite sternly 
 funless in his Greek and Latin, and after the 
 few weeks of highly paid — on my side — inter- 
 course allowed us, we naturally parted on a 
 mutual footing of respect and misunderstand- 
 ing. I had no time to get at him, nor he at 
 me. In my own way the while I pursued 
 my own English studies for myself, and in 
 his well-stocked library, reading all round, in 
 verse and prose, whatever held my interest, 
 from chronicle to novel, and ever ensuing 
 my own yearning text of style — " De la 
 
228 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 clarte, de la clarte, toujours de la clarte ! " 
 For so, and so alone, the truest training ever 
 will go on, under the law of individual 
 gift— 
 
 Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille 
 Sich ein Charakter in den Strom der Welt. 
 
 If I was in the clouds more or less, as I 
 always am and must be, I am not sorry for it, 
 though where the main chance is concerned 
 my clouds have been mighty thick and thun- 
 derous. I can never suspect that I am being 
 taken in, therefore I always am. It is an un- 
 safe residence, cloudland, but it is very sweet. 
 And one of my various reasons both for per- 
 sonal liking and art-appreciation of that most 
 imaginative of Shakespeare's actors — Beer- 
 bohm Tree — is that he wrote me all unknow- 
 ing, once, one of those little sentences which 
 make for mental righteousness : " To live in 
 the clouds is just to live in heaven." More 
 power to Cloudland. I agree with him. 
 What says sweet Schiller's Zeus to the poet- 
 artist, who asks for a little something, after 
 the traders and the lawyers ^aye done all the 
 grabbing ? 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 219 
 
 Was thun ? spricht Zeus — die Welt ist weggegeben, 
 Der Herbst, die Jagd, der Markt ist nich mehr 
 mein : 
 
 Willst du in meinem Himmel mit mir leben, 
 So oft du kommst, er soil dir offen sein. 
 
 Like all true cloudlanders, at that appro- 
 priate age, even as more or less even by con- 
 jugal licence ever since, I was always falling 
 in love at first sight and out again. The 
 object, I must say, was always equally pre- 
 pared for both. It was six to one and half 
 a dozen of the other. We did each other 
 no harm. My love-letters, I verily believe, 
 would make the fortune of several professors 
 of that of late resuscitated art. I was accused 
 of being fond of flirting. I was not. I was fond 
 of being in love, I confess. In love with all 
 lovable women, all at once I feel, like Johnnie 
 Toole, that it is expected of me. Three 
 pupils were we at Jelf s, and we all fell in 
 love with one and the same Mary. Yet she 
 was one of three sisters, and it was unfair on 
 the others, as she was the least clever of the 
 three. But then she took the liberty of being 
 the prettiest, even to distraction's verge, 
 though all were comely and of feminine pre- 
 
230 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 sence. We three young men disputed that 
 maiden's favours by all fair means, and as 
 their father rented a cottage from our tutor in 
 the grounds, used to court admission into his 
 circle in divers ways. At last I tried means 
 I feel to have been unfair. It was arranged 
 one day that we three Horatii should walk 
 up Cader Idris and leave the three Curiatise 
 alone for once. When the time came I 
 feigned indisposition, due partly to love and 
 partly to walkophobia. After a close morn- 
 ing's study I sought out that cottage, manceu- 
 vred for an invitation to luncheon, and, 
 favoured by friendly sisters, secured a whole 
 delicious afternoon with the object, all to my- 
 self! When late in the evening the two 
 climbers returned and heard of my successful 
 turpitude there was almost a duel. The 
 youngest of us three was quite a boy, not yet 
 at college. But the elder was well my senior, 
 a Christ Church man of proof. He came 
 into my room just as I was going to bed, and, 
 having picked a quarrel on some fictitious 
 ground, white with wrath and nightgown, he 
 waved his good right arm at me and said : 
 " Sir, henceforth we meet no more as friends 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 23 1 
 
 but as foes ! " As I hope for forgiveness, he 
 used those very words. Shaken with mute 
 laughter, I sustained the shock, and have ever 
 since wondered if, after all, melodrama is not 
 the truest language of instinctive passion. 
 
 When that mixed period of study reached 
 its end, after we had vied in prodigies of 
 valour under the fair one's eyes, casting off 
 our coats and swimming across armlets of 
 the estuary with fishing-tackle in our mouths, 
 where as a matter of fact we could have 
 walked round to as much purpose, and in 
 much less time — and otherwise fooling as 
 divine youth can fool — we elders went upon 
 our Oxford way, and the cadet remained as 
 pupil. I think I was the favourite up to 
 that. But such good use did he make of 
 his chances afterwards that, young as he was, 
 he wooed and won the beauty, who after- 
 wards became his wife. It was a romance of 
 real devotion, and a sad one, on which I 
 have no need to dwell. She was a very 
 young wife when she died, but after-fidelity 
 has not often been more steadfast than was 
 his. 
 
 But one strange incident attached to the 
 
232 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 episode for me. The youngest of those three 
 girls was very young, awkward and shy, but 
 curiously clever. I found that out by accident 
 towards the end of the time, and it had an 
 odd effect upon my inconstant mind. Shall 
 it be confessed that I was seized with strange 
 misgivings as to whether, after all, I had not 
 been smitten by the wrong Curiatia ? I had 
 but just the time to suspect, in this my new 
 discovery, a vein of originality of a very rare 
 kind. So much was I intrigued that I con- 
 fided to my senior friend — the imminent 
 and deadly breach between us having been 
 by some means healed over — that the young 
 girl had a great deal in her somewhere and 
 was bound to become somebody. I have 
 never met her again from that time to this, 
 nor has communication of any kind passed 
 between us. I don't suppose she remembers 
 my name from Adam's, whatever his family 
 appellation may have been. Perhaps it was 
 Tree, like Beerbohm's, so that my dreamland 
 actor may claim a more direct descent from 
 our perplexing common parents than the rest 
 of us. But it has been my odd lot to be 
 mixed up, at some time and in some way or 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 233 
 
 another, with half the celebrities of all sorts 
 that trot the patient globe. And I shall not 
 forget the thrill of sympathetic interest with 
 which I read of the sudden and striking 
 success in literary fields of my original little 
 friend of the Barmouth Estuary, Rhoda 
 Broughton, with a sort of sense of pro- 
 prietorship missed. I have never since been 
 able to lose my watchful pleasure in her 
 career. 
 
 So in my Oxford journey the shadow of 
 Cader Idris faded from my path, and many 
 years afterwards I saw it only that once 
 again. Even as before in youth, I steadily 
 refused to climb it, but revisited the estuary 
 coast and fed on recollection. Strange — so 
 strange ! 
 
 Tlie lapping waters danced and bore 
 The bark of Memory to the shore, 
 And overwrought with cares of man, 
 I lived in boyhood once again. 
 
 Excuse a habit of improvising a quotation 
 when I haven't got one handy, after the con- 
 venient precedent of great Scott when he 
 referred his sudden couplets to head a chapter 
 withal to the elastic authority of Old Play. 
 
2 34 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 After my wandering, hopeless method, 
 Cader Idris, having got me in her grip, 
 insists upon recalling Henry Merrywether, 
 the wittiest lawyer of my time, to me. Oh 
 that the judges wouldn't joke so much ! 
 Everybody has to laugh whenever they do 
 it, badly or indifferently, with the helpless 
 and heartbroke litigants haunting for indefinite 
 hours the Halls of the lost Footsteps mis- 
 called the Courts of Justice. In all Sir 
 Mountstuart Grant Duffs kindly diaries I 
 have met with but one severe allusion. He 
 found himself among a nest of judges telling 
 comic tales. And every single tale, he says, 
 turned upon some funny miscarriage of plain 
 justice. He went home sad and heart-sick 
 like the poor suitors. Even a great Justice 
 has been found to say, with a laugh, of late, 
 that his court of King's Bench had nothing 
 to do with honour and morality. A heart- 
 breaking admission from such a source. 
 Merrywether was a stout man amongst the 
 stout, and when term came he was once 
 greeted by the then Lord Chancellor with 
 delicate bigwig courtesy. " Upon my word, 
 Merrywether, you are growing as fat as a 
 
ON MEN OF BALLIOL 235 
 
 porpoise." Whereat he bowed and said: 
 " The nearer, my Lord, to the great Seal." 
 Once a fussy dullard complained to him that 
 he was going to take a few days holiday in 
 Wales, wanted to do Snowdon and Cader 
 Idris both, and didn't know how to combine 
 them. " Easy enough," was the answer. 
 " Go up Snowdon, and down Cader Idris." 
 Whereat the man sate down to think it out, 
 like the people who searched for an answer 
 to Shirley Brooks's conundrum, " Sydney 
 Smith said to Horace Walpole, 'How is it 
 that you are so fond of green vegetables, 
 although you live at Twickenham ? ' Horace 
 smiled at the jest, but never forgave the 
 sarcasm." Once Merry wether went to hear 
 Albert Smith's Ascent of Mont Blanc, and at 
 the box-office found that there was but one 
 seat left in the stalls. Another man was just 
 before him, doubting between that and the 
 gallery. " I should go into the gallery if I 
 were you," suggested Merrywether, "be- 
 cause it's nearer the summit." The man 
 took the hint and the wit took the stall. He 
 was a prosperous Parliamentary Q.C., and 
 when somebody asked him to what especial 
 
2 36 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 qualities he attributed his great success at 
 the Bar he simply said : " To three of them : 
 Unbounded impudence, popular manners, and 
 total ignorance of law." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 so? 
 
 If the romance of my North- Welsh long 
 vacation was Love, that of my South-Ger- 
 man was, as I well remember, Prison. Tutor- 
 less this time, a friend of mine and I de- 
 parted on the quest of knowledge together, 
 and chose as our headquarters the Florence 
 of the North, the good city of Dresden. No- 
 body who only knows united Germany since, 
 on the strength of her big war, she has 
 grown so desperately exacting and cross 
 and quarrelsome, can realise how pleasant a 
 sojourn disunited Germany was. The little 
 Courts gave all their towns a flavour of 
 good society. Nobody could be nicer than 
 the Saxons except the Hanoverians, or the 
 Bavarians than either. 
 
 Und so sagt man das in Sachsen 
 
 Stets die hiibschen Madchen wachsen — 
 
238 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Sagt sie — Ei ? ich denke schien 
 Kann ganz allein nach Haiise giehn — 
 
 Dresden ist doch sehr gemiithlich, 
 
 1st so sehr gemiithlich ! 
 
 So was the Saxon ancient quizzed in the 
 famous Faust words in the great burlesque 
 play of the day — curiously like a kind of 
 Belle of New York by anticipation in 
 scheme, though in execution an artistic show 
 instead of mere buffoonery — known as Flick 
 und Flock, being the strange adventures of 
 two wonderful heroes who went everywhere 
 and did everything. Dances and songs and 
 capital comic acting made the play exceed- 
 ingly bright, and the personality of the 
 English travelling peer, Lord Mixpikel by 
 name and style, who was the most amusing 
 specimen of the imperturbable " Briton " 
 mit der spleen — the liberal German equiva- 
 lent avoided for pleasantness — I ever saw 
 upon the stage, dwells ever among my 
 Relsebilder, my Heine-named Pictures of 
 Travel. Shipwrecked and at the bottom of 
 the sea, yet with tall hat and tight frock- 
 coat quite unruffled, he was received with hos- 
 tile demonstrations by King Neptune, who 
 
so? 239 
 
 wagged his beard and shook his trident at 
 the intruder and threatened him in violent 
 submarine. " Wer ist der Mann mit der 
 Gabel ? " said Mixpikel to his companions 
 in trouble, quite unmoved and in his best 
 German : "Who is the man with the fork ? 
 I haven't been introduced to him." And 
 great was the delight when the play ended 
 with a series of panoramic views of the 
 European capitals, London coming last. 
 The different atmospheric effects of the 
 climates had all been cleverly reproduced, 
 but our own ozonic city figured as one large 
 yellow blotch. " You needn't spend much 
 time in seeing London," observed the per- 
 sonally conducting gnome. "It's all in 
 that." Brave, jolly student-days ! I felt 
 myself quite a Bursch as I smoked my 
 Heidelberg pipe and drank my Lager beer 
 on the Bruhl Terrace or among the Alleys 
 — not of the kind affected of Sally, but 
 miniature tree-lined boulevards — and listened 
 or joined in as the ditties were trolled out : 
 
 Das macht mir alles ein, 
 Hab' ich gelt, hab' ich kein ! 
 Hab' ich gelt, trink' ich Rudesheimer, 
 
240 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Hab' ich kein, trink' ich Pompenheimer ! 
 Das macht mir alles ein, 
 Hab' ich gelt, hab' ich kein ! 
 
 Oh inimitable lyric spirit of Teutonic land ! 
 No man in that delicious sphere shall vie with 
 you for pathos or for humour either. It 
 seems so strange that it should be so ! For 
 purposes of speech, no effort softens the 
 harshness of the tongue away, infinitely softer 
 though it was, of course, in the Saxon mouth 
 than in the rough gullets of Berlin. Even 
 for purposes of music, great as in that pro- 
 vince also Germany has been, I am always 
 wishing that in the matter of words they 
 would reduce all things alike to Music's 
 native tongue — Italian — as in the days or 
 nights when Covent Garden was a Royal 
 Italian Opera indeed, instead of a kind of 
 Babel with pretensions to strange things in 
 Depth, quite unjustified by directors or stage- 
 managers. " Polyglott House " should be in- 
 scribed above its portals now. But where is 
 the use of 
 
 Um stets heute und gliicklich zu leben, 
 Will ich, Freunde, die Lehre euch geben, 
 
 after — • 
 
so ? 241 
 
 II segreto per esser felice, 
 
 So per prova, e insegno gli amici ! 
 
 Yet in blank verse Germany can hold her 
 own as a good second to the Anglo-Saxon, 
 and syllable for syllable almost at times. 
 Through the kindred nature of the tongues is 
 Shakespeare reproduced by Schlegel. One 
 line occurs to me still, as I remember it first 
 striking on my ear when Dawisen and Uhlrich 
 played Benedick and Beatrice that distant 
 summer, in that head-centre of stage art in 
 those days, the Dresden Theatre, 
 
 Rinnt nicht dies Sprach wie Eisen durch dein Blut 
 
 was moulded on one stem indeed with 
 
 Runs not this speech Uke iron through your blood ? 
 
 It is in the Lyric, the daintiest and most 
 sensuous of all poetic forms, that Germany 
 takes highest honours in the divine schools 
 of art ; and it has always seemed to me un- 
 explainable why. One would have thought, 
 that the graces and daintinesses of speech 
 would be more needed for that form than any 
 other. But where Shakespeare was near 
 his greatest the Germans have been greater. 
 
 Q 
 
242 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Heine and Uhland are kings among the pure 
 lyrists ; and the Rhine traveller who, in spite 
 of tunnels and steam-cries, still dreams of 
 legend as he passes the Loreley rock, forgets, 
 if he ever knew, that not only the garland of 
 verse that circles the soul-less waterwitch, 
 
 A fair and wondrous maiden 
 
 On those same rocks behold ; 
 The gems that she wears are golden, 
 
 The hair she combs is of gold. 
 With comb that is golden she combs it, 
 
 And sings her song thereby, 
 That breathes to a wild weird burden, 
 
 A wonderful melody — 
 
 that not only the garland, I say, but the 
 very legend itself, which seems so immemorial, 
 are the invention of Heine. The rivers and 
 forests of Germany teem with legendary verse, 
 old Barbarossa and the rest included, while 
 as for the ditties of good fellowship and friend- 
 ship she has nowhere a fellow. Who that 
 has clinked the farewell glass in some homely 
 German circle can forget the round — 
 
 Liebe — lebe — scherze — schwiirme — 
 
 Ich erfreue mich mit dir ! 
 Harme mich, als ich dich harme, 
 
 Und sei wieder froh mit mir ? 
 
so ? 243 
 
 But really I must put the Muse into blinkers 
 here. Germany, on the literary side, always 
 has upon me the effect which Mrs. Alfred 
 Wigan told me brandy-and-water had upon 
 her. It makes me want to sing. On the 
 political side, it doesn't. 
 
 The Dresden Theatre of that day was a 
 delightful institution. For three nights in the 
 week Music reigned in the graceful and well- 
 proportioned house like a larger Haymarket — 
 long since gone to the flame-god, who claims 
 most of them in the end — sweeping in a per- 
 fect semicircle round the open centre of the 
 great place, hard by the bridge whereby 
 hangeth my prison tale, and by the eager 
 river. Sometimes it was a feast of frolic, 
 like Flick und Flock, but oftener the 
 tuneful favourites of that day, impartially 
 from the three great music-lands, Italy, 
 Germany, and France, but all in German 
 text. There is no harm in translations of 
 the best foreign operas, when, as in those 
 countries, home-production is the staple. 
 But in a country where there would seem to 
 have been no opera-composers but Balfe and 
 Wallace, and no operas left of them but the 
 
244 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Bohemian Girl and Mariiana, the less we 
 talk about our musical genius the better. 
 We knight the smallest specimens we find 
 for leading bands and playing waltzes, if for 
 nothing else, but that is about all. And it is 
 futile to make spasmodic efforts after a 
 national opera when there are only transla- 
 tions to build it up with. An opera-house 
 without operas should be but a Hibernian 
 dream. But we are immensely pleased with 
 our musical attainments, and we do talk. 
 And, after all, Balfe and Wallace were but 
 watery imitations of Auber. Gilbert and 
 Sullivan, in their delightful partnership, came 
 nearer absolute originality in music than any 
 others we have had. There is no echo in 
 them whatsoever of the ordinary opera 
 bouffe which reached its highest water- 
 mark in Offenbach. And one of their series, 
 T/ie Yeovien of the Guard, has appealed to 
 me always as comic opera pure and simple, 
 and of no mean order either. 
 
 But I am outside my rights in venturing 
 on music. I am not as badly off as Dean 
 Stanley, who knew but two tunes, one which 
 was " God save the Queen " and the other 
 
so ? 245 
 
 which wasn't. Where I can love music, I 
 can love it deeply, and am eclectic enough 
 to be touched to the heart by the lilt of a 
 melodious ballad, or fascinated altogether by 
 the instrumental magic of a Tannhduser 
 or a Valkyrian ride. Otherwise I am but as 
 a dunce upon the matter, and cannot but 
 hold that, where the Muses number nine, 
 the votaries of Our Lady of the Quavers 
 take far too much unto themselves. And, 
 after all, most music is so very bad. I hope 
 that I have it in my soul, after Shakespeare's 
 ostracism of those that haven't. But all of it, 
 I can't. And I am ever haunted by a weak 
 suspicion that, after all, the rapture which 
 Music causes is out of all due proportion to 
 the agony that it inflicts. Oh those musical 
 afternoons in a close drawing-rpom, with 
 little cups of tea and cakes between, and the 
 hollow murmurs after each little half-baked 
 warble, " Thank you, so very nice ! " Oh 
 those tutelary scales on the other side of a 
 party-wall, even where the scaly one is an 
 expert ! Oh those bands of wandering brass, 
 so like to public speaking of a certain kind ! 
 And oh, above all, those organs of barrel, 
 
246 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 which the populace so love, that to claim 
 musical instincts for them is but a mockery. 
 I wonder if the average Briton's adoration of 
 a barrel-organ springs from the same source 
 as his worship of a Lord, an undistinguishing 
 love of handles for their own sake ? Much 
 humbug on the loose, you know, and every- 
 where. 
 
 The plays at Dresden found me more at 
 home. It was a wonderful company there, 
 that of the early sixties. Two tragedians at 
 the head not to be easily bettered, a striking 
 contrast to each other. Dawisen, ugly and 
 rough, the George Frederick Cooke of 
 Germany, but full of strange power and 
 grim sardonic humour. And Emil Devrient, 
 old then, no doubt, but Kemble-like in form 
 and grace and style, though a far greater 
 master in the natural than they. His 
 Hamlet was the princeliest I have ever 
 seen, so from one side the best. It may 
 seem an odd thing to say, but I have been 
 reminded of it most because for that same 
 specialty, by a Hamlet of our own un- 
 known to general fame, an actor lately lost 
 to us, James Nutcombe Gould. He was 
 
so f 247 
 
 handsome, refined, and princely to the core ; 
 but as I have before spoken of his father's 
 remarkable talents for acting, and claimed 
 him as a kinsman of my own, it is not for me 
 to raise a charge of prejudice. But it is 
 curious that, learning from his father, he had 
 acquired much both of the virtues and the 
 faults of the old style of elocution. To me, 
 it is a pleasure to hear the lines of Shake- 
 speare for their own sake, when well and 
 truly spoken, even with less of mind than 
 Gould's to back them. Dawisen struck me 
 most in Shylock and in Benedick. For the 
 first he made no effort to raise sympathy, but 
 played him as a savage, grim and avaricious, 
 who had lived on for money's sake alone till, 
 through whatever words, he owned no God 
 but that. Christian or Hebrew. The true 
 Shylock to my own mind, and clear in every 
 line. Mammon does claim his worshippers 
 like that. Dawisen's Benedick was a most 
 quaint conception. He was a rough soldier 
 of fortune out of his element, amusedly 
 puzzled by the fine company he got into, 
 making the jests of a Diogenes or a Timon 
 on humankind as he saw it, useful for his 
 
248 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 sword alone and feeling it, disliking women 
 heartily from a mistrust of his own ill- 
 favoured phiz, and at first bothered, then 
 boyishly delighted, at the idea of a girl like 
 Beatrice falling in love with such as him. 
 And such a Beatrice as Fraiilein Ulrich, too, 
 fair and tall, young, and straight as an arrow. 
 All restlessness, caprice, and an ungoverned 
 charm. Hot head and warmer heart ; de- 
 lightful altogether — really attracted by the 
 ugly cynic from the first, in spite of herself 
 and all her training. Ulrich was but a young 
 girl just beginning then. It was no surprise 
 to me to learn that she developed, after- 
 wards, into one of the greatest actresses in 
 Germany. One of the smaller details which 
 struck me at the time — and the German 
 artists have been often provided with a very 
 special gift of insight into Shakespearean 
 effect — -was her first entrance in a riding 
 habit as if fresh from horseback, a glow of 
 exercise upon her face and in her manner, 
 and a jewel-headed whip tapping the tiny 
 boot impatiently. It seemed so exactly 
 Beatrice, so fit an entrance on the scene of 
 the imperious Lady Disdain ! 
 
so ? 249 
 
 The Dresden troop was worthy of its chiefs 
 but it is only the chiefs whom one wishes to 
 recall. The scythe of Time must mow the 
 rest away. Devrient and Dawisen seldom 
 played together, for the policy of two stars in 
 one sphere was never good for managerial 
 commerce long. The star-gazers grow accus- 
 tomed to more than one light for their money, 
 and stop at home for the next constellation. 
 But that was a memorable pair, was Dawisen 
 Mephisto and Devrient Faust, with poetic 
 Ulrich for their Goethe Marguerite. One of 
 our many inartistic English blunders has been 
 that, as far as I know, the regular acting 
 version of Goethe's Faust has never been 
 translated for the English stage. Yet it is 
 standard as Hamlet is with us. We have 
 had the comic fiend of melodrama disguised 
 in every form — of opera or ballet, spectacle 
 or pantomime — but never the real thing. Yet 
 it was to me an interesting reality. I haunted 
 the Dresden theatre upon every play-night. 
 On opera- nights, if I was not tempted, there 
 were the summer breezes on the Bruhl Ter- 
 race overlooking Elbe, with Dresden beyond- 
 river, and its balmy pleasure gardens twink- 
 
2S0 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 ling like diamonds in the dying heat. By 
 day, the working hours apart, there were the 
 wanderings through the avenues of the town, 
 the friendly palavers with the young attaches 
 of the Legation, the kindly welcome in two 
 or three Saxon homes where I had introduc- 
 tions, the boat trips up-stream to the factory 
 of Meisen, where Dresden of the cross-swords 
 tempted us with all her china, or, by a little 
 more of water-way, a plunge into the minia- 
 ture mountain-scenes of Saxon Switzerland. 
 There were the historic curios of the famed 
 Green Vaults ; there was the mighty and mov- 
 ing Mass, with the full band, in the Roman 
 Catholic Head Church of the little protesting 
 state ; and, above and beyond all, at every odd 
 hour tobe frequented always, the gallery of gal- 
 leries, which was my first serious introduction 
 to the wide world of painting. Have I said 
 that I was given to much falling into love ? 
 Indeed, I did it there, and once for all. 
 Through all the changes and charms of this 
 mortal art, through all the churches and 
 galleries of Madrid and Seville, of Florence 
 and of Rome ; through the long miles of 
 Louvre treasures and the fog-brown gloonis 
 
so? Z5I 
 
 of our own national gallery ; through Titian's 
 and Tintoret's haunts in mournful Venice ; 
 through sculpture as through painting, and 
 by the three Venuses one by one, the Capitol, 
 the Medici, the Milo ; through all the Titan 
 power of Michael Angelo ; through all the 
 daring realism of Velasquez ; through Andrea 
 del Sarto's incomparable tenderness and Fra 
 Angelica's monastic fervour ; through the 
 quaint angularities and humour of the Flemish 
 school, I have been haunted, always and 
 for ever, by the memory of one pictured face, 
 as first it broke upon my young ignorance in 
 the shrine-room set apart for it, throned as 
 it should be, divine and all alone. The face 
 of the Sistine Madonna, with that strange, 
 unutterable, unearthly expression of a rapt 
 and solemn awe — the awe of nothing but a 
 chubby baby face, which none the less 
 suggests behind it some supernatural trace 
 of whence it came, made her my mistress in 
 the Arts at once. I can no other. I am 
 mightily pleased to know that my taste was 
 so closely shared by a brilliant young painter, 
 who in his buoyant letters from Rome could 
 sing of nothing to his friends save the glories 
 
252 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 of Raphael, though I part company with him 
 altogether in his depreciation of the might of 
 Michael Angelo. He didn't like the massive, 
 and I love it upon other lines. Taking my 
 wife to Rome after a passage of twenty years, 
 I recognised in the street at once the Church 
 of St. Peter in the Chains which holds the 
 Moses, and led her straight, under the guid- 
 ance of memory, to the corner in which he 
 stands. Even for Raphael I would not 
 stain my worship of the Titian. Otherwise 
 I was always of Mr. Clive Newcome's mind. 
 There is a far-off echo of that inevitable San 
 Sisto face in the sister Raphael Madonna, 
 the foligno in the Vatican of Rome. But it 
 is not the same, for nothing can be. Poor 
 Heine, even ! How want of faith — I don't 
 mean in religion only — is apt to break down 
 at its best ! When he describes the Virgin- 
 mother — mystery or fraud— as the "dame du 
 comptoir" of the Raphaeline painters, decked 
 up in prettiness to attract the custom, it 
 becomes difficult — to me — to imagine a poet's 
 humour gone more prosaically wrong. I 
 could sing, Homerically enough, and by 
 the hour together, of all the other treasures 
 
so? 25s 
 
 of the Dresden temple, of Rubens's rich 
 Gardens of Armida, of the two lovely Mag- 
 dalens of Correggio and Battoni, giving the 
 unwilling palm, perhaps, to the least famous, 
 of the melting Potiphar's young wife of 
 Carlo Cignani, probably the only present- 
 ment of that forbidding and forbidden tale 
 which makes us speculate why Joseph was 
 such a fool as to run away ; but the Sistine 
 Madonna reigns with me imperious and 
 supreme, as she did when first I met her 
 full forty years ago. And so completely has 
 she fascinated my remembrance, and led me 
 through other bird's-eye views of other arts 
 into discursions quite beside the mark, that I 
 must defer my Prison experience for another 
 chapter. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 DISSOLVING VIEWS 
 
 It was on a pleasant evening in the leafy 
 month of July that two cavaliers of similar 
 ages, though mayhap the one may have had 
 the advantage of some two years over his 
 companion, might have been seen strolling 
 with leisurely footsteps across the Bridge of 
 Dresden. The taller of the two was clas- 
 sically handsome, with a slight moustache 
 of down shading the curved upper lip, and 
 deerlike eyes that seemed to be looking into 
 futurity. I wis not that they were truly 
 absorbed in any such abstruse contemplation, 
 but rather in inward thought about the 
 beauties of his own person. Crisp curling 
 hair, a dark shade of brown, clung to his 
 temples and his small but shapely head 
 under its covering of Sombrero form. His 
 companion laid no claim to these physical 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 255 
 
 advantages, though roundness and confidence 
 were transparent in every curve of his less 
 perfectly moulded form. At which point 
 unfortunately the strings of my lute must 
 change to what happened to me since I wrote 
 down those two last words. 
 
 Two years ago, as I have said, I lost 
 every farthing by frauds which I was left 
 to follow out for myself, if possible. At 
 last, after two years of Hope and Work, I 
 arrived at a Court of — Justice, and asked 
 for a bond back of just five hundred pounds, 
 traced beyond question to a gentleman who 
 disposed of my goods, knowing exactly whose 
 they were ; being, indeed, himself a friend of 
 the defaulter. That defaulter walks abroad 
 a free unhampered man, having been first 
 whitewashed by the Society of Law. 
 
 The one bond of five hundred pounds of 
 what had been appropriated, it was thought 
 on all hands I must recover, as it was traced, 
 and its real ownership not denied ; but on 
 some legal plea I was refused all restitution 
 and fined heavily in "costs" for asking 
 for it ! 
 
 That trouble broke me finally and entirely. 
 
256 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 The lawyers have now restored me four 
 pounds, out of their own takings of some 
 twenty thousand, to appeal with ! The 
 humour of the dogs ! Some of them are 
 sorry, but pass by upon the other side. 
 
 Thackeray must have been hovering about 
 me when I started on this chapter, in the 
 very spirit of his Papa Fielding, for in one of 
 Dicky Doyle's delightful little initial sketches 
 do I find good Colonel Newcome and the 
 bonny Clive riding home together in just 
 such romantic guise, side by side, upon old 
 Thomas's return from India, by way of Malta, 
 with his boy, whereanent, by-the-bye, I am 
 sorry to find our Clive — somewhere about this 
 time — proclaiming Titian's " Assumption " as 
 the finest picture in the world. He was not 
 as true to Raphael as to Ethel, after all. So 
 did that youthful pair of Oxford under- 
 graduates stroll across the Dresden bridge in 
 innocence, bent on a pipe and Lager in the 
 beer gardens of the riverside. Two-thirds 
 across, and in the gloaming, they were ac- 
 costed by two minions in helmets, of the 
 Saxon law, who, with strange gestures, sent 
 us to the other side of the bridge, as being 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 257 
 
 on the wrong one. Not understanding, we 
 crossed as bidden, and turned back again. 
 Then they descended on us again for being 
 always on the wrong side, out of contumacy, 
 and when I remonstrated in doubtful but 
 rather wrathful German, swore that I knocked 
 them down, and took me up. I spent 
 the night in prison with a truckle-bed, 
 a jug of water, a loaf of black bread, a 
 German Bible, and a list of warnings to pri- 
 soners, telling me that I should be punished 
 with various degrees of corporal punishment 
 if I objected. I was released after some 
 fifteen hours of durance, spent chiefly, as I 
 think, in throwing black pellets of bread out 
 between the bars at puzzled old vendresses in 
 the market-place below. My friend got me 
 the help of an alarmed Saxon friend, and I 
 was released after severe examination through 
 an interpreter, in which I was called upon to 
 swear, amongst other things, that there was 
 no such rule on London Bridge as having to 
 walk on different sides each way ; that every 
 Londoner didn't take his constitutional over 
 London Bridge and back every day was what 
 the examiner simply refused to believe. 
 
 R 
 
258 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Obviously I was too deceitful. The English 
 Minister told me afterwards that if I cared to 
 stay in Dresden it would be a casus belli. My 
 case filled many German folios. I fear I 
 didn't care, and left the land. Another ques- 
 tion I was asked, as through interpreter, was 
 if I had "ever been transported." "Not to 
 my knowledge " was all that I could say. What 
 the Herr meant was, "Had I ever been in 
 prison?" "No, I had not thus far"; though 
 it might mean worse than that. It is the 
 only thing, as far as I can see, that the 
 Fates had left themselves to do with me. 
 What for, except for having been pillaged 
 all round, I know not yet, nor ever shall now. 
 But we live in tyrannous times, all said and 
 done. 
 
 Another of my long vacations was spent 
 among the echoes of Killarney, in company 
 of Lyulph Stanley, since of School Board 
 fame. Pleasantly entertained at Muckross, 
 the Herberts' seat, we climbed Tore and Mac 
 Gillicuddy, boated on the Lakes, tracked out 
 the scenes of The Collegians, or assisted 
 at the regattas of Kenmare. Comfortably 
 thriving on Scholarship derived from Vaughan 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 159 
 
 and confirmed by Merry, I had attained tlien 
 to a first class in the classic school of Modera- 
 tiones, and had rather prematurely made up 
 my mind that the rest of my college course 
 would be, as old folk said, in a concatenation 
 accordingly. Stanley, on the contrary, had 
 but emerged a second, and set to work at once 
 to remedy the error. Whence it was that, 
 dreaming still, I found myself at the second 
 scholastic crisis relegated only to the second 
 grade of the Humaner Letters, while he 
 secured his first. What difference it makes 
 much afterwards, even in a whirling world, I 
 know not. In that Killarney year I took one 
 term of grace, and in the later summer, in 
 the kind charge of a dear old cousin, Baron 
 Heath, once Governor of the Bankof England, 
 for manyyears Italian Consul in London, and a 
 model of the old-world courtesies, was carried 
 off in guise of secretary, after a brief descent 
 on Berne, to Spain, There was a brief inter- 
 val of a visit to the Stanleys' place at Alderley, 
 remembered by me chiefly for a meeting with 
 the famous Mrs. Grote. Celebrities of all kinds 
 met in the Stanley house. That strong-mind- 
 edest of ladies, great in her way as her 
 
i6a BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 historian husband, was to arrive for dinner. 
 She was late, and when she came, came in a 
 sort of Alpine guise. The explanation to her 
 hostess was that she had intended to walk 
 from the station, with her chattels to follow, 
 but, finding herself tired and muddy, had ac- 
 cepted a lift in a carrier's cart that was pass- 
 ing. She was not perturbed, and questioned 
 me about the company. Among them was an 
 R.A. rising into fame, who had been some 
 three weeks in the house, engaged upon a 
 sylvan study in the woods of Alderley. 
 " What," said Mrs. Grote to me in her deep 
 bass voice, "three weeks staying here to 
 paint one tree! Mr. Painter knows when 
 he's well off." 
 
 I have every reason to believe that my 
 Consul Cousin could have done very well 
 without a secretary. It was one of those 
 acts of gracious kindness, of which I have 
 met with many in the world, to counteract 
 wrong and evil, where one expects it least. 
 Therefore one must make the best or worst 
 of it, and let the results alone. 
 
 In my capacity of secretary I only re- 
 member writing one letter for my baronial 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 461 
 
 cousin in our four months of wandering by 
 grace. Restless always, I suppose that I 
 overdid everything, to make it needful. The 
 letter was from Madrid, and written to 
 Michael Costa, the famous orchestral auto- 
 crat of Gye the elder's Covent Garden. 
 My cousin was a fine musician, a great 
 Maecenas of the art. All the best singers 
 and virtuists of the day congregated at his 
 big double house in Russell Square, where 
 there were palaces of magnates then. 1 
 remember me of one brilliant amateur, re- 
 joicing in the full-mouthed Italian name of 
 the Countess Amalia Brancaleoni, who was 
 broken-hearted because, unlike the as son- 
 orous and as noble Marietta Piccolomini, 
 she could not escape from the wind of her 
 nobility and go upon the stage. What 
 advantage these foreign damsels do possess 
 over us in way of names ! What could it 
 be to a man, for instance, to love a Julia 
 Thompson after losing his heart to an 
 Adelgunda Marwede and Antoinetta Con- 
 stantino ? La Brancaleoni had a voice, note 
 for note, the same as that of her historic con- 
 temporary, the great contralto Alboni. And 
 
262 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 her delight was to stand in the middle of the 
 room while one of my cousins accompanied 
 her, and — acting and singing both — to pour 
 out in golden volume her impassioned gift of 
 song. The brindisi from Lucrezia Borgia — 
 the haunting "Che faro" of Gliick, the 
 Arsace strains from Semiramide — she would 
 give me them one after another, while I sate 
 young and open-mouthed in a corner, just 
 devouring, like J. J. Ridley in Thackeray's 
 story. 
 
 It was about another singer — and music, 
 of one sort or another, seems an especial 
 ornament of Christmas-tide — that I wrote 
 from Madrid the solitary epistle which earned 
 me my first Spanish tour for nothing on a 
 scale of regal magnificence. For my cousin 
 was one of the old commercial princes, and 
 carried his courier with him as well as his 
 secretary wherever we went. The courier 
 did everything the secretary didn't, and the 
 latter official had a high old time. There 
 wasn't much to eat and drink in Spain in 
 those days, but what there was he got. So 
 at Madrid we went to the Italian opera. 
 There were Italian operas everywhere then. 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 263 
 
 And we heard Grisi and Mario in the 
 Huguenots — not for the first time, I admit ; 
 but the treat was not one that staled. Baron 
 Heath was curious about the page Urbano, 
 of whom we had heard as a promising and 
 clever French girl. And when a long- 
 legged and gawky but pretty dark-eyed miss 
 of some sixteen came on to treat us to her 
 opening song, in a voice as rich and fresh as 
 a young organ, his practised taste detected 
 such high promise through the youthfulness 
 of Mile. Trivelle, that he made me write 
 that letter to the imperious conductor, and 
 tell him to send to Madrid and look out for 
 Alboni's successor. And Costa's answer was 
 to laugh at his friend's enthusiasm for way- 
 side genius. But within a very few seasons 
 the pretty maypole made her appearance at 
 the rival house — Her Majesty's — under the 
 banners of Mapleson, and as the Italianised 
 Trebelli. Costa admitted to feeling very 
 sore. 
 
 The cosas d'Espana, or things of Spain, 
 were in a queer state then. The few rail- 
 ways there were began and ended in the 
 most unlikely places, for no particular reason, 
 
264 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 One costly iron road ran about fifteen 
 minutes out of Barcelona, and then stopped. 
 You lumbered along vile roads in topheavy 
 diligences, with your driver sitting behind 
 his horses with a bagful of sharp stones, 
 which he aimed at the sore places on the 
 poor brutes' backs to make them go on ; or 
 you coasted from Barcelona to Valencia in a 
 ghastly little steamer, which meant sea-sick- 
 ness in every creak and swell, all the principal 
 ships being taken for transports, as a war 
 was coming off in Morocco. The people 
 hated it, and were not even stirred by the 
 dithyrambs of the papers, which fanned 
 their ardour by descriptions of the Moorish 
 maidens, with " ojos neros y passiones vehe- 
 mentes," eagerly and with open arms await- 
 ing the Spanish conqueror. The Spanish 
 conqueror didn't want to go, and didn't care 
 whether the arms of the maidens opened or 
 not ; but he submitted in his fatalistic way, and 
 my cousin and I saw a mighty function in the 
 public place of Valentia, with the Cardinal- 
 Archbishop blessing the standards, and a big 
 disembarkation from the port of the Grao 
 afterwards. It was a varied feast of colour. 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 265 
 
 It was a pleasant introduction to a country 
 centuries behind everybody else, though 
 the hardier North asserted itself even then, 
 and Barcelona was well ahead of what 
 Malaga is now. Only the other day a 
 Spanish barber here in London objected 
 altogether to my calling him a Spaniard. 
 He was from Barcelona, and a Catalan. 
 And if the lazy Southerners, and the miser- 
 able jobbers of Madrid, would only allow of 
 the election of a pure Catalan Government, 
 they would soon then see, quoth he, what the 
 old Empress of the Earth could do. Well, 
 there seems to be a Spanish revival coming. 
 Business is lord just now ; and after English, 
 the Spanish, increasing in circulation every 
 day, is the language most in demand with 
 business men. And Perea Nena the peerless 
 danced for us in Barcelona, and Neri Baraldi 
 sang ; and the Consul at the foot of Montserrat 
 gave us a pleasant welcome for the night before 
 our climb. And his pretty blonde daughter, 
 known in the neighbourhood as the White 
 Angel for colouring so unusual there, clearly 
 held me guilty of high treason for falling in 
 love for the evening, and all the next day. 
 
266 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 with a seductive dark-eyed cousin used to 
 the second fiddle, and delighted to play the 
 first for once. She was newer to my Anglo- 
 Saxon taste. Her ojos were neros to the 
 point of distraction. Whether her passiones 
 were vekementes I had not time to arrive at 
 the point of asking. But she was very nice, 
 and taught me all the Spanish I knew for 
 many years. 
 
 We did not reach the southern provinces, 
 for from Valencia our business programme 
 carried us to Madrid, allowing us before we 
 left to sample Murviedro, the old seaside 
 Saguntum so long abandoned by the sea. 
 There we had to put up in an amazing old 
 shanty suggestive of the last act of Rigoletio, 
 two rooms one over the other with no fourth 
 side. The family and the horses slept in the 
 lower room, the Baron and I and the courier 
 and the pigs in the upper. I wonder if there 
 is a hotel there now. Spain's only railway 
 took us to Madrid, and there, divided 
 between the historic desolations of Toledo 
 and the Escorial, and the insatiable delights 
 of the picture gallery and the seductions of 
 the Italian opera and the native dancers. 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 167 
 
 and, I am ashamed to say, of the unholy 
 bull-ring, I had, for a busy secretary, a very 
 pleasant time. 
 
 As Fate would have it, the subject for 
 the next year's Oxford Newdigate was 
 the Escorial. My friends all thought that 
 I was bound to get it, though at that time 
 I had not embarked upon the sea of 
 poetry. However, I wrote four lines, and 
 thus : 
 
 I was alone ; scarce on my ear had died 
 The untaught accents of my chattering guide, 
 Who held discourse of emperors and Icings 
 As unrespected and familiar things. 
 
 At that point I consulted an expert, who 
 said that familiarity of that kind was all very 
 well for Goldsmith, but would never do for 
 Newdigate. So I went no farther, and did 
 not even send my quatrain in. 
 
 But I remember that, when the successful 
 Newdigate of my year was recited, I thought 
 but little of it. It did not remind me of the 
 real Escorial at all, but soared on the wings 
 of the most unchartered British imagination. 
 It would have applied equally to Hampton 
 
268 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Court, but it was truly classical and ten- 
 syllabled, and was the work of a good man 
 and true, John Addington Symonds. 
 
 We left Madrid by diligence. We left it 
 at half-past nine on a Wednesday morning, 
 and reached Bayonne at half-past four on 
 Saturday afternoon. It was a good deal of 
 carriage exercise for one bout. But with the 
 whole of a cold coup'e to ourselves, stoppages 
 at Burgos and a few other places, and en- 
 livened by a mighty forest fire by night as 
 we crossed the Pyrenees, we got through the 
 long, monotonous, sandy desert of a track by 
 constant recourse to cold chicken and red 
 wine. But oh, how my bones ached ! Oh, 
 how tired I was ! Oh, how unutterably grim 
 and dirty ! We have all read much of 
 soldiers' marches of late, but it would take 
 many marches over many lands to beat 
 seventy-nine hours of a Spanish diligence 
 some forty years ago. After all those weeks 
 of Spanish fare, our dinner at Bayonne that 
 Saturday night has passed with me into a 
 religious memory. And my cousin the 
 Consul and Baron knew, amongst other 
 things, how to order, and to eat, a dinner. 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 269 
 
 Christmas Day was upon us when I parted 
 with my dear and generous old host in the 
 good city of Bayonne, after a peep at un- 
 fledged Biarritz- on-Sea, and made my way 
 across the South of France to Nice. Rail- 
 way communication ended just beyond Mar- 
 seilles, and again the ancient diligence rattled 
 and rumbled me along — along by the spark- 
 ling Mediterranean, and under the green 
 Estrelles, through lovely and unfashionable 
 Cannes — where nobody lived then except a 
 few fishermen and Lord Brougham — letting 
 you savour the beauties of the scenery after a 
 method quite forgotten now. And when we 
 crossed the river Var on the unsafe old 
 bridge, which was but a weak barrier 
 between two fair kingdoms then, I was for 
 the first time in my life in Italy, within a few 
 weeks to be Italy no more. How changed 
 it is, all that I The Promenade des Anglais 
 was a rough, half-finished road. My mother 
 — an invalid, whom I had gone to join — had 
 a large first floor in the Maison Laurengin, 
 the corner house of the Promenade and the 
 Quai Mass6na, which is now one of the 
 
276 Bar, stage, and platform 
 
 biggest of the Nice hotels. Bridge over the 
 PagHone's mouth there was none. Only the 
 predecessor of that a little way above, close 
 to the H6tel Chauvain, then monarch of all 
 that it surveyed in the hotel way. Is not its 
 name changed now ? I fancy so. Carabagel 
 was lanes and scattered houses. The only 
 Villafranca road wound over the dividing 
 hills. Nor road nor rail led on to Monaco 
 or to Mentone, and Monte Carlo was an 
 uninvented word. The beautiful Cornice 
 was the only way. And you dropped upon 
 Monaco on foot, scrambling down the hills 
 Turbii. As one looked upon the little nest- 
 ling water-gem, one wanted to take a header 
 into it. 
 
 National little Nice was considerably ex- 
 cited then. She hated to be transferred in 
 the cause of Italian unity, and was bitter 
 enough about a union that meant for her 
 divorce. Cavour's great stroke of policy 
 was a bad pill to her, and savage Nationalists 
 were to be met in many drawing-rooms. 
 Suzanni, brother tribune of Safifi and Mazzini, 
 interested me much, though, naturally, he 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 171 
 
 was reserved with me. Garibaldi himself, 
 greatest of all Nisards — of all men in the 
 world, therefore, hating that annexation 
 most, seeming as it did ingratitude indeed to 
 him — was in the town when first I came, 
 and I watched him playing bowls with his 
 chums in his shirt-sleeves — " quite like a 
 common chap," as one of my companions 
 said. And there were times during that 
 winter when the ferment became dangerous. 
 Some of the larger tradesmen took secret 
 pleasure in the change, but scarcely cared to 
 say so. But the game had been well played, 
 and the guards well drilled, and the precau- 
 tions were well taken. And when the 
 French troops marched into the town, it was 
 with all the show of bunting and of flags 
 common to all festive occasions. But the 
 faces! It was pain to watch them. Sad, 
 sullen, dejected, wild. It was a triumphal 
 entry into a conquered town. And the iron 
 plough of the conqueror went over Nizza 
 Mar. 
 
 But fashionable Nice, save for far smaller 
 proportions of Mob, was what it is, and was, 
 
27* BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 and will be. Only the outside trappings of 
 Dame Fashion change. She is but a dainty 
 skirt-dancer before the throne of Policies. 
 The first thing that happened to me was to 
 have a dancing-master sent for, to show me 
 how to waltz. Fresh from the tennis-courts 
 and cricket-fields, I had small turn that way. 
 But there was to be a dance in our own 
 rooms next day — the feminine pressure was 
 put on — and in a very shamefaced fashion I 
 went through the drill. And, in my usual 
 go-ahead way, I took a sudden fancy to the 
 waltz, and for the next three months seemed 
 to be doing nothing else every night, except 
 when it was La Boccabadati in the Traviata 
 or Levassor in his French vaudevilles. And 
 when the season closed, so rapid had been 
 my development that I found myself not 
 only dancing in the rainbow cotillons, but 
 leading them, a premiership which was often 
 to be my lot afterwards in the less pictur- 
 esque surroundings of London. And during 
 those halcyon days there were picnics on the 
 hills or saunters in the castle, and boats to 
 Villafranca, and donkey-rides (donkey-rides 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 273 
 
 at Nice !) into the fair interior, day after day, 
 and everything that seemed least like Christ- 
 mas to one who had never Christmased it 
 out of England before. Of all my sweet 
 girl-partners, of course 1 liked one the best, 
 and we loved each other all the season 
 through. I wrote small and early verse 
 about her, and, as I learnt by surreptitious 
 means, she talked about me to her maid 
 when she was in her morning bath. She 
 was very young and very pretty, and the 
 houri of Montserrat faded from my inconstant 
 mind. I need not say that nothing came 
 of it but vows, which at that age don't count. 
 When some years afterwards we met again, 
 it was to laugh. 
 
 For in my heart's remotest cell 
 There had been many different lodgers. 
 
 And she was not the drawing-room belle, 
 But only Mrs. Something Rogers. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Music, of course, was a great fact at Nice. 
 Sofie Cruvelli — by her true German name 
 Criiwel — led the van, and, as the Baroness 
 Vigier, was the great lady who gave con- 
 
274 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 certs. A few years before she had con- 
 vulsed all Lumley- London and the omnibus- 
 boxers by running away and disappearing in 
 the middle of the season. Impresarios went 
 wild and epigrammatists made jokes, and 
 " Where's Cruvelli ? " was the skit of the 
 day. She got married, and gave up the 
 show. But twice in the year she gave a 
 public concert at Nice and sang her old 
 songs. She was a fine, full woman, with 
 blue-black hair and eyes, and one of those 
 effortless voices which come out of them- 
 selves. Like the two daughters of Garcia, 
 Malibran and Viardot, she had the double 
 register. Alboni tried for it, but failed, and 
 her Sotnnambula broke down, as well as 
 nearly breaking down Amina's bridge through 
 her specific gravity. But Cruvelli, like the 
 Garcias, would sing Semiramide or Arsace 
 indifferently. The theatre prima donna, La 
 Boccabadati, was quite a great actress with 
 a small sweet voice, adored by the Nigois 
 gods, while the young baritone, Cotogni, 
 afterwards made himself a London name. 
 The tenor was like most tenors, fat and 
 awful. 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 275 
 
 Italian names certainly sound better than 
 English. Boccabadati is more distinguished 
 than Take-care-of-your-mouth, even as Tag- 
 liafico, that most ail-roundly useful of all 
 basses, who sang and acted everything in 
 turn, and ended as a stage-manager, had a 
 more convincing way with him than Cut-fig. 
 But my musical heroine of Nice was an 
 Englishwoman, Clara Novello. Even to 
 this day she is, of all the minstrels, my most 
 abiding memory. Of later singers, the voice 
 of Titiens resembled hers the most in its full 
 power of penetrating sound. She filled the 
 Crystal Palace, as Clara Novello could fill 
 anything when she was empress of Exeter 
 Hall. But the art of Titiens was very im- 
 perfect indeed, while the other's was perfec- 
 tion. Curious to think that the last of the 
 greatest oratorio-quartette (taking the four 
 together) ever heard has but lately disap- 
 peared from us : Clara Novello; Miss Dolby; 
 Herr Formes ; and Sims Reeves. The re- 
 tired English singer — Countess Gigliucci, by 
 her married style — was very kind to me at 
 Nice ; and used to give me tea at what she 
 called her little button of a house among the 
 
2 76 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 hills. And then she would sit at the piano, 
 and sing me ballad after ballad of the simpler 
 kind, in a voice which she could modulate 
 for a Pyramid or a nutshell, till the pleasure 
 of music became almost a pain. No wonder, 
 after my young advantages, that I am some- 
 times difficult to please. 
 
 Just at the end of my stay, two chums and 
 I tramped the Cornice road as far as San 
 Remo, as it existed then. Returning, we 
 stayed at Monaco. Monte Carlo was a rock, 
 barren and anonymous. Monaco was a tiny, 
 if independent, empire, with a few houses, a 
 prince, a standing army of some six, and a 
 seedy roulette-room. We played there 
 daringly. There was nobody else there, 
 except two or three seedier croupiers, who 
 obviously lost on purpose, to draw us on. 
 We were drawn on till we had recouped 
 ourselves in the full expenses of our little 
 walking tour. Then we pocketed our gains, 
 buttoned our breeches, and withdrew, as 
 both joyfuller and wiser men. The croupiers 
 looked seedier and sadder as we went. And 
 a panting little Mediterranean steamboat 
 carried me from newly-Frenchified Nice 
 
DISSOLVING VIEWS 277 
 
 harbour to Marseilles, and I went back to 
 England to resume my Oxford life, with a 
 mind rather singularly opened by a little 
 circle of winter travel, unusual for an under- 
 graduate of that less gaddish day. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK 
 CIRCUIT 
 
 Let me proceed with my chronicle while 
 time is left. My scholar times at Oxford, 
 such as they may have been, were spent, as 
 has been my way of life, with older men. 
 Youth had its fling in odd forms, as things 
 went. We were much impressed by a 
 sermon of the famous Mr. Spurgeon, in which 
 he said there would be no harm in dancing if 
 the sexes mixed not, but only danced apart. 
 We took that hint, and did ; inaugurating 
 Spurgeon balls in Balliol. Lyrist and 
 dramatist afterwards, Robert Reece would 
 take the piano. The youths who stood for 
 ladies took their coats off for a sign, and we 
 danced into the small hours merrily enough. 
 Bouncers and Jokers were ever to the fore. 
 Then, the theatricals ! Unknown before, we 
 brought them into Balliol under the tutelary 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 279 
 
 care of a strolling actor who came to Oxford 
 with an entertainment and stage-managed 
 us. He was short and red and earnest, and 
 said that within a few years he would be 
 dead or famous. I never heard of him 
 again, so I suppose he's dead. We enacted 
 an Olympic playlet of Tom Taylor's, called 
 To Oblige Benson, and a farce of the day 
 called Crinoline. Our cast included, amongst 
 others, two who became playwrights, one who 
 turned solicitor, an Egyptian judge, a man 
 of fashion, a distinguished Civil servant, and 
 a headmaster. The latter was our jeune 
 premier, a strong-knit and determined man, 
 great in the 'Varsity eight as on all rivers 
 afterwards, who practically bossed the under- 
 graduate forces of the college from a fixed 
 purpose to have his own way in everything. 
 I do not know that he was a great scholar ; 
 but when he told the examiners to give him 
 a first class, they did. He certainly was not 
 a great actor ; but we engaged him out of 
 policy, otherwise we might not have been 
 allowed to act. Still in my mind's eye I can 
 see his stalwart figure now, in a frock-coat 
 and a violent perspiration, stammering out 
 
28o BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 something inaudibly his j'eune premier s creed : 
 " Where women are concerned, I am in- 
 flammable. And glory in it." And he is 
 head-master at Eton now. 
 
 The little red professional made us all up. 
 And Toody, as in To Oblige Benson my 
 fair wife was called, looked, in a wig of close 
 curls, I must say more wildly unfeminine 
 than any performer I remember. We got 
 some regular scenery down from London. 
 The larger gates of the college, which was 
 much excited, had to be opened to let that 
 scenery in. That more distressed our dear 
 mild college Dean than anything connected 
 with the show. " Tay tay!" he said, with 
 a strange interjection that belonged to him, 
 "those gates have only been opened once 
 before in my memory, when the Prince 
 Consort came ! " It was an odd perform- 
 ance, I should think, though we had crowded 
 houses for two nights under difficulties, 
 since illness took us from the staircase 
 chosen only the day before. And in the 
 space of time remaining to us, our theatre 
 had to be moved bodily to other rooms hard 
 by, and cut about to suit the new proportions. 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 281 
 
 Sad, possibly, was the result of that brief 
 theatric frenzy, the seed of the Drama in 
 classic and ecclesiastic Oxford. We were 
 more stern than Cambridge, which about 
 that time, under Burnandian and kindred 
 auspices, started upon its famous A.D.C. 
 We wanted one, but Dame Oxford, more 
 pedant or more prudent than Dame Cam- 
 bridge, said us nay. So some of us in- 
 dulged our proclivities by forming a little 
 club of our own, and acting in other towns 
 when we could get the chance. I have no 
 reason to think that our performances were 
 great. The strangest was the last. I had 
 just taken my degree as Bachelor of Arts, 
 when, with Reece and Ponsonby and another, 
 I joined a provincial company for the fun of 
 it, touring at Leamington and Coventry under 
 our red friend's management. Leamington 
 was distinctly fashionable ; Coventry was dis- 
 tinctly not. At the first city all was as it 
 should be ; at the second it was nothing of 
 the kind. At Leamington our houses were 
 full ; at Coventry they were exceeding empty. 
 Touring companies, be it remembered, were 
 not the functions that they now are. They 
 
282 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 were still the days of the Bingleys and the 
 Snevellicci. 
 
 We added a new farce to our Coventry 
 repertory, and as Reece, who had not been with 
 us at Leamington, was to bring the only book 
 with him from town for study the night before, 
 much depended on him. He did not arrive 
 until the day of the performance at midday. 
 We rushed upon the book to copy out our 
 parts, and then and there discovered that 
 there was one more woman in the play than 
 there was in the company. A brief and 
 summary consultation resulted in our dressing 
 up our red-polled manager in female guise, 
 and in the evening on we went, our parts 
 concealed on scrip beneath our hats, uncon- 
 scious of all save cues. I remember suddenly 
 coming across in mine a passage which made 
 necessary a glass of sherry at the wing. A 
 local swell was lounging at that entrance, and 
 I rushed up to him. " Have you," I said, 
 " anything about you like a glass of sherry ? " 
 The audience roared. "Well, no," he an- 
 swered; "would a cigar do as well.'"' "It 
 would," I said, and took one, which I lit. So 
 we got through that drama. Ponsonby, who 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 28.^? 
 
 had no part in that especial play, was seated 
 in the dress circle next an old gentleman in 
 wrath. " Oxford amateurs," said he ; " why, 
 it's disgraceful ! They don't know one syl^ 
 lable of all their parts between them." Pon- 
 sonby turned round to him and shook hands. 
 "You are quite right, sir," said he; "that 
 is the most sensible remark I've heard since I 
 have been in Coventry." Oh, those days! 
 
 Finding a tail-coat wanted in one piece, 
 Ponsonby borrowed a frock-coat from our 
 landlord and stuck the back halves up with 
 pins. At another crisis, in a costume piece 
 in two acts, called, as I think. Our Wife, 
 clever but not consecutive, we got so mixed 
 at one point in Act One, that those of us who 
 were on the stage stuck fast. Ponsonby 
 brought on all the company at once. And we 
 finished the first Act with a brilliant finale, 
 which properly belonged to the second. The 
 applause on fall of curtain was all that could 
 be desired. And when the situation recurred 
 in Act the Second, we did that scene again. 
 Nobody found it out ! 
 
 Still we were not a success at Coventry. 
 The weavers didn't like us, and gathered 
 
284 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 round our lattice at the inn at night, even so 
 far as throwing stones at us. We bore it 
 bravely, and for the next night sent out double 
 orders without result. Nobody used them. 
 So, as the fair was on, we walked through it 
 two and two, beating drums and blowing 
 trumpets. And yet they came not. We 
 picknicked, all of us, at Kenil worth, and the 
 leading lady played Juliet to my Romeo from 
 a ruined window, to the amazement of some 
 honest families about. We wound up our 
 engagement with a dance upon the stage, the 
 band from Leamington having come over in 
 our honour. We danced into the night, and 
 I yet/emember our boldest in his shirt-sleeves, 
 a tankard of beer beside him, waltzing with 
 the critic of the Coventry Herald ! 
 
 The company had to be left behind at 
 Coventry in pawn, and when we four got back 
 to Leamington, we bailed it out. On our 
 return to Oxford as we should be, we raised a 
 dummy in the corner-seat of the train. We 
 set up a great-coat in sitting attitude, and 
 covered our leading lady's muff on the top of 
 it, looking just like back hair, with a tall hat 
 leaning down over it. We inflated a glove, 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 285 
 
 and set a cigar between the fingers and a 
 ticket in the hatband. And then we threw a 
 rug across the figure. When the guard asked 
 for tickets, we said the man was ill, and we 
 dared not disturb him. The guard declared 
 that he must, and crossed between us. Then 
 roused the dummy, who fell into bits. From 
 Oxford, afterwards, I had to take the train 
 and travel across country, to join a circuit of 
 another kind — the Norfolk Circuit at Norwich, 
 as judge's marshal to Chief Justice Erie, 
 justest and kindliest of magnates both, there 
 to make my first acquaintance with Matthew 
 Arnold as my brother-marshal. And the 
 strange hunt in quest of scholarships, and the 
 friends many and various, and the racquets 
 and the fields and walks, and the tennis with 
 Tomkins and with Barre, ended with the days 
 of Oxford. Magdalen walks and Christ- 
 church meadows! blending streams of Cherwell 
 and of I sis, with all the mellow mystery of 
 bells, wonderful gardens of Trinity under the 
 academic eaves, you were a dream, too much 
 of one, before utility ! As it so happened, 
 I saw but little of Oxford afterwards — more 
 of the sister University, and the prevalence of 
 
286 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 trams and bicycles, and of the fair sex, has 
 changed things in the oddest way. The 
 ladies are everywhere now. As far as I 
 remember, there was about six who counted, 
 in my day ; three of them very pretty. 
 
 Chief Justice Erie's was a great figure in 
 my youth. Rough and of country accent, 
 always for justice before letter-law when he 
 could pierce to it. Sprung of the Western 
 Circuit, almost as great a nurse of legal 
 eminence in those days as Balliol of classic, 
 he was of heart and conscience singularly 
 tender. His fellow-judge upon the Norfolk 
 Circuit was Judge Wightman, an old man 
 then, and father-in-law of Matthew Arnold, 
 who accompanied him on circuit as marshal, 
 famous as he was in other ways. Every 
 evening, after the day's work was over, we 
 four — four different generations of life — sate 
 down to our rubbers in the judges' lodgings. 
 My whist was very primitive, I fear, but 
 good enough for a fourth hand in such good 
 company. My chiefs first recourse, when 
 his cards were dealt to him, was to groan 
 audibly, and as he played them out — an ace 
 at a time, perhaps, for luck was often with 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 287 
 
 him — to groan more sadly over every trick 
 he won. When he did not win he was given 
 to the use of Anglo-Saxon of a sturdy kind 
 indeed, at which good old Judge Wight- 
 man would hold up his hands with a remon- 
 strance, " Oh brother, brother." And Arnold 
 smiled his pleasant smile of watchful humour, 
 and I wondered to myself how such a small 
 and early fish out of the water as I had 
 somehow swum into such goodly company. 
 It was Erie's wont to take two horses with 
 him on his circuits, one for himself and 
 another for his marshal, and ride from town 
 to town, besides taking his own daily ride 
 before the sittings of the court. The last 
 duty he proceeded at once to let me off 
 unless I should be so disposed, as he did 
 even that of abstracting the pleadings, which 
 was the marshal's one title, I believe, to 
 his professional earnings at the time. He 
 was infinitely kind and considerate to the 
 youngster as to everybody, and frankly told 
 me that he didn't think my abstracts assisted- 
 justice in the least. Any miscarriage of 
 justice, any failure of his own to convince a 
 jury on a point which he felt just and right. 
 
288 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 haunted him like a personal pain. He would 
 talk of it, even to me, for days. His may 
 have been an exceptional figure in that way 
 at any time perhaps ; certainly one does not 
 look upon his like again just now. 
 
 Our rides from town to town were curious 
 feats. Erie steadily proceeded at a swing 
 trot always, on beasts of stolid mould accus- 
 tomed to it. He stuck his elbows bravely 
 out and groaned at intervals, as over whist. 
 One day, riding from Cambridge as I think 
 it was, a youthful desire seized on me to get 
 on faster just for once. A convenient stretch 
 of turf for cantering bordered the road just 
 there, and, without wavering, I put my won- 
 dering beast into the swing. He was sur- 
 prised, no doubt, but not displeased. He 
 had a little tired of the old pace too. But 
 as we bowled along we heard the voice of 
 the good judge behind us. We turned deaf 
 ears and would not wind up till our quickened 
 canter had well finished. I expected severe 
 reproaches from my companion, whose kind- 
 ness for animals was like the rest of him. 
 He only muttered a good deal on the subject, 
 that I had taught him a lesson. His horses 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 289 
 
 had been taking him in. They could canter 
 or gallop as well as any other man's, but had 
 malingered till he quite thought they couldn't. 
 On one of our rides we crossed a ferry, and 
 for some reason the judge deposited a small 
 coin on the ferryman's window-sill. I re- 
 member thinking it was unlike his usual 
 liberality, and we rode on in silence for a 
 little way. Then he suddenly stopped. 
 " Did I give that poor fellow enough ? " he 
 said to me. And as I suppose my answer 
 was doubtful, we had to ride back again to 
 let him increase his largesse. 
 
 The pleasant companionship of Matthew 
 Arnold lightened that circuit even for so 
 young a man. I am not sure of the judg- 
 ment that stamps him among the greatest of 
 the poets by the side of so great a one 
 as Tennyson, but with all his many and 
 prosaic avocations he had not the time and 
 leisure to cultivate the Muse as exclusively 
 as nearly all of her prime favourites have 
 done ; all I think really, for I can recall 
 for the moment none but Milton perhaps, 
 who did much of hard work in other fields. 
 And Milton's politics did his verse no good. 
 
S90 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 Arnold's was a very attractive figure to 
 those who knew him well. From the time 
 of that early circuit I grew to be close friends 
 with himself and his family, and saw much 
 of them in London, and at the Arnold home 
 in Lakeland at Fox- How by Rydal. 
 There do I much remember that we all 
 ensued croquet, then in its vigorous infancy, 
 under conditions which would not be favour- 
 able to its more scientific sides, for we 
 played chiefly in umbrellas and very thick 
 boots, on the slope of a hill declining on the 
 lake. The effect of what we then called a 
 tight-croquet down the mountain side was 
 in its way unique, waking the echoes of 
 those fir surroundings to a music of its own, 
 one of the little boy Arnolds, " Let me tooky 
 loo ! let me tooky loo ! " — " Croquet you " 
 being intended, often coming back upon my 
 ear. Matthew Arnold's was the most evenly 
 cheerful disposition I have ever known, 
 never in high spirits as I remember him, 
 and never in low ; with a vein of grave and 
 scholarly humanity always in his talk, with 
 his children showing itself in the form of a 
 caressing companionship, and with his affec- 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 291 
 
 tionate and gentle wife in the tenderest and 
 most equable of intimacies. Theirs was the 
 ideal of a quiet and trustful home, I think, 
 and a lesson in harmony to the less fortunate. 
 It was for his boys — one of them, a young 
 musical genius, suffered from chronic heart- 
 disease of which at last he died, still in his 
 boyhood, and was therefore the most watched 
 one of the flock — that he wrote his perfect 
 quatrain about the " felis tigris " of the 
 household. 
 
 Cruel, but composed and bland, 
 Calm, unspeakable, and grand, 
 So Tiberius might have sate, 
 Had Tiberius been a cat. 
 
 With all his own work to do, Arnold was 
 not much visible on circuit, except at the 
 evening whist, to me — though I saw enough 
 of him to lay the foundations of the alliance. 
 Occasionally, as representatives of the judi- 
 cial arm, we were bidden to the feasts and 
 boards of the nobility and gentry of Debrett, 
 either with the dignitaries or without them, 
 as once to the Rothschild gem of a villeg- 
 giatura at Aston Clinton, changed, no doubt, 
 though how I know not, since that day, 
 
292 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 with its gems of painting and statuary, and 
 its bath of inlaid marble built over a natural 
 spring of purest water, a curiosity of luxury, as 
 I remember thinking, worthy of ancient Rome. 
 Arnold was an amusing talker on the sub- 
 ject of the Drama, caring admittedly only 
 for the classic. He looked upon the 
 cothurnus as the truest analyst of the per- 
 plexities and destinies of life, and had small 
 sympathy, which was odd in him, with the 
 laughing portraits of the Muse of Comedy, 
 which had in them to him something of the 
 nature of mere caricature at best. The 
 plays of Aristophanes were in reality but 
 satire in burlesque, and even the comedies 
 of Moliere were to him but as weaker imita- 
 tions. Twice only in my memory of him do 
 I remember his going to the theatre ; once, 
 because our alliance induced him to ask me 
 for a box to see a modern-life play of mine and 
 Craufurd Grove's, then strongly running at 
 one of the London theatres. He expressed 
 himself afterwards to have been very much 
 entertained, and interested too, but placidly 
 observed that he had been most struck by 
 the improbabilities, that is the unfailing com- 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 293 
 
 panions of the Drama, which to my old ex- 
 perience seem more in attendance nowa- 
 days than ever. But people forget that a 
 play is an epitome of a mere corner of time 
 enlarged but in imagination, and that to 
 touch the probable at all is as much as can 
 be expected of it. " People don't do such 
 things " is the quieter comment on half the 
 plays of nowadays. The nearest thing to 
 do is not to be impossible. How can you 
 be real in a room with only three sides to it ? 
 Well, I fell into my error in good company in 
 that case. Baron Martin, the famous York- 
 shire racing judge, had before him a case in 
 which counsel quoted J^omeo and Juliet. He 
 said that he had heard of it but never read it ; 
 and as the case was adjourned on the rising 
 of the court, would do so that night, and tell 
 them what he thought about it the next 
 morning. Whereon he opened the proceed- 
 ings by remarking in his broad Yorkshire: 
 " I've read your Romeo and Juliet, and don't 
 think much of ut. It's a tissue of impro- 
 babilities from the beginning to the end." 
 A revivable old anecdote at this distance of 
 the time. 
 
294 SAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 From his own more refined and scholarly 
 points of view, Matthew Arnold could be 
 guilty of heresies in the great Shakespeare 
 cult almost as daring, for his other visit to 
 the play that I remember brought one out. I 
 saw him one day on the opposite side of the 
 street, pacing along and smiling to himself in 
 the way I knew so well. Amused I went 
 across to him and asked him what had 
 happened. "What is the fun?" I said. 
 " Have they been attacking you again in 
 thQ Saturday ?" For to break lances with 
 that periodical was an amusement to both ; 
 Freeman, the historian, being reputed to be 
 his adversary. "Oh no, my dear boy, no! 
 I went to Drury Lane last night." " Oh ! to 
 see Helen Faucit in Cymbeline ? Didn't you 
 admire her?" "Oh, not that — poor dear 
 lady "—in his {mm{tah\& longueurs, vihich could 
 not be described as a drawl — " she was charm- 
 ing, of course. But it's the play, you know, 
 Cymbeline ! Such an odd, broken- backed 
 sort of a thing! It couldn't have happened 
 anywhere, you know." And, indeed, such a 
 stricture is not unjustified by the too whole- 
 sale admirers even of Shakespeare himself, 
 
ARNOLD AND THE NORFOLK CIRCUIT 295 
 
 A little book might be added to the already 
 burdened list, called " The Dull Plays of 
 Shakespeare." Amongst even those, how- 
 ever, Cymbeline has one distinction. If 
 Hamlet was said by the neophyte as being 
 "so full of quotations," Cymbeline, with the 
 exception of Fidele's dirge, does not, as far as 
 I know, contain a single remembered touch, 
 which makes me doubt the Master's presence 
 altogether. The Winter s Tale, for instance, 
 which must, I think, on the whole be admitted 
 to be an inferior play too, teems with such 
 gems and extracts all the way through. But 
 Shakespeare's claim to undisputed primacy 
 rests on his best. Four masterpieces of 
 tragedy, each with its keynote : the tragedy 
 of love, Rom^eo and Juliet ; of madness, Lear ; 
 of jealousy, Othello ; and of destiny, Hamlet. 
 In comedy. As You Like It, Much Ado, and 
 Twelfth Night, we have three. Historical 
 chronicle in dramatic shape attains its highest 
 in Richard the Third. And the realms of 
 fancy never supplied two such dreams of the 
 poet's imagination as The Tempest and the 
 Midsummer Night. That variety of Shake- 
 speare's mind was of all its greatest marvel. 
 
296 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 To have struck on such a fairy-mine as the 
 last of these would have been to any other 
 writer a career for life. It was enough for 
 him to strike it, and to pass. But then such 
 masterpieces from one hand are enough for 
 the very greatest fame. Neither a Shake- 
 speare nor a Michael Angelo can always 
 attain to that. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WANDERING MEMORIES 
 
 The chambers of the usual conveyancer in 
 Lincoln's Inn, and the usual pleader in the 
 "Temple," with the help of the course of 
 dinners prescribed for the full honours of 
 barristership, followed upon my departure 
 from Oxford. My conveyancer was a famous 
 character in his way, a bachelor devoted to 
 his friends and his hospitalities, living himself 
 in his modest lodgings, and alternating between 
 them and chambers, delighting in large hos- 
 pitalities to big parties of young men and 
 maidens, well and truly chosen, for the theatre 
 or the Crystal Palace, the grounds of which, 
 under his genial auspices, were the scene of 
 many a cheery feast and many a pleasant 
 flirtation. Kettle ended sadly by losing his 
 fortunes through the usual treacherous friend 
 for whom he went security, and passed quietly 
 
298 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 away one evening suddenly, with a smile upon 
 his face, to leave a host of regretful friends 
 behind him. He prided himself, in spite of 
 the nature of his gatherings, on forming a 
 school of young bachelors who were to for- 
 swear marriage and follow his example, and 
 eschew the fair sex for a pleasant friendship 
 or a bright companionship. His scholars 
 were all ardent in their vows of fidelity to the 
 precept, but out of some half-dozen only one 
 has kept them. Precept, I fear, was scarcely 
 strong enough for temptation ; and the long 
 summer evenings in the Crystal Palace 
 grounds, smiling on young couples wander- 
 ing apart in twilight, after a Lucullus feast 
 within glass, prolonged delightfully up to the 
 latest train, were not devised to breed a taste 
 for solitary life. Kettle himself was the 
 typical old bachelor of the hospitable type, 
 and so universal a favourite with women that 
 he might well be excused for an insufficient 
 devotion to any one of them. In his chambers 
 he was a hard and rapid worker, with a power 
 of concentration ; once in his papers, he 
 seemed neither to hear nor see anything that 
 passed in his room, or notice the presence of 
 
WANDERING MEMORIES 299 
 
 anybody, which helped him to do the work of 
 three men in the time of one. Otherwise a 
 dry and observant humorist, as true a Lon- 
 doner as Major Pendennis himself, never to 
 be tal^en off his guard. Once he was asked 
 on a matter of business to stay at the country 
 house of an engineer in the North, and when 
 he had made himself very agreeable at dinner, 
 and the company were retiring, the ladies to 
 their bedroom gossips and the men to the 
 smoking-room, his hostess said to him over 
 the good-night, " Mr. Kettle, we always 
 breakfast at eight o'clock." " Do you, dear 
 lady 1 " he answered with a Chesterfield 
 salute ; " I never do." And at the same visit 
 he was credited with an heretical opinion about 
 the usual after-dinner pianoforte work, more 
 general, perhaps, than natural gifts allow. 
 When the usual young-lady melodies began, 
 he retired into the remotest corner he could 
 find, and with a newspaper. "I'm afraid, Mr. 
 Kettle, you don't care about music ? " " In- 
 deed I do, madam," he said with polite 
 warmth, " I can't bear it." Musical articula- 
 tion certainly justifies the cynic in a way, 
 in spite of Shakespeare's condemnation, 
 
3O0 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 " Vewychawming," asthe kid-gloved exquisite 
 said to the pretty drawing-room singer after 
 she had indulged the company with Kingsley's 
 " Three Fishers." But what silly choruses 
 there are now ! What does she mean by 
 " Hah-bah-bah ? " 
 
 We were primitive pupils, some of us, on 
 the matter of law, and I well remember an 
 enthusiastic freshman, who was a fellow pupil 
 at the pleader's with whom I was to carry on 
 my studies afterwards, rushing from the room 
 in which he read into another, which served 
 for another set of learners, with a wild inquiry : 
 " Will some gentleman here — if any — oblige 
 me with the difference between an indorser 
 and an indorsee ? " There was plenty of 
 variety for me, certainly, to the student side 
 of the pleader-days. There were much of 
 society and of dancing into the small hours, 
 with many a waltz with an enthusiastic and 
 well-suited partner. Years afterwards, when 
 in the States, I met and made friends with the 
 famous Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. We fell 
 into a transcendental discussion, in which I 
 did my best to hold my speculative part. 
 "What," at last said my interested inter- 
 
WANDERING MEMORIES 301 
 
 locutor, " what, on the whole, do you think 
 is the greatest sensation of pleasure that a 
 human being may be capable of experiencing?" 
 " I can tell you without hesitation," I an- 
 swered. And the lady looked for true 
 enlightenment. " It is, my dear Mrs. Ward 
 Howe, a waltz with a perfect partner, to 
 perfect music, on a perfect floor ! " Mrs. 
 Ward Howe looked staggered for a moment, 
 coming, as the argument did, with the greater 
 force, because the scene was a ball in the 
 public rooms at Newport. But her readiness 
 was equal to the occasion, and the feminine 
 side was uppermost at once. " Do you really 
 think so ? My daughter loves waltzing. May 
 I introduce you ? " The result of that dance 
 was a visit of some few days to the Howes' 
 cottage hard by Newport, in the true American 
 summer heat, and an introduction to the 
 pleasure of the hammock and cooling drinks 
 under masterful home treatment, varied as far 
 as possible by our experiments in philoso- 
 phical inquiry, which would assume shapes 
 both practical and interesting in the hands of 
 Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. 
 
 But the London-time of early manhood 
 
302 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 took little note with me, I fear, of disquisitions 
 beyond those of chambers. I have often 
 looked back in wonder on the elastic measure 
 of a day which managed to combine a long 
 morning with the pleaders, after a long 
 night's dancing, with an afternoon's devotion 
 to Prince's tennis and racquet centre, before 
 the days when it aspired to bands and cricket- 
 grounds. The tennis-courts, indeed, were but 
 an addition of my own time, and superseded 
 the dark old temple of tennis in the little 
 street off the Haymarket, long since converted 
 into stores of some kind, but telling plainly of 
 its origin to this day by its long bare outer walls 
 and its glass roof At Prince's, as at Oxford 
 also, I could rejoice in lessons from the 
 greatest of all past-masters in the gentle 
 jeu de paume, or palm-game, so called because 
 it was first played, like hand-fives, with the 
 hand, as I suppose all ball-games in their 
 time were — I mean the famous Frenchman, 
 Barre, who was to die in quite old age from 
 privations endured during the siege of Paris, 
 in whose delightful tennis-court of the 
 Tuileries gardens, at whose south-eastern 
 angle it looks like an orangery now, the 
 
WANDERING MEMORIES 303 
 
 pleasantest of all setts were to be played in 
 the pleasantest of courts. A little smaller 
 than the English tennis-courts they are, and 
 were — a second having been added afterwards 
 — just the perfectionof proportion, Leamington 
 boasting, perhaps, the one nearest rival in 
 that way. Tennis, of course, has entirely 
 changed its character as a game since the days 
 of Barre and the Tompkinses, force and mus- 
 cular play having practically dethroned the old 
 scythe-like stroke and bend. The innovation 
 was the doing of one man — a young English- 
 man named Pettit, who migrated to New York 
 as a marker to introduce the game beyond 
 sea, with but little knowledge of its graces 
 and delicacies, and having, as it were, to 
 think it out for himself, with the result 
 that, when he came over to England, his 
 methods proved as startlingly effective as the 
 cricket of the Graces. In both cases every 
 ball bowled, or every stroke sent down, had 
 its proper and almost mathematical return. 
 Indeed, the pleasure of a true tennis return, 
 where the ball off a well-handled racquet 
 practically played itself with great force but 
 without effort on the player's part, was on its 
 
304 BAR, STAGE, AND PLATFORM 
 
 own account a great delight to the votary 
 of the older game. But the new strengths 
 turned out to mean winning, and in the end 
 what wins pays. Tennis and cricket could 
 never be reduced to the almost mechanical 
 precision of chess or of whist in the hands of 
 masters, so the old methods went by the 
 board. The last time I saw the wonderful 
 Barre, who could set a basket in the middle 
 of the court and undertake to step into it 
 between every two strokes he played, so com- 
 pletely was he master of his implements, it 
 was pathetic enough. Very weak and ill after 
 the siege, he was seated in the dedans one 
 day at Lord's, watching a fight between two 
 champions of the new school with a puzzled 
 face. When some very strong stroke was 
 sent down, an enthusiastic votary of the 
 moderns called out, "Ah ! Barre could never 
 have made a stroke like that ! " The old chap 
 overheard it, and said, with a quiet sadness 
 that moved us a great deal, " II a raison. Je 
 ne puis plus rien prouver maintenant." 
 
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 Seth's Brother's Wife. 
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 Robin Gray. 
 For Lack of Gold, 
 What will the World Say ? 
 In Honour Bound. 
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 Queen of the Meadow. 
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 TTie Flower of the Forest 
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 Heart's DeUght 
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 Patricia Kemball. 
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 • My Love I' 
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 Paston Carew. 
 Sowing: the Wind. 
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 Dulcie Everton. 
 
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 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
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 Linley Rochford. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 The Comet of a Seasoa. 
 
 Maid of Athens. 
 
 Ctimiola : a Girl with a Fortune. 
 
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 Red Diamonds. 
 
 The Riddle Ring. 
 
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 Mr. Stranger's Sealed Packet. 
 
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 Quaker Cousins. 
 
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 Touch and Go. 
 Mr. Dorillion. 
 
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 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
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 Val Strange. 
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 Coals of Fire. 
 Hearts. 
 
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 Mount Despair. 
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 Dr. Bernard St Vincent 
 
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 Saint Ann's. 
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 BimbL 
 
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 Othmar. 
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 RufRno. 
 Syrlin. 
 
 Santa Barbara. 
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 Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos. 
 
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 Gentle and Simple. 
 
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 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
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 Bentinck's Tutor. 
 Murphy's Mastei. 
 A County Family, 
 
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 Found Dead. 
 Walter's Word. 
 Halves. 
 
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 Married Beneath Him. 
 Mirk Abbey. 
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 Less Black than We're Painted. 
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 Kit : A Memory. 
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 The Canon's Ward. 
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 Holiday Tasks. 
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 Sunny Stories. 
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 The Romance of a Station. 
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 Outlaw and Lawmaker. 
 Christina Chard. 
 Mrs. Tregaskiss. 
 
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 Valentina. 
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 The Foreigners. 
 
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 Mist Maxwell's Affections. 
 
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 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 Hard Caslt. 
 Peg; Woffington. 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Griffith Gaunt 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 Foul Play. 
 
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 Fairy Water. 
 
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 Heart of Oak. 
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 Orchard Damerel. 
 
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 The Tremlett Diamonds. 
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 Dagonet Abroad. 
 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
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 Beatrice and Benedick. 
 
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 The Master of Rathkelly. 
 
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 Burgos Romance. 
 Quittance in Full. 
 A Husband from the Sea. 
 
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 New Arabian Nights. 
 
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 Proud Maisie. 
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 Cressida. 
 
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 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
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 Frau Frohmann. 
 Marion Fay. 
 Kept in the Dark. 
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 John Caldigate. 
 
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 Anne Fumess. 
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 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
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 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
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 Farnell's Folly. 
 
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 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
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 Pleasure Trip on the Continent 
 
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 Life on the Mississippi. 
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 Yankee at Court of K. Arthnr. 
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 What She Came Through. 
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 Saint Mungo'a City. 
 Disappeared. 
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 The Prince of Balkistan. 
 
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 Regimental Legends. 
 
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 Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 
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 Rachel Armstrong. 
 
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 Castaway. 
 Land at Last 
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 Sliortly, 
 
 Diana Barrinffton. By 6. M. Crokbr. Shortly. 
 
 Joseph's Coat. By D. C. MURRAY. Shortly. 
 
 Shadow ol the Sword. R. BucHANAN.f^AiTf^ify. 
 
 Children of Gibeon. Walter Besant. {SAertly. 
 
 The Orange Girl. By Walter Besant. 
 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. Walt. Besant. 
 
 Tbe Chaplain of the Fleet. Besant & Ricb. 
 
 Ready-Money Mortlboy. Besant & Rice. 
 
 Tlie Golden Butterfly. Besant and rice. 
 
 Tue Deemster. By Hall Caine. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. By Hall Cainb. 
 
 A Son of Hagar. By Hall Caine. 
 
 Antonina- By Wilkie Collins. 
 
 The Moonstone, By Wilkie COli.tns. 
 The Woman in White. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Dead Secret, By Wilkie Collins, 
 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 
 Held In Bondage. By Ouida. 
 Moths. By OUIDA. ) Puck. By OtIlDA. 
 Under Two Flags. By Ouida, 
 PegWoffingtoa; and Chrlitla ^(duutone. By 
 
 CHARLES Reads. 
 The GlolGter and the Hearth. By Charles 
 
 It Is Never Too Late to Mend. Charles Readb. 
 
 Hard Cash. By Charles reade. 
 
 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 
 
 New Arabian Nights. By R. L. Stevenson, 
 
 The Old Factory. By William Westall. 
 
 The Downfall. By E. ZoLA. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 Library Editions of NovELs,many Illustrated, crown Bvp, cloth eztra*3S. 6d. each. 
 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER 
 
 Valeria's Pate, 
 A Life Interest. 
 Mona's Choice. 
 By Woman's Wit. 
 The Cost of Her Pride. 
 A Miss 
 
 Barbara. 
 A Fight with Fate. 
 A Goldan Autumn. 
 Mrs Crichton'sCredltor. 
 The Step-mother, 
 ng Hero. 
 
 Othello's Occupation. 
 
 By M.ANDERSON. - 
 
 ^ By G. WEBB APPLETON. 
 
 Sash Conclusions. . ,^, „ 
 
 By EDWIN L. ARNOLD. 
 
 PUra the Fhoniclan. GonsUble of St. Ntenolu. 
 
 ByARTBMUS WARD 
 
 I Wur4 OoMpUt*. 
 
 By P. M. ALLEN.— Green as Grass, 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 FhillBtla, I Babylon, The Great Tabon, 
 
 Strange Storlei, 
 
 For Malmle's Bake, 
 
 In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand, 
 
 The Devil's Die. 
 
 ThU Mortal ColL 
 
 The Tenta of Shem. 
 
 Dumaresq'B Daughter, 
 
 Duchess of powy&iand. 
 
 Blood Royal. 
 
 I. Greets Masterpiece. 
 
 The Scallywag. 
 
 At Market ^Value, 
 
 0ndel^Beiaed Orders. 
 
 By ROBERT BARR. 
 
 b % Bteamer OltAlr, i A Wonaa &t«rTMkM. 
 rroB mow Bouni, | m«T«a9t 1 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, Publishera, m St. Martin's Lane, London, V/.C a? 
 
 Tkk Piccadilly (3/6) Howeus— continued. 
 
 _ By PRANK BARRETT, 
 
 WomftUorfi'oiiBraoaleti. ( Under a Strange Mask. 
 Fettered for Life. A UUilog Wltneu, 
 
 Ihe Eardios SeandaL | Wu She JuUfiod 1 
 
 By * BELLB.'^-'VaBhU and Eathar. 
 
 By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE. 
 EeaaV-UoneyUortlboy. 
 
 Hy xattle Qlrl. 
 With Harp and Grown. 
 This Bon of Vulcan. 
 The Grolden Butterfly. 
 The Uonha of Thelema. 
 
 Bt Cella'a Arbonr. 
 Chaplain 0/ the Fleet. 
 The Beamy Side. 
 The Case of Ur. Lncraft. 
 In Trafalgar a Fny. 
 The Ten Years' Teiiont, 
 
 By Sir WALTER BESANT, 
 
 AU Sorts ft Conditloni, 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All In a Garden Fair. 
 Iksrothy Forstsr, 
 Uncle Jach. | Holy Hose 
 World Went Well Then. 
 Children of Giheon. 
 Eerr Fatilna. 
 For Faith and Fteedtm. 
 To CaU Her Mine. 
 The Revolt of Man. 
 The Bell of St. Fanl'a. 
 
 Armorel of Lyon^ese. 
 B.Katherlne'i h? Tower 
 Verbena Camellia^ &c. 
 The Ivory Gate. 
 The Rebel Qustm. 
 Dreamt of Ar^rlco. 
 In Deacon's Orders. 
 The Master CraftEman. 
 The City of Rslngs. 
 A Fountain Sealed. 
 The Changellag. 
 The Fourth Generation 
 
 The Oharm. 
 
 By AMBROSE BIERCE— Injaidstof Life. 
 By HAROLD BINDLOSS.AlnsUes JuJn. 
 
 ByM. McD. BODKIN- 
 
 Dora MyrL | Shillelagh and ahomrocfc. 
 
 By PAUL BOURQET.— A Living lie. 
 By J. D. BRAYSMAW.— Slnm ailhoxiettea. 
 By H. A. BRYDEN.-An Exiled Scot. 
 By ROBERT BIJCHANAN. 
 
 """■'"" " ^ The New Abolard, 
 
 Matt. I Rachel Dene 
 Master ef the Kline. 
 The Heir of L'one. 
 Woman ar.d tlie Man. 
 Red and Wa'-te Heather, 
 Lady EUpatrick. 
 Andromeda. 
 R. W. CHAMBERS.-The King ia Yellow. 
 By J. M.CHAPPLE.— The Miner Chord. 
 
 By HALL CAINE. 
 Shadow of a C/i=3e. | Dremster. | Son of Ha^ar, 
 By AUSTIN CLARE.— By Rise of Elver. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 
 raVlFerroU. | Why PanlFcrroU Killed his Wife. 
 
 By ANNE COATES.—Ries Diary. 
 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 
 The Bed Snltan. I The Borden of IsabeL 
 
 By WILKIB COLLINS. 
 
 Shadow of the Sword. 
 A Child of Kature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Martyrdom of Madeline 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Annan Water. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Charlatan. 
 
 Armadale. T AfterDarh. 
 No Name. lAntoidna 
 Basil. ] Eide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Qneen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 The Woman in Whit*. 
 The Law and the Lady. 
 The Hannted HoteL 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Kin or Mrs. 7 
 
 The New Magdalen. 
 The Frozen Deep. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 ■ I Say No.' 
 UtUo Novels. 
 The Fallen Loaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 The Evil Genius. 
 The Legacy of Cain. 
 ARogne'sLife, 
 BUttdLove. 
 
 By MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 
 Blacksmith ft Scholar, I Ton Play me False. 
 The Tillage Comedy. | Midnight to Midnight. 
 M. J. COLQUHOUN.-Everylnnh Soldier. 
 
 By HERBERT COAIPTON. 
 The IiMmitaUe Mrs. Massingham. 
 
 By E.H.COOPER.— GeoSory Hamilton. 
 By V. C. COTES.— Two Girls on a Barge. 
 
 By C. E. CRADDOCK. 
 The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 
 His VaiUBhsd Star. 
 
 By H. N. CRELLIN. 
 ftomucei of the Old Seraglio. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. 
 
 The Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 By S. R. CROCKETT and others. 
 Talei of Onr Ooaat. 
 
 By B. M. CROKER., 
 
 The Real lady Hl<da, 
 Married or Single 7 
 Two Masters. 
 IntheKlngdom of Kerry 
 Interference. 
 A Third Person, 
 Beyond the Pale. 
 Miss Balmalne's Fast. 
 Terence. 
 
 Diana Barrington. 
 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 A Family Ukenen. 
 
 FretEy Miss NevlUe. 
 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 
 Mr. Jervls. 
 
 Village Tales, 
 
 Some One Else. ] Jason. 
 
 Infatnatlon. 
 
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 The Evangelist ; or. Port Salvation. 
 H. C. DAVID50N.-Mr. Sadler's Daughters. 
 
 By HARRY DE WiNDT. 
 True Tales of Trav&l and Adventure. ~ 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 Man from Manchester. | 'Xalcs of Ttrrror. 
 Records of Vincent Trill Chroniclefl of Mtchael 
 The Mystery of Danevitch. [Detective. 
 
 Jamaica Terrace. | Tyler TatlocK, Private 
 Deacon Brodie. 
 By RICHARD DOWLINQ. 
 Old Oorooran'B Money. 
 
 By A. CONAN DOYLE. 
 The Firm of Girdlestone. 
 
 By S. JEANNETTE DUNCAN. 
 
 A Daughter of To-day. I Vernon's Aunt, 
 
 By ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 
 Archie LoveU. | A Plaster Saint. 
 
 By O. S. EDWARDS,— finassllBFariila. 
 
 By O. MANVILLE FENN 
 
 Cursed by a Fortune. 
 The Case of AUsa Gray, 
 Commodore Junk. 
 The Hew Mistress. 
 Witness to the Deed. 
 Thon«erLUy. 
 The White VurglB. 
 Black Blood. 
 Double Onnninf . 
 
 A Fluttered Devecoba. 
 RlDR of the Castlo. 
 Master of Ceremonies. 
 The Man with aShadow 
 One Maid's Mischief. 
 fitory of Antony Grace. 
 This Man's Wife. 
 In Jeopardy. [ning. 
 A Woman Worth Win- 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD.— Fataizero 
 By Hon. Mrs. WALTER FORBES. 
 
 Dumb. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 
 One by One. j Ropes of Sand. 
 
 A Dcg and his Shadow. 1 Jack Doyle's Daughter, 
 
 A Iteal Queen. 
 
 By HAROLD FREDERIC. 
 Seth'a Brother's Wife, | The Lawton Girl. 
 
 By GILBERT GAUL. 
 AStrangeManuscrlpt Foacd in a Copper Cylinder. 
 By PAUL GAULO T.— The Red ShliU. 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft. 
 
 Loving a Dream. The Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Of High Degree I 
 
 By E. QLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. ) The Golden Rock. 
 
 FalrColoDist [Fossicker j Talesfromthe Vsld. 
 
 By E. J. GOODMAN. 
 The Fate of Herbert Wayne. 
 
 By Rev. S. BARING GOULD, 
 Bed Spider. I Eve. 
 
 By ALFRED A. GRACE. 
 Tales of a Dying Race. 
 
 CECIL GRIFFITH Corinthla Marazion. 
 
 By A. CLAVERING GUNTER. 
 A FloHda Enchantment. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 A Waif of the Plains. A Prct&gee or Jack 
 A Ward of the Golden Hamlin's. 
 
 Gate. [Springs. Clarence. 
 
 A Sappho of Green Barker's Luck. 
 Col. Starbottle'B Client. Devil's Ford, [cclsior. 
 Busy. I Bally Dows. The Crusade of the ' Ex- 
 Bell-Ringer of Angel's. Three Partners. 
 Tales of Trail and Town Gabriel Conroy. 
 New Condensed Novels. 
 
28 CHATTO & WINDUS. Pub" 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Hovels— continued. 
 
 By OWEN HALL. 
 
 Th« Track of a Storm, | Jetsam. 
 
 By COSMO HAMILTON. 
 Qlamonr of Impossible. | Through a Eeyhol*. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under th« Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. I Dust. I Beatrix Randolph. 
 
 Elllce Qnentln. David Poindezter'B DU* 
 
 Bebastlan Stromt. appearanco. 
 
 Fortune's Fool. I Spectre of Camera. 
 
 By Sir A. HELPS.— ivandeBiron. 
 By L HENDERSON.— Agatha Page. 
 By a. A. HENTY. 
 Dorothy's Double. | The Queen's Onp. 
 
 HEADON HILL.-Zambra the Detective. 
 By JOHN HILL.— The Oommon Ancestor. 
 
 By TIQHE H0PKIN3. 
 
 'Twlxt Love and Duty. | Nagents of Carrlconna* 
 The Incomplete Adventurer. | Koll Haffenden, 
 VICTOR HUGO — The Outlaw of Iceland. 
 
 By FBRQUS HUME. 
 
 Lady ftom Nowhere. I The Millionaire Mystery 
 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
 
 Marvel. 
 
 A Modern Circe, 
 
 Lady Fatty. 
 
 A Mental litmgitle. 
 
 lady Verner'i Plight. 
 
 The Red-House Mystery 
 
 The Three Oraces. 
 
 Profeasor's Experiment. 
 
 A Point of Conscience. 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 The Coming of Chloo. 
 Nora Crelna. 
 An Anxious Moment. 
 April's Lady. 
 Peter's Wife. 
 Lovlce. 
 
 By Airs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 
 The Leaden Casket, I Self* Condemned. 
 That Other Person. | Mrs. Juliet. 
 By R. ASHE KlNa.-A Drawn Game. 
 By QEORGB LAMBERT. 
 The PreBldent of Boravla. 
 
 By EDMOND LEPELLETIER. 
 Madame Sans-Gdne. 
 By ADAM LILBURN.ATragedy In Marble 
 
 By HARRY LINDSAY. 
 Bhoda Boberts. | The Jacobite. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. -Gideon Fleyce. 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 Patricia Eemball. 
 Under which LordT 
 ' My Love I ' I lone. 
 Poston Carew. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 With a SUken Thread. 
 The World WeU Lost. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 The Atonement of Leam 
 
 Dundas. 
 The One Too Many, 
 Dulcle Svorton. 
 Bebel of the Family. 
 An Octave of Friends. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Bochford. 
 Dear Lady DlsdaiiL 
 Oamlola. 
 
 Waterdale Neighbours. 
 Mv Enemy's Daughter. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 
 Maid of Athens, 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 The Dictator. 
 
 Bed Diamonds. 
 
 The Blddle King. 
 
 The Three Dlsgracei. 
 
 Mononla,. 
 
 By JUSTIN H. McCARTHY. 
 
 A London Legend. { The Boyal Christopher 
 
 By GEOROB MACDONALD. 
 Heather and Snow. | Phantastea. 
 W. H. AlALLOCK.-The New RepubUe, 
 P.&V. MARGUERITTE.-The Disaster. 
 By L, T. MEADE 
 
 A Soldier of Fortune. 
 In an Iron Grip. 
 Dr. Bnmsey's Patient. 
 TheVoice of theCharmer 
 An Adventuress. 
 
 A Stumble by the Way. 
 By LEONARD MERRICK. 
 Thli stage of Fools. | Cynthia. 
 
 By EDMUND MITCHELL 
 Th« Lone Star BaslL 
 
 On Brink of a Chasm. 
 The Siren. 
 
 The Way of a Woman, 
 A Son of lithmael. 
 The Bine Diamond. 
 
 By BERTRAM MITFORD- 
 
 The Gun Banner. I The King's Asaogal. 
 
 LackofGorardBldgeley. | Ben8h.Fannlnit'8Quest, 
 The Triumph of Hilary Blachland, 
 By Mrs. MOLESWORTH. 
 nathercourt Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOCK. 
 Maid Marian and Bobln Hood. | Golden Idol. 
 
 Basile the Jester. 
 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY, 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 
 Joseph's Coat. 
 
 Coals of Fire. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero, 
 
 Val Strange. | Hearts. 
 
 A Model Father. 
 
 By the Gate of Hie Sea. 
 
 A Bit of Knman Nature. 
 
 First PerEon Singular. 
 
 Cvntc Fortune. 
 
 The Way of the World. 
 
 Tonng Loctiinvar. 
 
 BobMartin'8 Little Oirl 
 Time's Bevcngea. 
 A Wasted Crime, 
 In Direst Peril. 
 Mount Despair. 
 A Capful o' Nails. 
 Tales in Prose & Verse 
 A Bace for Millions. 
 This Little World. 
 His Own Ohost. 
 Church of Humanity. 
 
 By MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 
 The Bishops' Bible. 1 Paul Jones's Aliaa, 
 
 One Traveller Returns. | 
 
 By HUME NISBET.-'BailUp I' 
 By W. E. NORRIS. 
 
 Saint Ann's. | Billy Bellew. 
 
 Mlaa Wentworth s Idea. 
 
 By a. OHNET. 
 
 A Weird Gift. | Love's Depthl. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT.-The Sorcereai. 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. I Rnfflno. 
 Fiplstrello. | Ariadne, 
 A village Commnae. 
 BimbL I Wanda. 
 Frescoes, j Othmar. 
 In Maremma. 
 Byrlln. | Gullderoy, 
 Santa Barbara. 
 Two Offenders. 
 
 Held in Bondage, 
 Strathmore. I Chandos. 
 Under Two Flags. 
 Idalia. [Gage. 
 
 Cecil Caatlemalne'i 
 Tricottin. | Pack. 
 Folio Farine, 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Fa^carel. | Signa. 
 Princess Napraxine. 
 Two Wooden Shoes. 
 
 The Waters of Edera. 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 Lost Sir JUaa^ngberd. The Talk of the Town. 
 The Family Scapegrace 
 A County Family. 
 Less Black than We're 
 
 Painted. 
 A Confldentlal Agent. 
 A Grape from a Thorn, 
 In Peru and Privation. 
 Mystery of Mlrbrldge. 
 
 High S^irtts. lBy_Pro_3cy. 
 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 For Caah Only. 
 The Burnt MlUlon. 
 The Word and the WIIL 
 Sunny Stories. 
 A Trying Patient. 
 A Modern Dick Whlt> 
 tington. 
 
 By'WlLt'PAYNE.-Jerry the Dreamer. 
 By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED. 
 
 Outlaw and Lawmaker. I Mn. Tregaskias. 
 
 Christina Ohard. | Nnlma. | Madame Izan, 
 
 ' As a Watch In the Night.' 
 
 By E. C. PRICB.-Valentina. 
 
 By RICHARD PRYCE. 
 
 MlSB Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 
 Peg Wo£Bngton: and 
 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 Hard Cash. 
 Cloister & the Hearth. 
 Never Too Late to Mend 
 The Course of True 
 
 Love ; and Single* 
 
 heart & Donbleface. 
 Autobiography of a 
 
 Thief; Jock of aU 
 
 Trades ; A Hero and 
 
 a Marlnrr; and The 
 
 Wandering Heir. 
 
 By PRANK RICHARDSON. 
 The Man who Lost Hta Past. 
 
 By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL. 
 Weird Stories. I A Rich Man's Dangbtift 
 
 Qrlfflth Gaunt. 
 Love Little, Love Long. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Foul Play. 
 
 Put Y'raelfln His Place 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 A Simpleton. 
 A Woman-Hater. 
 The Jilt, &otberStorles; 
 & Good Stories of Man. 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 Reodlana ; and Blblfl 
 Characters. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, PubHahers. iii St. martin's Lane, London, W.C. ag 
 
 My Shipmate Loula«, 
 Alone onWldeWlde 6ea, 
 The Phantom Death. 
 Ii Ha the Man 7 
 Good Ship 'Mohock.' 
 The Convict Ship. 
 H«art of Oak. 
 The Tale of the Ten. 
 The Last Entry. 
 
 The Piccadilly (3/6) Novels— cott(i»H«iJ. 
 
 - . ^By AMELIB RIVB5. 
 
 Barbara ]>eruig. 1 HerleL 
 
 ... » ^y P- W. ROBINSON. 
 
 The Hands of Jnstlce. | Woman in the Dark. 
 
 By ALBBRT ROSS.-a Sugar Princess. 
 
 J. RUNCIMAN.-^BUppersandShellhacks. 
 
 By W. CLARK RUSSELL, 
 Koond the Qalley-Flre. Mt Shinmate Lc 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 On the Fo'k's!e Head 
 A Voyage to the Oape, 
 Book for the Hammock. 
 Mystenof 'Ocean Star' 
 Jenny Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 
 ATale of Two Tunnels. 
 
 The Death Bhlp. 
 
 By DORA RUSSELI DrlftofFate. 
 
 By HERBERT RUSSELL. Tme Bine. 
 BAYLE 5T. JOHN.-A Leraatlne FamUy, 
 
 By ADELINE SERGEANT. 
 
 Dr. Endfcott's Experiment. 
 Under False Pretences. 
 
 By M. P. 5HIEL The Purple Clond. 
 
 By QEORQB R. Sims. 
 Dagonet Abroad. I In London's Heart. 
 
 Once Upon a Christmas I Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 
 Time. I Mary Jane Married. 
 
 Without the Limelight. I The Small-part Lady. 
 Bognes and Vag%bcnds. | A Blind Marriage. 
 Blographs of Babylon. 
 By HAWLBY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. I The Outsider. 
 The Master of BathkeUy. Beatrice & Benedick. 
 Long Odds. I A Racing Bubber, 
 
 By J. MOYR SMITH. 
 
 The Prince of Argolls. 
 By T. W. SPBrOHT, 
 A Secret of Che Sea. j A Minion of the Moon. 
 The Orey Monk. Secret Wyvem Towers. 
 
 TbeMasterof Trenance The Doom of Siva. 
 The Web of Fate. 1 As It was Written. 
 
 The Strange Experiences of Mr. Terschoyle. 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 
 A Fallov of Trinity. 
 The Jonlor Dean. 
 Master of St.Benedlet's. 
 To his Own Master. 
 Gallantry Bower. 
 In Face of the World. 
 Orchard Damerel. 
 
 The Tremlett Diamonds. 
 The Wooing of May. 
 A Tragio Honeymoon. 
 A Proctor's Wooing. 
 Fortune's Qate. 
 Bonnie Maggie Lander, 
 Mary Dnwin. 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar's Secret. 
 
 By JOHN STAFFORD.— Doris and L 
 
 By R. STEPHENS.— The Cruciform Mark. 
 
 By R. NEILSON STEPHENS. 
 Philip Wiuwood. 
 
 R. A. STERNDALE.— The Afghan Knife. 
 R. L. STEVENSON.— The Suicide aub. 
 
 By FRANK STOCKTON. 
 The Tonng Master of Hyson Hall. 
 By SUNDOWNER. Told by the Taffrall. 
 By ANNIB THOMA5.— The sirens Web. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 The 'noIln-PIayer. | In a Cathedral City. 
 
 By FRANCES B. TROLLOPE 
 
 Like Ships upon Sea. 1 Blabel's Progress. 
 Anne Fumess. I 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 The Way we Live Now, 1 Scarborough's Family. 
 Prau Prohmann. The Land-Leagners. 
 
 Marlon Fay. ) 
 
 ^ By IVAN TUROENIEFF, &c, 
 stories firom Foreign Novelists. 
 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 
 Choice Works. 
 Library of Humour. 
 The Innocents Abroad. 
 Konghlng It; and The 
 
 Innocents at Home. 
 A Tramp Abroad. 
 XheAmerlcan Claimant. 
 AdventuresTomSawyer 
 Tom Sawyer Abroad. 
 Tom Sawyer, Detective 
 
 Pudd'nhead Wilson, 
 The Qiided Age. 
 Prince and the Pauper. 
 Life on the Misslsalppl, 
 The Adventures oc 
 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 A Yankee at the Court 
 
 of King Arthur. 
 Stolen White Elephant, 
 £1.000,000 Bank-note. 
 
 A Double-barrelled Detective Story, 
 
 C. C. F.-TYTLER,— Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 
 WhatShe OameThrough Mrs. Carmichael's God- 
 Burled Diamonds, 
 
 The Blackball Ghosts. Bapbel Langton. 
 
 The Macdonald Lass. A Honeymoon's EcUpn 
 
 Witch- Wife. I Bapphira A Tonng Dragon. 
 
 By ALLEN UPWARD. 
 The Queen against Owen. 
 
 By ALBERT D. VANDAM. 
 A Ooui't Tragedy, 
 
 By E. A. VIZETELLY. 
 The Scorpion. | The Lover's Progress. 
 
 By FLORENCE WARDEN. 
 Joan, the Curate. | A Fight to a Finish. 
 
 By CY WARMAN.-Expr938 Messenger. 
 By A. WERNER. 
 Chapenga's White Man. 
 
 By WILLIAM WESTALL. 
 
 For Honour and Life. 
 AWoman Tempted Him 
 Her Two Millions. 
 Two Finches of SnulL 
 Nigel Fortescne. 
 Birch Dene. 
 The Phantom City. 
 A Queer Eace, 
 Ben Olough. 
 
 The Old Factory. 
 Bed Ry vington. 
 Ralph Norbreck's Trust 
 Trust-money. 
 Sons of Belial. 
 Roy of Roy's Court. 
 With the Red Eagle, 
 A Red Bridal. 
 Strange Orlmei (True 
 Stories). 
 
 By ATHA WESTBURY. 
 
 The Shadow of Hilton Fembrook. 
 
 By FRED WHISHAW, 
 A Forbidden Name. 
 By C. J. WILLS.— An Easy-going FeUov. 
 
 By JOHN STRANGE WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life ; and Regimental Legends. 
 A Solder's Children. 
 
 By B. ZOLA. 
 The Joy of Life. t His Masterpiece, 
 
 The Fortune of the Rougons. 
 Abbe Mouret'B Transgression. 
 The Conquest of Plaflsana. I Germinal. 
 The Honour of the Army. 
 The Downfall. | His Excellency, 
 
 The Dream. I Money. I The Dram-Shop. 
 Dr. Pascal. | Lonrdes. I Rome. | Paris. | Work, 
 The Fat and the Thin. 1 Frultfulness. | Truth. 
 By *ZZ.'— A Nineteenth Century Miracle, 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
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 By ARTEMUS WARD. ...... By^Q^.AN.X.AL^^EN, 
 
 By 
 
 Artemns Ward Complete. 
 
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 Maid, Wife, or Widow 7 I A Life Intereet. 
 Blind Fata. Mona's Choice. 
 
 Valerie's Fate, | By Woman's Wit- 
 
 By E. LESTER ARNOLD. 
 WhT% the FhOBDlclaa. 
 
 FhUlstla. I Babylon. 
 Strange Stories. 
 For Malmie's Sake, 
 In all Shades. 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 The Devil's Die. 
 The Tents of Shem 
 The Great Taboo. 
 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. 
 DuchesB of Powysland. 
 Blood RoyaL [piece. 
 Ivan flreet's loaster. 
 The Scallywag. 
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30 CHATTO & WINDUS, Publishers, ni St. Martin's Lane. London, W.C. 
 
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 BV PRANK BARRETT. 
 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Little Lady Linton. 
 Between 3Ufe & Death. 
 Sin of Olgft Zaaeonllcli. 
 Folly Morriaon. 
 Lieut. Bamab&s. 
 Honest Davie. 
 A Prodigal's Pro^reBs. 
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 Ready- Uoney Mortlboy 
 My Little Girl. 
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 The Golden Butterfly. 
 The Monks of Thetema. 
 
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 AU Sorts and Condi- ■ - ■• - 
 
 Fonnd OuUty. 
 A RgcoUlnsVengeanc*. 
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 John Ford, &c. 
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 RICB. 
 
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 tlons of Men. 
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 Dorothy Forster. 
 TTncle Jack. 
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 Herr Panlni. 
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 Idstof !■■ 
 
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 Paul Perroll. 
 
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 Ajitonina, r*" 
 
 Baail. 
 
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 Diana Barrington. 
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 Proper Pride. 
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 Me Long. 
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