C T 
 
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 THE BEQUEST OF 
 
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 Librarian of the University 1 868-1 883 
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 3184 
 
Cornell University Library 
 CT788.W39 A3 1912 
 
 Memories, by Frederick Wedrnore 
 
 olin 
 
 3 1924 029 809 393 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924029809393 
 
MEMORIES 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 PASTORALS OF FRANCE 
 
 RENUNCIATIONS 
 
 BALZAC 
 
 ON BOOKS AND ARTS 
 
 WHISTLER AND OTHERS 
 
 ORGEAS AND MIRADOU 
 
 THE COLLAPSE OF THE PENITENT 
 
 SOME OF THE MODERNS 
 
 ETCHINGS 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK WEDMORE 
 
 "Acceptez done les efforts 
 de ma memoire 
 
 AlMEE DE COIGNY 
 
 METHUEN & GO. LTD. 
 36 ESSEX STREET W.G. 
 LONDON 
 
First Published in 1912 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 To the Marquise de Lasteyrie 
 
 Our friendship, my dear Madame de Lasteyrie, 
 
 is yet of the Present : so that in any but an incidental 
 
 mention of it this book mould wander out of settled 
 
 bounds. Bui a dedicatory word may still remind me 
 
 of bright June in Paris, and of so many golden 
 
 days in mellow Autumns, amongst your woods and 
 
 festooned gardens, beyond which stretch to a remote 
 
 horizon your pastures of ha Brie. 
 
 F. W. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE title of this book itself implies that 
 there is here no Autobiography : no long, 
 consecutive record of events that are one's 
 own ; but a selection of memories. They 
 are more of people than of things. People 
 — especially people of many sorts — are what 
 is most interesting in the world: except 
 the pursuit of an art. And it is sketches 
 of people, in different spheres of work and 
 of pleasure, that I have essayed to make. 
 Nothing else. 
 
 References to the living are incidental and 
 occasional. On the four walls of my little 
 gallery, space has been found mainly for 
 sketches of the dead : dead friends very often : 
 men and women whose work is done, their 
 careers ended ; whom I knew ten, twenty, 
 thirty — yes, some of them even forty years 
 ago. 
 
 In an art not mine — the art of line and 
 colour — I know exactly the collection of 
 sketches with which, were they but worthy 
 
viii MEMORIES 
 
 of it, I should like mine, here, to be compared. 
 In trying to convey, in words thoughtfully 
 studied, yet often ineffectual, my impressions 
 of this figure and that, I have had in my 
 mind's eye, before me as my model, those 
 vivid, learned 'preparations,' as he called 
 them — sketches they were from life, without 
 flattery as without malice — which the strong 
 pastel draughtsman of the faces of the French 
 Eighteenth Century, Maurice Quantin Latour, 
 left to his brother as a legacy. His brother 
 rightly bestowed them upon the artist's native 
 place, where they to-day make obligatory the 
 pilgrimage of students of the time they cover, 
 to the Museum of a town otherwise dreary, 
 in grey North-Eastern France: Saint Quentin, 
 in the Aisne. 
 
 My work, of course, could not approach 
 Latour's great standard. Yet perhaps it has 
 not actually suffered by having, in its execu- 
 tion, been dominated by the presence of a 
 high and an impossible ideal. 
 
 F. W. 
 
 September, 1912 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 I. 
 
 The Terrys, long ago 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Charles Dickens .... 
 
 14 
 
 III. 
 
 Pierre Berton— "Sarah " — Desclee 
 
 21 
 
 IV. 
 
 FrAN£OIS Coppee .... 
 
 36 
 
 <" v. 
 
 Gerome and Sarcey 
 
 40 
 
 VI. 
 
 Tennyson ..... 
 
 47 
 
 VII. 
 
 Browning ..... 
 
 52 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Swinburne ..... 
 
 64 
 
 IX. 
 
 William Morris and others 
 
 67 
 
 X. 
 
 Frederick Locker .... 
 
 74 
 
 XI. 
 
 Links with the Past 
 
 78 
 
 XII. 
 
 More " Links " .... 
 
 90 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Artists at Hampstead 
 
 99 
 
 XIV. 
 
 My Editors ..... 
 
 111 
 
 "" XV. 
 
 Leighton — Millais — Orchardson 
 
 129 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Many Actors ..... 
 
 140 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Walter Pater .... 
 
 156 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Henry Irving ..... 
 
 166 
 
 " XIX. 
 
 Whistler — Haden — Legros 
 
 181 
 
 XX. 
 
 Lecturing and Reading . 
 
 192 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Mrs. Kendal ..... 
 
 201 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Great Preachers 
 
 207 
 
 
 Index ... . . 
 
 227 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 THE TERRYS, LONG AGO 
 
 " TTA ! " I said — exulting over him a little 
 -Li — to a young friend, a soldier, a few 
 months ago — we had been talking with zest 
 about the Theatre — " I have seen one thing 
 at least that you will never see : I have seen 
 Kate Terry, Ellen Terry, and Mrs. Kendal, 
 acting together in a Burlesque." 
 
 Forgiving the unseemly boast, which my 
 accumulated years condoned, that stripling 
 of Fashion — his voice charged with the as- 
 surance and the wisdom which are so abundant 
 in extreme youth — promptly replied, "You 
 had a jolly sight better look sharp, sir, and 
 write your Reminiscences ; for it must be a 
 century since you saw that burlesque." 
 
 " You make us out to be a little old" I said, 
 visibly wounded. " Kate Terry, Ellen, Mrs. 
 Kendal, myself, remember ! " 
 1 
 
2 MEMORIES 
 
 "Only one of you, sir," he answered. 
 " The ladies, we know, are women of genius — 
 and I have heard you say that genius never 
 gets old." 
 
 " But the vulgar standards of the Registrar- 
 General ! " — I began by protesting — " they do 
 exist, after all. However, I will take it to 
 heart. I will set down, while there is time, 
 a few things that occur to me. And, as 
 some one might print them, why shouldn't 
 I begin with the Stage — begin, I mean, for 
 once in my life, by telling the Public what 
 the Public cares to hear ? " 
 
 I was as good as my word. About the bur- 
 lesque then ; and when and where it was acted. 
 
 It was played at the Theatre Royal, 
 Bristol : a small and old-world play-house, 
 which, at the time I am about to speak of, 
 had still its great traditions — traditions from 
 the days of Garrick. Garrick had praised the 
 theatre's acoustic properties, and I remember 
 myself, admiring, under a certain dinginess, 
 the elegance of its form. The time 1 speak 
 of — when I knew it well — was the Autumn 
 of the year before that in which the manage- 
 ment of Fechter began at the Lyceum. I 
 suppose that is another way of saying that 
 the year was 1863. 
 
 Those mid- Victorian days were the best 
 
THE TERRYS, LONG AGO 3 
 
 days of the local " stock companies " — as 
 everybody knows whose interest in the 
 theatre is of at all long standing — and I 
 think I am right in saying that the stock 
 company of the old Bristol and of the Bath 
 theatre — both theatres were under one manage- 
 ment — was about the most capable of any 
 then existing in England. The Manager 
 was Chute, a connection or relative of the 
 Macreadys — his wife, Macready's step-sister, 
 I believe. He was an excellent speci- 
 men of the Actor-Manager of that day. 
 He managed other people wisely, and he 
 rarely acted himself. When he did act, in 
 one or other of the few parts to which he 
 was limited, his acting was deemed locally 
 a treat and an event. He was a good Don 
 Ce"sar de Bazan, and, by his affluent and 
 unctuous humour, as well as by his portliness, 
 a good Falstaff. 
 
 But Chute's services as Manager were 
 greater, distinctly, than his services as Actor ; 
 and in the Autumn I speak of — eighteen sixty- 
 two, if it was not sixty-three — he added to 
 the Company that was his all the year round, 
 two notable young artists who were to 
 be with him for a couple of months or so 
 before they went to London. The two were 
 the two Terrys — Kate and Ellen. 
 
4 MEMORIES 
 
 Kate Terry — destined, before her marriage 
 to Arthur Lewis, to know a few most brilliant 
 years of metropolitan fame — was the leading 
 lady in that first part of the season at Bristol 
 for which alone she was available. She 
 was very young then — twenty or one and 
 twenty — and not a celebrated person. But 
 she had been upon the stage from childhood ; 
 she was perfectly at home on it ; the Charles 
 Keans, at the Princess's, had made much of 
 her in her adolescence — I believe she was 
 Cordelia at seventeen — and, though the 
 general public had not conceived, as yet, 
 any marked affection for her, she had 
 attracted connoisseurs, and on one occasion 
 at least, a few months before she was in 
 Bristol, had had a brief and marked success. 
 The time I speak of was when Miss Terry, at 
 the St. James's Theatre, was suddenly pro- 
 moted to a part filled before her illness by 
 the Actress who was in command there — in 
 real or nominal management — Miss Herbert : 
 the Miss Herbert of Lady Audley's Secret, 
 done at that theatre : the golden-haired Miss 
 Herbert who sat a good deal to Rossetti, 
 and of his models, not seldom undesirable, 
 was one of the most rightly attractive. 
 
 Kate Terry was playing, I suppose, a 
 small part at the St. James's, while being 
 
THE TERRYS, LONG AGO 5 
 
 Miss Herbert's under-study ; and when Miss 
 Herbert was ill she had her first great 
 chance : it was in Friends or Foes — an adapta- 
 tion of Sardou's Nos Intimes. Fechter pre- 
 sumably saw her then, and formed his 
 opinion, and acted on it. Tom Taylor cer- 
 tainly saw her. She obtained from Fechter 
 an engagement to play with him the heroine 
 of the Dukes Motto, when he should open 
 the Lyceum, which he was to do very soon. 
 And she won the good opinion and the firm 
 friendship of Taylor — and both of them she 
 retained to the end. 
 
 Tom Taylor, at that time, was not only 
 an occasional critic of great acumen, but 
 likewise one of the most popular of the 
 dramatists. His Ticket-of- Leave Man, even 
 now, most people know to be a very skil- 
 ful rearrangement of a French piece — with 
 a good deal of English character, English 
 lower middle-class character, somehow got 
 into it. It had lately been produced at the 
 Olympic, and its success was great. So high 
 was Taylor's opinion of Miss Terry — for I 
 suppose this to have been how the matter 
 came about — that he "entrusted her" — "en- 
 trusted " is a word an actress loves, as it at 
 once implies importance — he " entrusted her," 
 then, with the part of the heroine, May 
 
6 MEMORIES 
 
 Edwards. Not indeed in London — where he 
 had no more the opportunity of doing so — 
 but in the two or three rather notable 
 performances given at Canterbury, in the 
 Cricket week, by the " Old Stagers." I 
 say nothing about — and certainly nothing 
 against — the original performance of the 
 part, at the Olympic, by Miss Kate Savile ; 
 a niece, I was told, of Helen Faucit. But 
 the charm of Kate Terry was a distinct one ; 
 much of it caused not at all by formal good 
 looks — though she had good looks enough, 
 with telling grey eyes, brown hair, and a 
 complexion not rudely broken into red and 
 white, but "uni" — like a sky of Boudin's. The 
 " charm " of Kate Terry was in her intelli- 
 gence, and, may I add, in her visible nice- 
 ness. She was the most unstagey of Actresses, 
 in a stagey day. 
 
 We were privileged to see in Bristol a 
 repetition of that performance of Kate Terry's 
 which had been so successful at Canterbury. 
 Tom Taylor came down especially to see it. 
 I recollect meeting him for a few minutes — 
 he was a great celebrity : I was an unknown 
 boy — at the Terrys' lodgings, in Queen 
 Square. There, were the father and mother — 
 a couple well known in later days, in their 
 picturesque age, to most London "First 
 
THE TERRY S, LONG AGO 7 
 
 Nighters " ; but at that time they were 
 middle-aged people, less known and less in 
 evidence. Mr. Terry— the "Mr. B. Terry" 
 of the playbills — that mysterious " B " seemed 
 to me almost as great a find as the "Z. 
 Marcas " of Balzac — was no doubt a capable 
 actor, though he was not then acting. He 
 taught elocution, from time to time, or often, 
 in London, at his house near Mornington 
 Crescent; and, as his daughter Kate once 
 said to me, most justly I am sure, as well as 
 with conviction, " My father is a very good 
 judge of everything at the theatre." Mrs. 
 Terry, with hair already slightly silvered, 
 had a great deal of the personal charm trans- 
 mitted to her children. She was motherly 
 with grace, and friendly with dignity. Ellen 
 was a thorough hobbledehoy ; good-natured, 
 pretty, bouncing, a wayward flutter of light. 
 She would play Cupid, but only on the Stage. 
 And when she was not on the Stage, she was 
 playing pranks with her people. 
 
 The two Miss Terrys acted, at that time, 
 everything that was given them ; and that 
 is how, having seen Ellen in the burlesque, 
 I saw her in Jessica or Nerissa in The 
 Merchant, and having seen Kate in The 
 Ticket -of- Leave Man, in Juliet, in The 
 Lady of Lyons, and in one or two pure melo- 
 
8 MEMORIES 
 
 dramas, I came to see her in a burlesque, 
 with her sister, and with the third lady I 
 named to begin with : who was then an artist 
 in the making. 
 
 That other member of Chute's Company 
 who was destined to be especially cele- 
 brated, was, of course, the young woman 
 who became the great Mrs. Kendal. She 
 was then a girl of sixteen, at the most; 
 living with her father and mother — people 
 who were " personalities " quite as much as 
 Mr. and Mrs. Terry, though, in type, as 
 different as possible from them. Robertson, 
 Madge Robertson's father, was already an 
 old or at least an elderly man, accepting, 
 with great equanimity of spirit, days less 
 brilliant than some he had known. He had 
 been, in his time, Manager of the theatrical 
 Company "working" what was known as the 
 " Hull Circuit," which included towns in Lin- 
 colnshire, like Grimsby and Louth. He 
 had married a German lady, or a lady of 
 German extraction — I myself had no cause 
 to conjecture what I heard long afterwards 
 was the fact : that Mrs. Robertson was of 
 foreign origin. In Chute's Company she 
 was the " First Old Woman," and an ex- 
 tremely clever actress she undoubtedly was. 
 She played, with a merit that Mrs. Stephens, 
 
THE TERRYS, LONG AGO 9 
 
 her better-known contemporary, with a London 
 reputation, can hardly have exceeded, the 
 good-natured, fussy Landlady in The Ticket-oj- 
 Leave Man. She played with a pungency not 
 surpassed by Mrs. Stirling — though certainly 
 with less than Mrs. Stirling's style — the Nurse 
 in Romeo and Juliet. Classic parts fell like- 
 wise to her share ; and those were days when 
 Sheridan Knowles, and even the plays affected 
 by the Kembles, had not, in the provinces at 
 least, gone quite out of fashion. I imagine 
 that in the exercise of their profession Mrs. 
 Robertson had always been more important 
 than her lord ; but he too had sterling qualities, 
 that count upon the Stage — and they were 
 genuine, interesting people. 
 
 The parts that old Mr. Robertson played, in 
 the Bristol days, when I saw him, were chiefly 
 those of the greater dignitaries in Shake- 
 spearian drama; literally, men whose power 
 and state is everything, and whose words are 
 few. He passed from the impersonation of 
 Doge to Duke and Duke to ornamental 
 Monarch. Few as his words were — his words 
 upon the stage — Robertson had difficulty 
 in remembering them ; and, before I knew 
 him personally, his large, slow figure was 
 familiar to me, pacing, in the morning, the 
 broad, secluded street in which the Theatre 
 
10 MEMORIES 
 
 lay — Old King Street— or it might be the 
 greensward of the Square, under Rysbrach's 
 statue, muttering, repeating, rehearsing in a 
 sense, as he paced. He was of dignified 
 presence. Wherever you met him, you 
 would have looked at and liked him. A 
 very simple kindliness made you at once at 
 home. 
 
 I do not know positively what was the first 
 piece in which I saw Madge Robertson — to 
 whose perfected art, of other years, I con- 
 secrate a later chapter — but I am almost sure 
 it was a Pantomime, in which she played 
 Cinderella ; or was it that burlesque that I 
 spoke of to begin with ? Thin, immature, 
 extremely young, almost childish, or, if you 
 wish, schoolgirlish in appearance, there was 
 even then a certain promise about her. I, at 
 all events, believed in her from the beginning 
 — believed in her, and did not prove wrong. 
 I got to know the Robertsons not long after 
 I knew the Terrys. Madge Robertson stayed ; 
 the Terrys — Kate engaged in London in ad- 
 vance — had to leave Bristol. I was, then, 
 the pupil of Joseph Leech, proprietor and 
 Editor of The Bristol Times — an Irish- 
 man, of breeding, worth, and wit — and 
 one of the first things I was allowed to do, 
 when I got to his office, after studying 
 
THE TERRYS, LONG AGO 11 
 
 abroad, was to write short notices of the 
 plays. 
 
 Madge Robertson went on improving — and 
 my notices of her went on improving too. 
 Brief though they were, 1 believe they were 
 fittingly glowing. So glowing were they, 
 it seems — though, in the paucity of my ex- 
 perience, I had no visible right to deliver 
 judgment at all — that when a celebrated 
 Tragedian, as he was accounted in that day — 
 it was Hermann Vezin, whom we have all 
 respected in his age — came " starring " to the 
 Bristol Theatre, with his wife, " Mrs. Charles 
 Young," and found his wife not appreciated, 
 he took occasion to write a letter to my 
 Editor, attributing a quite ridiculous amount 
 of influence to cordial little paragraphs about 
 Madge Robertson, and saying I was over head 
 and ears in love with her. " His inamorata " 
 was the excellent Mr. Vezin's too confident 
 phrase. He even induced Chute, the Manager, 
 to call on Joseph Leech, on this matter. In 
 my mind's eye, to-day, I see the portly figure 
 of Falstaff and Don Cesar, arriving, with only 
 half a heart, to open his case. There was nothing 
 whatever in it. Leech laughed. I mention the 
 business partly because it has often since amused 
 me to remember it, and partly because I think 
 it possible that I may have always known 
 
12 MEMORIES 
 
 how to draw the line between profound appre- 
 ciation of an artist and personal admiration of, 
 or, rather, personal attachment to, a woman. 
 If I did know how to draw the line, I trust I 
 was not a prig. It seems to me, a little sense 
 of justice was all that was required to enable 
 one to draw it. 
 
 A word or two may be said about some 
 other members of Mr. Chute's Company. 
 There were the Rignolds — William and 
 George — both destined to be popular. There 
 was Charles Coghlan ; then a very promising 
 — to some people, even a very fascinating — 
 man ; and there was Fosbrooke, a Low 
 Comedian, extremely funny — an actor who, 
 though greatly appreciated in those two 
 theatres of Bath and Bristol, did not, else- 
 where, I think, receive his due. His geniality, 
 his genuine humour, should have carried 
 him to a wider celebrity. Then there was 
 Henrietta Hodson, young, suave, with soft and 
 merry Irish eyes that raked the Dress Circle. 
 She married a Bristol solicitor, and later, 
 Henry Labouchere. Then there was Alfred 
 Bishop — a boy then : now a quaint " character 
 actor" — and his amiable sister, Kate, to-day 
 the mother of an artist pleasantly mutinous, 
 and frank and fresh — one of the Stage's hopes — 
 Miss Marie Lohr. When, almost recently, in 
 
THE TERRYS, LONG AGO 13 
 
 Stratford Place, at our friend Mrs. Henniker's, 
 I found myself by Miss Lohr at lunch, how 
 foolish not to talk to her of those old times 
 her mother knew ! Instead of that, we dis- 
 cussed seriously the number of minutes in 
 which, in a certain lady's motor, it had been 
 possible to pass from Scarborough to Filey. 
 One does these silly things. 
 
 Not in my time, but only two or three 
 years earlier, Arthur Wood, a comedian 
 who made some name in London — at the 
 old Strand — had been of the Bristol Com- 
 pany ; and I have seen Bristol playbills, of a 
 day a little before my own, in which the 
 name of Marie Wilton (Lady Bancroft) ap- 
 peared, attached to characters in Burlesque. 
 Marie Wilton had not at that period taken to 
 Comedy. Or did she, at a Benefit, play Nan, 
 in Good for Nothing ? There was, in any 
 case, among the Bristol and Bath playgoers 
 of my early time, a tradition of her piquancy, 
 and an interest in her success at the Strand. 
 
II 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 BEFORE ever I went to the Theatre— 
 which in youth was a treat to me, con- 
 tinually — I heard a voice and saw a spectacle 
 the Theatre does not afford. I had the treat 
 of hearing a man of genius reading his own 
 works. 
 
 A very young schoolboy, at home from 
 school — it was at Clifton, in 1858 — I was 
 present, with my father, at the first and again 
 at the fifth Reading given by Charles Dickens 
 on his first great country tour. It was only 
 a few months after he had taken the decisive 
 step of which John Forster disapproved — the 
 step of reading, not, as he had hitherto done, 
 occasionally, for charities, but systematically, 
 with a set programme, and in many towns, 
 and for the benefit of his own pocket. The 
 interest roused in this matter was every- 
 where keen, and nowhere, I should think, 
 can it have been keener than in Bristol, of 
 which Clifton — Clifton where I heard him 
 — is, as the reader knows, the fashionable 
 
 14 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 15 
 
 suburb, and a brilliant little town in itself. 
 The Victoria Rooms, there, were among the 
 very earliest as well as one of the most 
 elegant of modern concert halls. They are 
 still, I believe, for balls and concerts, a 
 favourite place of assembly, and they must 
 date from at all events no later than the late 
 'Forties ; for one of the first recollections of my 
 childhood is that of finding myself, with my 
 mother, in her drawing-room, in Buckingham 
 Place, and hearing — and, I suppose, between 
 opened window- curtains, seeing — the stream 
 of carriages pouring towards those Victoria 
 Rooms, for a Concert by the "Swedish Night- 
 ingale " (Christine Nilsson's forerunner), Jenny 
 Lind. A stream as full and as continuous 
 must have poured in the same direction on 
 the night of the 2nd of August, 1858, when 
 Mr. Dickens — arrived that day from London 
 — read his Christmas story, The Chimes. 
 
 We had excellent stalls, and got there early 
 to occupy them. Immense was the excite- 
 ment. "Le tout Bristol," and all the country- 
 side in addition, was present and expectant. 
 In the row behind us, a physician of more 
 than local distinction was discussing Dickens 
 with acquaintances. He was holding forth : 
 he was expressing his preferences. David 
 Copperfield, according to this estimable man 
 
16 MEMORIES 
 
 of medicine, was— as he declared it, in round, 
 full voice, to be heard by many — •" the incom- 
 parable masterpiece." 
 
 The man of medicine was a character. 
 Highly scientific — as I knew, years afterwards 
 — he was a discoverer, and, withal, practical 
 in his work ! His ways about money matters 
 were individual and interesting ; and they 
 were above all things simplified. They 
 pointed almost at Socialism ; although very 
 innocently, for Socialism was quite unheard 
 of in his day. He never, I believe, sent in 
 an account for services rendered, and, to boot, 
 was entirely indifferent as to whether, when a 
 patient went to see him, that patient left a 
 guinea in his palm or did not leave it. By 
 way of compensation for this sublime, un- 
 usual attitude, taken up by him habitually 
 when he sat in his study, he ignored alike the 
 first bills and the subsequent reminders of his 
 tradespeople. Money — whether sovereigns, 
 small change, or cheques of importance — 
 money was not his affair. He neither paid it 
 out nor gathered it in. He lived in spheres 
 of thought into which pelf and "filthy dross" 
 did not enter. 
 
 But the Reading ! 
 
 Presently — it was eight o'clock to the 
 moment, for Dickens, all his life, was punctu- 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 17 
 
 ality itself — in front of the screens upon the 
 platform, there walked to his maroon baize- 
 covered desk — is it the one that his surviving 
 daughter cherishes, the one that I beheld not 
 very long ago, off the staircase of her villa at 
 Kensington? — there walked, then, to the desk 
 a man of middle height, erect, slim, full- 
 coloured, closely knit, and with the nerve and 
 sensitiveness of a racehorse. Evening dress, 
 of course — what the reporters chronicle as 
 "immaculate evening dress" — and a camellia 
 in his button-hole. His introduction was one 
 short sentence — he would read to us, with 
 our permission, The Chimes. 
 
 With a voice of trained flexibility and of 
 appropriate changefulness, and with an amount 
 of facial expression half-way, as it now seems to 
 me, between that of the accomplished reader in 
 the drawing-room and that of the good actor 
 on the stage — but inclining even then, to the 
 dramatic — Mr. Dickens read, or to a certain 
 extent recited (but the book was ever before 
 him), his story, until an hour had passed 
 quickly. Then he retired for ten minutes' 
 breathing-time — for himself as well as his 
 hearers. Coming back refreshed, he read for 
 all but another hour : and finished amidst a 
 scene of enthusiasm. Toby Veck, and all the 
 world of Toby Veck, had lived before us, To 
 
 2 
 
18 MEMORIES 
 
 boot, the Master, whom few of us, in Clifton 
 in those days, would otherwise have seen at 
 all, had by countenance and bearing, by voice 
 and gesture, delightfully revealed himself and 
 his incomparable, magnetic charm. 
 
 That was the Monday. Upon the Tuesday, 
 Dickens travelled to Exeter, and read ; on 
 Wednesday and Thursday read at Plymouth. 
 On the Friday, he was back again at the 
 Victoria Rooms, Clifton, with The Christmas 
 Carol. We heard him in the crustiness of 
 Scrooge, in the irrepressible geniality of 
 Scrooge's nephew, in the fanciful and pleasing 
 humour of this person and that ; and, best 
 of all, in the tender brevity of the pathos of 
 Tiny Tim. He was great in characterisation. 
 
 How many occasions of hearing and study- 
 ing him, in rather later life, was I foolish 
 enough to miss ! 
 
 It was in January, 1869, I think — when 
 I already lived in London — that, happening 
 to be again in Gloucestershire for a few weeks, 
 I heard Dickens in the latest, most immedi- 
 ately striking, most obviously dramatic of his 
 Readings — "Sikes and Nancy," from Oliver 
 Twist. Again it was the Victoria Rooms, 
 Clifton — a crowd as big and as representative 
 as that of ten years before, and certainly as 
 enthusiastic. He read two light little pieces 
 
CHARLES DICKENS 19 
 
 — " Bob Sawyer's Party," from Pickwick, with 
 admirable comedy, and " Boots at the Holly 
 Tree Inn," with a gentle humour — as well as 
 the tremendous episode. The light pieces 
 apparently cost him little. The tremendous 
 episode— the "Sikes and Nancy" — strained, 
 excited, and tended to destroy him. His 
 performance of it at Clifton he chronicled, I 
 believe, as the best that he had so far given. 
 
 Only once again — it must have been in the 
 Autumn of the same year, for he died before 
 the Autumn of '70 — did I see Dickens. That 
 was one evening in September, at Verrey's 
 Restaurant in Regent Street. He was enter- 
 taining an American. Probably he had been 
 showing the American something of the 
 London — the then, to most of the world, 
 undiscovered London — which he knew. He 
 was dressed in his dark navy-blue serge. He 
 was the mariner-like Charles Dickens — he was 
 Dickens the inspired skipper. His bronzed, 
 weather-beaten face looked tired, I thought. 
 He had a glass of sherry and bitters — such as 
 they gave you at the " Blue Posts," and not 
 at the "Blue Posts" alone at that time — to 
 pick him up for the meal that was to follow. 
 But I, at least — a stranger — had no reason to 
 suspect that the line, with him, was nearly all 
 " run out " : that the greatest genius of all 
 
20 MEMORIES 
 
 English Fiction — he whose being and whose 
 art prompted half our race to personal affec- 
 tion for him — was near, very near, to his end. 
 
 On a June morning, of the year 1870 — 
 taking my after-breakfast walk of those days, 
 in the Hampstead where I lived — going along 
 the High Street, past the newsagent's, my eye 
 caught some large letters on a poster of the 
 Daily News — "Death of Charles Dickens." 
 I went in quickly, bought a paper, glanced 
 at it ; then, hurrying homewards to Church 
 Row, I made for my wife's room, and said, as 
 I remember, half aghast, " Dickens is dead ! " 
 
 I have thought, always, that a great writer's 
 end plunges the world into a sudden poverty. 
 But only once have I been as thoroughly 
 " bowled over " as on that June morning. 
 And that was when, years afterwards, one 
 Winter day in Westminster, four words, upon 
 a poster also, struck my eye — " Death of 
 Robert Browning." The first time, it was 
 a friend and benefactor of Humanity who had 
 disappeared. The second time, it was that 
 likewise — and, to boot, a friend of my own. 
 
Ill 
 
 BERTON— "SARAH "— DESCLEE 
 
 IT was my fortune, when I was still quite 
 young, but some years after my Bristol 
 stage education— my introduction to the 
 players' world — to see a little of the Theatre 
 in Paris. A French friend of mine, in 
 England, made me known to Pierre Berton, 
 then the favourite jeune premier at the 
 Gymnase — acting, at the time, I think, with 
 Landrol : certainly with Blanche Pierson, who, 
 in old age now, retains, at the Francais, much 
 of her charm, and all of her authority. In 
 1869 and 1870 the sunniest of youthful com- 
 rades, Blanche Pierson, like Madame Arnould- 
 Plessy before her, has passed from coquette 
 to grande dame with silver hair. 
 
 When I first knew Berton, I was staying 
 many weeks in Paris. Berton was a few 
 years my senior. I had a great admiration 
 for him — for his colouring, his voice, his walk, 
 his manner and his coat. I was poor, I was 
 nobody, and, though I asked him who it was 
 that made his coat, he would not allow me 
 
 21 
 
22 MEMORIES 
 
 to go to his tailor — " to whom I should 
 not myself go," he said, " si je ne jouais pas la 
 Comedie." 
 
 I used to dine with Berton in his little flat — 
 high up above the Faubourg Poissoniere — 
 where, in rooms hung with Nevers and Rouen 
 pottery of his collecting, was his young wife, 
 the excellent mother of children to whom he 
 was devoted. Away from the theatre, with 
 its excitements and activities, he led a quiet 
 life. Coming from a thoroughly educated 
 stock — people who lived for intellectual things 
 — Pierre Berton was a reader, and, as his little 
 curtain-raiser, Les Jurons de Cadillac — which 
 holds the stage to-day — sufficiently attests — 
 not to speak of newer pieces — a writer, besides. 
 He complained, indeed, that for certain prac- 
 tical purposes, in connection with his profes- 
 sion, his education had been " trap Utteraire." 
 Like many other young Frenchmen of the 
 period, he had hankerings after Philosophy 
 and Natural Science — and these had not come 
 his way. 
 
 Pierre Berton was the son of the elder 
 Berton — " leading man " at the Vaudeville — 
 who had played with Mile. Fargueil at an 
 earlier time (about 1865) in the much-talked-of 
 piece in which Dumas Jils and Emile de 
 Girardin had a hand. Les Deux Soeurs, that 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 23 
 
 piece was called. But when I knew Pierre 
 Berton, his father, after a life of intellectual 
 and emotional stress, some home discords, and 
 some passionate adventures, had died, with 
 mind, I fear, unbalanced. This was publicly 
 known. His wife had been the daughter of 
 Samson, which made Pierre Berton Samson's 
 grandson. Samson had been one of the 
 greatest actors of his time. His memory was 
 cherished at the Francais. He was a great 
 patriot, as well as a great artist ; and I 
 remember Pierre telling me, that, though 
 extreme old age was undoubtedly upon him 
 ere his death, he had really died of grief at 
 the triumph of the Prussians — at the humilia- 
 tion of Paris. 
 
 Samson, as is so often the custom with the 
 fine French actors, was, in his day, a pro- 
 fessor at the Conservatoire — M. Legouve" calls 
 him " le professorat fait homme" Among his 
 pupils, more than a generation before the time 
 I speak of, there was counted the young and 
 brilliant Jewess who became the great Rachel. 
 She had owed much to him ; and Berton one 
 day showed me a bundle of letters from her 
 to her master — letters, my friend said, which, 
 if read in the order in which they had been 
 written, might make one a cynic ; for, in 
 the earlier documents, behold Rachel un- 
 
24 MEMORIES 
 
 known, and brimming over with gratitude, 
 and in the later, Rachel, celebrated and vic- 
 torious, forgetful and cold ! 
 
 Berton's opinion of Sarah Bernhardt — in 
 her youth, at that period — was subject to 
 much fluctuation. At one time he spoke of 
 her with reserve, and without enthusiasm. 
 At another, when 1 recalled that attitude to 
 him, " Non, Jaime bien Sarah Bernhardt," 
 he would say. He was with her, then, at 
 the Odeon. Their frequent contact — the 
 two so much together on the stage — with 
 rough and smooth, with give and take, with 
 friction and with pleasantness — led, not un- 
 naturally, to those vicissitudes of feeling. 
 Some there are who pretend — 1 mean, who 
 aver — that if a man, night after night, enacts 
 stage love affairs with the same woman, there 
 comes an hour at which indifference can en- 
 dure no longer, and there is either fondness 
 or, in Shakesperian phrase, "a fixed hate 
 and a certain loathing." 
 
 It was my good fortune to see Sarah at a 
 time when she possessed a youthful charm 
 certainly in excess of any that was hers when 
 she became world-famous. I did not see her 
 in Le Passant — the piece in which, as Zanetto, 
 the Italian minstrel, she had first made her 
 mark at the Odeon ; playing that part to the 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 25 
 
 Silvia of the author's (Francois Coppee's) 
 friend, Mademoiselle Agar, who had smoothed 
 his way to the stage ; but I saw her, not so 
 long afterwards, in L' Autre of George Sand, 
 in which she was good, certainly ; though not, 
 as far as I remember, at her best ; and I saw 
 her also in the very earliest days of her per- 
 formance of Andre Theuriet's Jean-Marie. 
 Therese, in that dramatic poem, is a part 
 which, rightly, she has but lately absolutely 
 abandoned, and of which her performance, in 
 those early days, was exquisite and com- 
 plete. 
 
 Almost the first time I saw Sarah Bern- 
 hardt off the stage, was in an ante-room at 
 the Theatre Francais. I mention the cir- 
 cumstance because she said a thing that was 
 characteristic. She had come out tired from 
 rehearsal — " tired," but more than " tired," ex- 
 hausted, enervee, extenuee: what people now 
 call "dead." She was abusing her fate and 
 her profession, in no measured terms. " If I 
 had a daughter," declared Sarah, " rather than 
 that she should go upon the Stage, I'd take 
 her out into the Place, there, where the fiacres 
 are, and roll her head under the first cab- 
 wheel" — and the "extenuated" tragedian suited 
 her action to her word. " The stage, indeed, 
 for any one ! — c'est le dernier des metiers" I 
 
26 MEMORIES 
 
 have no doubt that half an hour afterwards, 
 when Sarah had lunched and rested, the Stage 
 returned to its position as, to her mind, the 
 greatest of great arts. 
 
 Sarah Bernhardt began to visit London 
 rather late in her career — at least, those who 
 had watched her celebrity, and experienced 
 her charm, in France — I amongst them — were 
 minded to think so ; though, as it proved, a 
 generation, or, who shall say, how much more, 
 of noble work, still lay in front of her. In 
 her first London season, she desired to ex- 
 hibit her Sculpture. She had been a pupil of 
 Falguiere or Franceschini, and had put the 
 teaching to good purpose ; for not inconsider- 
 able was her own gift. A room was taken in 
 Piccadilly. Her portrait busts, her group — 
 was it of a drowned fisherman on the knees 
 of his mother, or was it really a Pieta ? — all 
 her things, were placed there. There was a 
 Private View, really private : the invitations, 
 to a few dozen persons at most. Several were 
 in the room already when Sarah arrived ; tired 
 again, as I saw her, after rehearsal, in Paris, 
 but absolutely gracious to everybody, and 
 making the round of people and of statues— 
 or busts mainly — with undisguised interest, 
 and occasional epigram. Her comments on 
 her busts, or, rather, on the people those busts 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 27 
 
 represented, were amusing and pungent. Here 
 was an aged dramatist : she chucked him 
 under the chin — in marble. She was in great 
 spirits — was looking forward, of course, to 
 seeing Irving, and even more anxiously, I 
 think, to seeing Ellen Terry. At least she 
 wished me to understand that that was so. 
 
 The last time I saw Sarah — and it was 
 years ago — I did not see her at all — ex- 
 cept, that is, for a minute, at the very end 
 of the function. Mr. Horace Sedger had 
 arranged a series of Tableaux vivants, and, if 
 the initial experiment had been quite success- 
 ful, he would, I suppose, have carried them 
 into the ordinary afternoon or evening bill, at 
 what was then his theatre — the Prince of 
 Wales's — but, as it was, I think their repre- 
 sentation was confined to that one occasion. 
 Sarah herself could not, of course, have 
 appeared on any other, as a reciter of verse 
 between Tableaux. Bigger engagements pre- 
 vented her. But, for a single afternoon, that 
 was her task. She managed it marvellously. 
 If there was failure, or fear of failure, Sarah at 
 least had no share in it — it rested with the 
 Tableaux — with the subjects — with the poet, 
 Armand Silvestre, if you will ; for his work, 
 though of a certain grace and freedom, is not 
 the work of a master. Between the Tableaux, 
 
28 MEMORIES 
 
 Sarah, behind a screen all the time, recited 
 his verses : being herself, by reason of the 
 screen, quite invisible, as has been implied 
 already. What severer test could there pos- 
 sibly have been of the charm and potency of 
 the famous voix d'or ! That, and her elocu- 
 tion, told perfectly. And when, in response 
 to the applause, she came before the screen for 
 a moment, in her bow of thanks you felt the 
 charm of her gesture. It was " as if the spirit 
 bowed," as Laurence Sterne says, beautifully. 
 
 A French actress, in some respects abso- 
 lutely as great as Sarah Bernhardt — and per- 
 haps more inexplicably and subtly sympa- 
 thetic — it was my fortune to see a good deal 
 of; but only on the stage. This was Aimee 
 Desclee, who had become famous in Paris 
 through her representation of Frou Frou, and 
 who afterwards appeared, with a success not 
 always as popular, but certainly as artistic, in 
 several of the pieces which Dumas^fe fashioned 
 not quite without reference to her. Short was 
 her great career. 
 
 When Aimee Desclee first astonished Paris 
 by the performance of Frou Frou, she was 
 already (though still young) an actress not 
 only of extraordinary and sensitive genius, 
 but of wide and deep, delightful and painful 
 experience. Her letters, published in France, 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 29 
 
 a good many years ago now — they would well 
 bear translating — reveal, with unusual frank- 
 ness, the character and ways of the woman — 
 the sadness, the aspirations, the temptations, 
 the indulgences, the sudden self-control, the 
 bitter disappointments, the greatly varying 
 health, that had, one and all of them, so im- 
 mediate an influence upon the brilliant, subtle, 
 faultless art whose evidence we welcomed. 
 
 Since I saw Desclee in Frou Frou, 1 have 
 seen Sarah Bernhardt in it ; and, though I 
 yield to no one in belief in the powers of 
 Sarah, I am bound to say that the true Frou 
 Frou was the Frou Frou of Desclee — who 
 made of her a creature more modern, more 
 sensitive, more variable, than did the accepted 
 tragedian, in a part a little out of her line. 
 No doubt the power of Bernhardt, in the 
 later scenes especially, was more obvious, and 
 therefore more immediately taking ; its appeal 
 was far more popular — it was, if the real truth 
 is to be expressed about it, more stagey. 
 Even in the more dramatic phases of a charac- 
 ter wonderfully studied and intricately com- 
 posed by its authors — Meilhac and Halevy — 
 Desclee was superior to Sarah. Still more 
 certainly was she superior to her in all the 
 lighter phases : the flippancy of Sarah being 
 visibly assumed ; her delicacy less innate. Not 
 
30 MEMORIES 
 
 without an eye to Vheredite, Meilhac and 
 Halevy constructed Brigard, the father, and 
 Frou Frou, the daughter ;— those excursions 
 into Bohemia which Brigard joyously avowed, 
 Frou Frou herself was not unwilling to under- 
 take. But the little Bohemianism of Frou 
 Frou was always the Bohemianism of a gentle- 
 woman ; and this Desclee made plain. The 
 Bohemianism of Sarah was modified by no 
 class and no traditions ; strange to say, it was 
 the Bohemianism, not of a delicate nature, 
 poetic in its excursions into Vile enchantee 
 — Watteau's He de Cythere. It was, for once, 
 the Bohemianism of the man in the street. 
 Now, is that characteristic of Sarah ? Of course 
 it is not. 
 
 When Aimee Desclee came to London — it 
 was for the only time, and it was in the last 
 year of her life : when she reaped a short 
 harvest of money and fame at the Princess's 
 — I saw her again in Frou Frou, and I 
 saw her in Diane De Lys. But in the last- 
 named part she was not so absolutely remark- 
 able. Besides, her failing health told, in 
 London, no doubt, to some extent, upon the 
 excellence of her performance ; although, as I 
 know from people to whom she had introduc- 
 tions, and whom she was supposed to visit, 
 she took, during those triumphant but difficult 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 31 
 
 weeks, the most scrupulous care of herself; 
 practically reserving her life — which, of old, 
 she had given so lavishly in the directions 
 that pleased her — for the Theatre alone. 
 
 In some respects the most wonderful 
 creation of Aime'e Desclee's, was a thing 
 done at the Gymnase, midway, as to time, 
 between the earlier performances of Frou 
 Fron and the actress's latest appearance in 
 England. This was Une Visite de Noces ; 
 a one-act piece, which I suppose to have been 
 written expressly for her. Like Diane, it 
 was by Dumas the younger, who knew her 
 intimately, and took curious and learned 
 account of her skill and her temperament. I 
 doubt whether the performance of Une Visite 
 de Noces was sanctioned in England : at all 
 events I have no remembrance of the extra- 
 ordinary little thing having been played here. 
 Nowadays, even in London, not to speak of 
 Paris and Brussels, we are accustomed to per- 
 formances much bolder than any that were 
 considered fitting to our innocence twenty or 
 thirty years ago ; and, after all, there is a 
 wide gulf fixed between Une Visite de Noces, 
 which was not allowed us, a score, or more, 
 years since — though it probably would be 
 now — and a later success of literary and 
 theatrical realism, the Zaza in which Rejane 
 
32 MEMORIES 
 
 has been so striking. In Zaza, the boldness 
 of action and behaviour might, except for 
 fully qualified audiences, be fairly objected to. 
 In Une Visite de Noces it is the uncom- 
 promising character of the dialogue — one 
 might almost say the cynicism of the senti- 
 ment. But the heart of Desclee was open to 
 one, in Une Visite de Noces; it might be 
 taken as a commentary on some of her own 
 letters — or her own letters would be a fitting 
 commentary on it. Little reason to won- 
 der that Dumas — who admired the actress 
 justly — who possessed the confidences of the 
 woman, and repaid them with consideration 
 and kindness — was delighted with her per- 
 formance in this piece. And such a piece, 
 whether one likes it or not — whether one 
 approves or not of a dissection so complete, 
 of an analysis of which the results are so 
 bitter— lies absolutely outside the range of 
 the ordinary trained actress, whether English 
 or French. The experience of Desclee, and 
 the nature of Desclee besides — so much ad- 
 venture and a tender heart: high poetry and 
 home-sickness for the gutter— were required 
 to do this thing. 
 
 When Meilhac and Halevy wrote Frou 
 Frou — I am almost sure that I am right 
 in saying — it was not Desclee they had in 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 33 
 
 view. They were thinking, I believe, of 
 Mademoiselle Delaporte ; who, for a very 
 short time, and quite in her youth, had taken 
 a distinguished place at the Gymnase, and 
 who, in the phrase of Pierre Berton to me, 
 had been " snatched from us by Russia." 
 Berton liked her as a woman ; had been well 
 content to act with her ; and believed in her 
 completely as an artist. It is no part of my 
 business to give certificates of conduct ; but I 
 do not know why I may not say that Marie 
 Delaporte's life was, judged by customary 
 standards, as faultless as Rose Che"ri's. The 
 remark suggests the long-debated question 
 of the bearing of personal experience on the 
 art of the artist. 
 
 Mademoiselle Delaporte, " snatched " from 
 Paris then, by the Theatre Francais of St. 
 Petersburg — which had great rewards to offer 
 — was unable to be at home an interpreter of 
 the chief character of the Meilhac and Hale"vy 
 play. She, naturally enough, however, created 
 the part in St. Petersburg, and in her later 
 years, coming back to France, for appearances 
 comparatively infrequent, I believe she played 
 the part there, but in it I never saw her. 
 Indeed, like the greater number of English 
 people of the time, I never saw Delaporte 
 upon the stage at all ; though when she came 
 3 
 
34 MEMORIES 
 
 to England, one summer, after the long series 
 of Russian successes was ended, I saw some- 
 thing of her privately. She came, I recollect, 
 to meet a few people, one evening, at the little 
 house we lived in at Hampstead : I mean the 
 one in Church Row. Hamilton Aide", the 
 Meredith Townsends, and the Du Mauriers 
 were, I remember, there — I can't remember 
 who else. And, in the very small drawing- 
 room, Delaporte went through a monologue, 
 with ease, simplicity, and a measure of charm ; 
 but I never supposed it was at all a fair in- 
 dication of what she could do on that real 
 stage whereon I did not see her. 
 
 I remember dining with her and her brother, 
 at Dieudonne's, in Ryder Street — a very dif- 
 ferent Dieudonne's from that of the present 
 day. Instead of being in those years a 
 restaurant smallish, but fashionable — quiet, 
 but more or less "the thing" — it was a simple 
 and thoroughly French hotel, kept by a re- 
 tired physician, who gave it his name, and 
 it was resorted to not at all by the ordinary 
 public. It was the home rather — the family 
 circle, almost — whilst they were in England, 
 of the best French artists : whether writers, 
 singers, painters, sculptors, or comedians. A 
 perfectly homelike place it was, and a bit of 
 the real France. I remember it not only from 
 
BERTON— SARAH— DESCLEE 35 
 
 dining with Mademoiselle Delaporte and her 
 brother, in a room apart, but also from having, 
 once or twice afterwards, taken occasion to 
 join the small table d'hote — a function of every 
 day, in the little front dining-room. There, 
 one night, was Fargueil, a brune of the Midi, 
 energetic, electrical. The fare was simple, 
 but excellent ; very much the kind of thing 
 that has been given since, on so much larger a 
 scale, at a restaurant known for a while to 
 all the world and his wife, or to all the world 
 and somebody else's wife : the Hotel — but 
 No : I think it shall now be nameless. 
 
IV 
 
 FRANCOIS COPPEE 
 
 A NOTHER Frenchman of distinction and 
 11 genuine interest — now dead, alas ! — 
 of whom I saw a good deal, many years since, 
 was Francois Coppee, the Poet : an Academi- 
 cian, naturally. I knew Coppe"e best in the 
 days following pretty closely on his earlier 
 successes : when he was indeed quite famous, 
 but not officially sanctioned or qualified. I 
 have mentioned him incidentally, already, in 
 speaking of Sarah Bernhardt's performance in 
 his exquisite little piece, Le Passant. I have 
 said that was brought out at the Odeon 
 through the instrumentality of his friend, 
 Mademoiselle Agar. The poet went through 
 many phases : through many even while he 
 was still young. Le Passant's harmonious 
 romance was succeeded by the tender and 
 tempered realism of Les Humbles, with its 
 petit epicier of Montrouge, qui cassait le sucre 
 avec melancolie. Then there was Olivier's 
 disillusion and bitterness ; La Greve des For- 
 gerons, Deux Douleurs, and the later, religious 
 resignation of La Bonne Souffirance. But no 
 phase is of more lasting charm than that 
 
 36 
 
FRANCOIS COPPEE 37 
 
 which, in lines of faultless melody, Le Passant 
 expressed. 
 
 Did I know Coppee in two houses? If 
 I did, I have forgotten the first. What I 
 recollect well, is his abode in the Rue Oudinot, 
 where were his quarters during the time I was 
 most accustomed to be with him. He lived 
 in his small ground-floor flat, looking out 
 into court or garden. Rather later, he ac- 
 quired another — coi~ps de bdtiment, shall I say 
 very finely ? — one or two rooms, a little 
 pavilion, entirely to himself, and apart from 
 the rooms of his family. That is perhaps 
 why I am apt to speak, or think, sometimes, 
 of two dwellings. When I first knew the 
 Coppees, there were three in the house : old 
 Madame Coppee, a brown little Bretonne ; the 
 poet her son ; and his sister, Annette, cordial, 
 expansive and flourishing. I said " three," but 
 there was a servant who, though quite young, 
 had established relations with them all, of a 
 kind much commoner in France than in 
 England. She did not sit at the table indeed ; 
 yet counted as one of the family ; and if 
 Coppde remarked, at breakfast, that he would 
 go somewhere or other next Wednesday, 
 the young woman, awake and agreeable, im- 
 mediately interposed " You cannot do that : 
 you dine with Monsieur de So-and-so," or 
 
38 MEMORIES 
 
 " Impossible ! It is the first night at the 
 Gymnase." 
 
 Coppee was, to all who were about him, a 
 very lovable person ; the familiarity of his 
 dependents was of the friendliest sort ; he was 
 simplicity itself, and in this thing his mother 
 and sister were like him. I can best describe 
 them — the whole family — as a sort of survival 
 of the good, simple French bourgeois family 
 of the Eighteenth Century, that Chardin drew 
 so well. They were of the petite bour- 
 geoisie : of the haute not at all. Were it not 
 for the alert interest that Coppee and his 
 sister took in everything that was going on, 
 and the extent to which Coppee himself was 
 necessarily in touch with modern Letters and 
 Art, and even, to some extent, Fashion — he 
 was a frequenter, for instance, of the salon 
 of the Princesse Mathilde — one might have 
 described them as provincials who chanced 
 to have alighted in Paris. But indeed that 
 old-world quarter, the outskirts of the Fau- 
 bourg St. Germain — a district of great old 
 houses and convents and wide and placid 
 gardens — is, in a sense, itself, provincial, to 
 this day. It is the Parisian version — counter- 
 part one cannot call it — of a tranquil corner of 
 Westminster, where Barton Street and Cowley 
 Street nestle under the great, grey Abbey. 
 
FRANCOIS COPPEE 39 
 
 Coppee, notwithstanding the tone of deep 
 melancholy — resigned melancholy however, 
 rather than pessimism — which runs through 
 all his work, was a cheerful and lively person 
 to sit with at table, or afterwards, with a 
 cigarette, in his room. He was a keen and 
 humorous observer, always penetrating, always 
 clear-sighted, never for a moment ill-natured or 
 harsh. His talk had freshness and piquancy. 
 It had imagination. All the same, it is true 
 that you felt the extreme and tragic gravity of 
 his view of Life— and his own life. That was 
 in part constitutional. Those were years in 
 which he was constantly threatened to be 
 classed with the consumptive . Once, at least, 
 he was compelled to winter at Pau — "relax- 
 ing," if you like, but at Pau "ore ne crdche pas 
 du sang." And it is possible that Coppee 's 
 buoyancy, as much as his depression, belonged 
 to that physical temperament— the tempera- 
 ment, changeful, mercurial, of men whose 
 malady — in its most dire form at least — he did 
 fortunately escape. To boot, there was in him 
 the blood of those who, through long gene- 
 rations, had gravely, slowly, in monotonous 
 labours, looked out upon the vast and empty 
 distances of Breton landscape, and heard in 
 Winter, along their bitter and sad coasts, the 
 passage of devastating storms. 
 
V 
 
 GEROME AND SARCEY 
 
 WHEN I was first accustomed to make 
 long stays in Paris, Gerome was per- 
 haps the painter most in vogue ; and I re- 
 member being taken to his house first by my 
 kind old friend Auguste Guyard, a man of 
 great originality, father of Stanislas Guyard, the 
 distinguished Orientalist, professor at the Col- 
 lege de France or the Ecole des Hautes Etudes 
 — I forget which ; and he, like his father, is 
 now dead. 
 
 The association of old M. Guyard with Leon 
 Gerome may possibly have been due to their 
 being natives, or at one time inhabitants, of 
 the same country-side. Whether Gerome was 
 originally from Guyard's country 1 am not 
 perfectly sure — though I believe he was. He 
 had at all events his country house within 
 sight of the Vosges — "the Bastions of the 
 East, 3 ' in M. Maurice Barres's significant, 
 watchful phrase — no endless distance from 
 Vesoul, from which, or its neighbourhood, 
 came Guyard. 
 
 Incidentally, I may say that the type in 
 
 40 
 
GEROME AND SARCEY 41 
 
 Franche Comte remains, to this day, curiously 
 Spanish. Gerome would certainly have struck 
 one as naturally belonging to it ; old Monsieur 
 Guyard had a touch of it ; the characteristics 
 of the Spaniard were still more marked in his 
 elder son, Antony, long a friend of mine in 
 England, who had Spanish grace and delibera- 
 tion and stateliness, and, as it chanced, little of 
 the Frenchman but his language. No doubt 
 the Spanish character of the Franche Comte' 
 population is the result of a long Spanish occu- 
 pation, more than a couple of hundred years 
 ago. 
 
 To go back to Le"on Gerome more particu- 
 larly. He was, at the time I speak of, a tired, 
 disillusioned-looking man, of fifty or there- 
 abouts ; full of energy and determination, for 
 all the signs of fatigue — a man indeed who had 
 learned at that time to concentrate his effort 
 on the labours that he lived by and loved. 
 Young though I was, he made me — in later 
 visits — a confidant in this matter ; and I re- 
 member the sadness of his wonderful brown 
 eyes — surely Franche Comte eyes, and that 
 means Spanish — when he said gravely, " Le 
 travail, il ny a que fa." Nothing, I believe, 
 disturbed in Gerome the continuity of his 
 work. Society, so far as he went into it 
 — and he was honoured and sought for — 
 
42 MEMORIES 
 
 did not interfere in any way with his dili- 
 gence. And he knew nothing of the modern 
 affection of the nerves that the Germans call 
 Reise-fieber ; so that on the morrow of a long 
 journey into Eastern France he would set up 
 his easel, early, and would work at once with 
 steady mind and with firm hand. Altogether 
 at home. 
 
 Some people have imagined, and have ex- 
 pressed their fancy, that the extent to which, 
 in the painted productions of Gerome, promi- 
 nence is given to scenes of cruelty was 
 necessarily an indication of something of the 
 temperament of the man. Lust, savagery, 
 brutality, these are certainly the elements of 
 much of his work in Painting — they do not 
 enter at all into the noble Sculpture of his 
 later years, of which the capital example is the 
 " Tanagra" of the Luxembourg — but I believe 
 that few men really have been kinder or more 
 considerate than this painter of frequent hor- 
 rors ; and a theory, more tenable perhaps than 
 that which I have mentioned, would be, that, 
 in artistic conceptions, one of the most natural 
 things is reaction or revolt from one's real 
 temperament. Take, for instance, in illustra- 
 tion, Henry Irving's not infrequent preference 
 for melodramatic horrors, and contrast it with 
 the almost feminine sensibility, the eminent 
 
GEROME AND SARCEY 43 
 
 compassion, of the man. These melodramatic 
 horrors — they were effective and interesting : 
 nothing else, to the artist. And they took 
 him furthest of all from his real self. 
 
 Gerome's works in Painting have gone 
 somewhat out of fashion, but the power of his 
 draughtsmanship is as little to be denied as 
 the power of the draughtsmanship of Ingres 
 or of Legros, and his conceptions have been 
 constantly dramatic. The very young School 
 cannot appreciate Gerome ; but Gerome has 
 been able to appreciate the very young School ; 
 and, as a professor at the Beaux Arts, he was 
 wont, I am told, and particularly in his more 
 advanced years, to insist upon the acquisition, 
 by his pupils, of the very virtues that he knew 
 he was himself most without. The good 
 opinion of the judicious has hardly been with- 
 drawn from him, and there may return to him 
 sooner or later the loud approval of the crowd. 
 
 While I am speaking of artists in Paris, let 
 me refer to a friend I cannot forget — the well- 
 known, much -esteemed American, of Irish 
 birth, G. P. A. Healy, who, during many 
 years — all of them much later than the time 
 in which I was wont to see Gerome — was, as 
 were all his family, amongst the kindest, per- 
 haps the most untiringly kind, of my friends in 
 France. Not only was Mr. Healy — I call him 
 
44 MEMORIES 
 
 " Mr." because he was so much my senior — a 
 delightful and constant and sunny-natured 
 friend : his house in the Rue de la Rochefou- 
 cauld was an interesting one to go to, and 
 that not only on his account and that of his 
 children, and on that of the people accustomed 
 in his day to be gathered within it, but also 
 for its own sake, and because of its earliest 
 associations. It was built by Louis the Four- 
 teenth, for Madame de Maintenon, when the 
 monarch was more or less range. It was then 
 of course outside Paris — and a beautiful ex- 
 ample of the late Louis Quatorze period it 
 certainly was. 
 
 In Healy's studio, adjoining the house — but 
 in no way in it, and numbered differently in 
 the street — there were a number of portraits, 
 or sometimes replicas of the first portraits, of 
 distinguished people ; a few of them English, 
 but most of them either French or American, 
 who had sat to the painter at one time or another 
 during what became at last the couple of 
 generations of his active and enthusiastic work. 
 Presidents of the United States were to be 
 seen upon the walls, and Healy had excellent 
 stories about them. There was a very fine 
 portrait — I should say in all probability really 
 the finest ever painted of him — of Liszt. I 
 am not sure there were not two portraits : one 
 
GEROME AND SARCEY 45 
 
 of them showing the large but delicate, flex- 
 ible fingers of the virtuoso, as they passed over 
 the keyboard ; the other, the aspect of him 
 taken unawares, with a candle in hand, re- 
 sponding suddenly to a call made upon him 
 at a late hour. I think it was thus — I think 
 it was like that — that Mr. Healy first saw him. 
 
 Thiers sat to Healy, in Healy 's middle day. 
 Close to the Rue de la Rochefoucauld was 
 the statesman's house, in the Place St. 
 Georges ; and there was Mme. Thiers, and his 
 books, and his wife's sister, and his little bronzes. 
 The portrait — shown at the Salon, where Healy 
 was hors concours — was, though a good one, 
 eclipsed by the prodigiously vigorous por- 
 trait by Bonnat. Still, Healy 's had its delicate 
 discrimination. Bismarck sat to Healy— who 
 indeed, like Sir William Richmond in later 
 days, went to stay with him in his country- 
 house ; and I used to hear stories of Bismarck, 
 revealing what was then unexpected, and to 
 everyone welcome — the kindlier and simpler 
 side of the " man of iron's " character. 
 
 The eldest of Healy 's daughters was married 
 to a Frenchman of mark — a "Normalien" pro- 
 fessor and journalist : Charles Bigot. Through 
 his introduction, I was asked to a break- 
 fast at Francisque Sarcey's, in the Rue de 
 Douai. Sarcey was then at the height of his 
 
46 MEMORIES 
 
 reputation as a critic of the Theatre. It was 
 his successful function to express with lucidity 
 and emphasis the mind of the bourgeois — which 
 was also his own. He did it with courage, 
 and, for a whole generation, was, for actor 
 and actress, an authority dreaded and liked. 
 He was dreaded because he spoke his own 
 fully common-sense mind very fearlessly. He 
 was liked because he was aufond, bon enfant : 
 ready to give a helping hand, where he could, 
 without sacrifice of honesty. That was why 
 the more intelligent of the younger actresses 
 — who came to him for advice, and stayed to 
 breakfast — embraced him, in the big studio : 
 on his divan, and off it. His secretary, I 
 am sure, misunderstood these ladies when 
 he told me they imagined that their en- 
 dearments affected the great man's utterance 
 in his newspaper. No, no ! — Sarcey was 
 " Voncle Sarcey "—privileged and petted, as 
 the friend of the profession. That was all. 
 
 I remember that he was extremely genial 
 with me ; and I remember, too, he said to me 
 the hardest thing a Frenchman ever said about 
 the English Theatre :— " Dites done! Chez 
 vous, en Angleterre, vous n'avez pas de Thea- 
 tre, n'est-ce pas ? " Later, he came to England, 
 and found that we had Henry Irving. 
 
VI 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 I HAVE seen a little — not as much as I 
 should like to have seen — of the great 
 poets of my time : men, most of them, making 
 their fame in a generation earlier than my own. 
 Of these last, the moment has come to make 
 mention. 
 
 I will begin with Tennyson, whom, if I 
 remember rightly, I met twice only — but I 
 met him in close quarters. It was the Season, 
 roughly speaking thirty years ago, when he 
 came up to London and took a house in Eaton 
 Square ; the date — interesting for another 
 reason — was that of the publication of his 
 great Ballad of " The Revenge " in the Nine- 
 teenth Century ; and I heard him read that 
 poem. That was the first time I met him. 
 It was at a dinner at Stopford Brooke's ; and 
 I remember that I never felt more crushed by 
 the mere presence of any human creature 
 than I did, at first, in his company — he seemed 
 to me such an extraordinary force, that had 
 moulded so much of English Literature, and 
 
 47 
 
48 MEMORIES 
 
 English Thought — it was like being in contact 
 with the Elements. 
 
 Notwithstanding his reputation for a be- 
 haviour severe and distant, Tennyson was, as 
 a matter of fact, extremely kind, simple and 
 pleasant, as far as my personal experience is 
 concerned. He came into the Brookes' draw- 
 ing-room in his morning jacket : uttering an 
 apology for being, as he said, in " working 
 clothes." His son Hallam — the present Tenny- 
 son — was with him. Among the guests — and 
 they were few — were the Walter Cranes. 
 
 There had been some difficulty, Stopford 
 Brooke told me, in getting Tennyson to come. 
 The constitutional indolence, of which he was 
 himself well aware, asserted itself continually. 
 And besides, " What was he going to be given 
 to drink?" On its being jocularly promised 
 and arranged that he should have a bottle of 
 old Port — the days were Claret-drinking days, 
 remember, and Tennyson, in the matter of 
 wine, was simply twenty years before his time 
 — he said he would come. He had his bottle 
 of old Port, which contained not a drop too 
 much for him — for he became only more and 
 more mellow under its genial influence. 
 
 Except his little apology for appearing in 
 morning dress, I heard nothing that was said 
 by him that night till he got down to dinner, 
 
TENNYSON 49 
 
 when on making an inquiry, natural at the 
 time — the time of certain difficulties with 
 Russia, that were occupying the public mind 
 — Miss Brooke, who, in Manchester Square, 
 was at the head of the table, said to him, 
 "Mr. Tennyson, do you like the Russians?" 
 In one of the deepest voices it was ever given 
 to me to listen to, the answer came — " I hate 
 them like the Devil." 
 
 After dinner — in the study, where he was 
 happy with his pipe — he read us several of his 
 poems. I have seen rather disparaging accounts 
 of his manner of reading ; but for my own 
 part I consider it was not only perfectly 
 individual — his own, and therefore interesting 
 — but that it gave extraordinary weight, 
 meaning, and music to the poems he had 
 created. He read, or, if the word is more 
 acceptable, he chaunted to us, a Lincolnshire 
 dialect-poem — not the best known, and quite 
 the kind of thing the ordinary reciter spoils — 
 and a pathetic poem about the death, at sea, 
 of a man who, being reproached by his wife 
 for his flirtations with another, rushed out of 
 the house, left her, was drowned — the sorrow 
 of the wife for her hasty words and angry 
 gesture, which caused the tragic end, was the 
 burden of the piece. 
 
 Those two poems Tennyson read, and, as I 
 
50 MEMORIES 
 
 said, the ballad of The Revenge, which had 
 just been written ; and I remember it is not 
 recorded in the Life of his father, by the 
 present Lord Tennyson, how much the 
 Laureate hesitated, at that time, to publish 
 that poem ; for, though he " hated " the 
 Russians, he had a deep sense of his re- 
 sponsibility, and there was something almost 
 touching in the way that he appealed to us as 
 to whether the publication might not inflame 
 public feeling. Every one in the room 
 thought we could not be deprived — nobody 
 wished to be deprived — of the last song of the 
 prowess of England long ago ; but Tennyson 
 would not settle it at that moment ; though 
 the piece, if it was to appear, would have 
 to be posted to the Nineteenth Century by 
 midnight. He held Mrs. Walter Crane's hands 
 — both her hands — " Dame " Crane's hands, I 
 have now to say — when she bade Good-bye to 
 him — he held them with a purpose — and he 
 said, very earnestly, " You must promise not 
 to tell anybody what you have heard. Come ! 
 you must promise — you are a woman, remem- 
 ber." It was perhaps a hint to all of us — 
 that we should keep his secret. 
 
 The second time that I met Tennyson, was 
 one afternoon, at Almond's Hotel in Clifford 
 Street. I had gone there in response to Lord 
 
TENNYSON 51 
 
 Houghton's invitation to "a dish of tea." 
 There were only eight or ten people. The 
 Lord Tennyson of to-day accompanied his 
 father — whose presence had been made 
 known to me, or, at the least, was strongly 
 suspected, by sight of the cloak of no particular 
 period, and the hat that surely, in that day, could 
 be Tennyson's only, hanging up in the hall. 
 Lord Houghton was fond, as everybody knows, 
 of trotting out young men whom he approved 
 of; and he spoke to Tennyson about my 
 Pastorals of France, and afterwards told me 
 that really I must send the book to the great 
 Laureate. I did it very reluctantly, if not 
 indeed almost churlishly, with a curt line ; for 
 what had the writer of In Memoriam and 
 the Ode on the Death of the Duke of Welling- 
 ton got to do with my prettyish embroideries 
 — my "literary egg-dance" ? — Harry Quilter's 
 word. That was how I felt. And if my 
 modesty was a little excessive, let me make 
 up for it now. 
 
VII 
 
 BROWNING 
 
 ISA W a great deal more of Browning than 
 1 ever saw of Tennyson ; and it began by my 
 doing what was an exceedingly unusual thing 
 with me — introducing myself by a letter, not 
 artfully concocted indeed, to meet an imagin- 
 ary need, or to gratify an ambitious desire, but 
 making an inquiry of deep and genuine interest 
 to me, about the Abbe" Vogler. Browning's 
 great poem on that singular musician— one 
 of the many splendid things in Dramatis 
 Persona; — had but lately appeared. 
 
 He answered me, as was his wont — it is 
 most characteristic of his correspondence 
 generally — very courteously and fully ; saying, 
 amongst other things, that Abt Vogler had 
 taught Meyerbeer counterpoint. One or two 
 letters passed, and Browning asked me to go 
 and see him, when I should come to town — at 
 Warwick Crescent, the house overlooking the 
 Canal at Paddington. Its situation, he, by 
 this time a man of Fashion, and in great 
 
 62 
 
BROWNING 53 
 
 request, deplored. He had so long a way 
 to drive or trudge to his dinner-parties. He 
 came there (I remember his telling me) when 
 he first settled in London : he came there on 
 account of the immediate neighbourhood of 
 his wife's sister — Arabella Barrett. 
 
 From pictures, most of Mr. Browning's 
 present-day admirers are familiar with the 
 aspect of the house : an ordinary good 
 stucco-covered house, in a not small nor 
 badly built terrace, or just perceptibly curved 
 Crescent : a house with dining-room in front, 
 study behind, and above these a double 
 drawing-room. In a dark corner of the 
 dining-room, blinking from his perch, was 
 Browning's favourite bird — an owl, in whose 
 wisdom he professed unlimited belief. I have 
 several times lunched there with Mr. Brown- 
 ing and his sister, and sometimes his son ; 
 the poet sitting facing the window, full of 
 bonhomie and amusing stories, rather than of 
 grave talk ; eating sweets when occasion arose 
 — declaring, men of genius always ate sweets 
 — and making puns whenever he had an oppor- 
 tunity — somewhat apologetically. " But you 
 don't like my puns," I remember his saying, 
 when he had discovered that at least they 
 were not the part of him that I most appreci- 
 ated. Really I ought to have been reconciled 
 
54 MEMORIES 
 
 to them when, on one occasion, a visitor of 
 the name of Bain, for whom he had no liking, 
 having succeeded in seeing him, he came back 
 from the interview with a jocose remark for 
 me — " He is my bane, and you my antidote." 
 But even that was not enough for me. I was 
 incorrigible. 
 
 One day, while we were lunching, a visitor 
 was announced — somehow was almost in the 
 room before we knew it. Browning rose ; 
 greeted him ; and then, if I remember rightly, 
 the short remaining conversation took place 
 in the passage, with the door open. The 
 visitor was an Italian ; and why I mention 
 the thing is because I was so struck with the 
 suddenness of the transition from the English 
 man of the world to a very native, as it were, 
 of Italy. Browning spoke Italian as he spoke 
 French ; not so much as an accomplishment, 
 but as if the language belonged to him and 
 were part of himself; his gesticulation and 
 all his bearing helping the effect. It brought 
 home to me, rather strangely, the suppleness 
 of Browning's mind and nature — for the time, 
 this olive-tinted, suave, loquacious person was 
 an Englishman no more. 
 
 I remember a few of the things Browning 
 said about contemporaries. And I remember 
 that only one or two people have I ever heard 
 
BROWNING 5h 
 
 him disparage ; and then I am sure he thought 
 there was cause enough to do so. A prominent 
 criticism upon him, in one of the Quarterly 
 Reviews, or one of the big monthlies, did dis- 
 tinctly annoy him. He felt the injustice of 
 the denial to him of the quality and charm 
 of musical sound — I mean, of the capacity 
 to attain it. And on that matter — just 
 because he felt it so strongly — he expressed 
 himself rather lightly, I think. "As if J 
 could not jingle rhymes as well as another ! " 
 said he. 
 
 Although he disliked, and even on occasion 
 resented, very unfavourable verdicts on his 
 work, I am sure that when one remembers 
 the essential greatness of Browning's pro- 
 duction — its massiveness, its range, its wide 
 accomplishment, its complete penetration into 
 unexplored worlds of character and sentiment, 
 one cannot but feel that his own estimate of 
 that work was, at bottom, modest. I remem- 
 ber his disclaiming any attempt to place his 
 smaller things by the side of the greatest, 
 even of single short or shortish poems, others 
 had wrought. And I cannot forget the 
 feeling with which he exclaimed — after having 
 asserted the possession of a capacity for which 
 some criticism scarcely gave him credit — " But 
 of course I could never have written Christabel. 
 
S6 MEMORIES 
 
 I could never have written The Ancient 
 Mariner." 
 
 Of poets small indeed beside the giant 
 Coleridge — of well-intentioned dwarfs, practi- 
 cally — Browning was extremely tolerant, but 
 never flattering. The sculptor Woolner's verse 
 had been brought into a certain prominence 
 at the time. He could not praise it, exactly ; 
 but " it was very nice that such a good fellow 
 as Woolner should have the aspirations and 
 all that." 
 
 He spoke to me, once at least, of Frederick 
 Tennyson ; that brother of the Laureate of 
 Browning's time of whom he had seen a 
 good deal in Florence. He held (as indeed 
 the famous Alfred held strongly) that Frederick 
 Tennyson had real gifts. His conversation, 
 as Browning told me, was extremely inter- 
 esting ; very rich and suggestive. " When 
 you heard him, you felt that he held in 
 solution that which his brother had crystal- 
 lized ; and you were always expecting that he 
 would crystallize too — but then he never did." 
 
 It is on record that Browning, who disliked 
 — even to the point of unreasonableness, I 
 think — the publication of Poetry amongst the 
 miscellaneous contents of the magazines — 
 allowed the issue of " Herve Riel " in the 
 Cornhill that he might pass on the honora- 
 
BROWNING 57 
 
 rium to the English fund for the relief of the 
 French soldiers suffering in the Franco- 
 German War. It happens that he told me 
 about it all, in detail. He wanted to give as 
 much as his means at the time allowed him ; 
 but if he gave a good round sum, countless 
 would have been the applications to him 
 from the agents of all sorts of charities. So he 
 decided to sink his customary objection to 
 magazine issue, and take his poem to George 
 Smith: telling his publisher and friend that he 
 desired in this way to help the Fund. George 
 Smith offered immediately a hundred guineas ; 
 thereby, in princely fashion, without advertise- 
 ment or noise, associating himself with the 
 gift. Browning was of course gratified. "All 
 my life," he said, " the French have been giv- 
 ing me pleasure." He visited France often. 
 There had been times when he had thought 
 seriously of living in Paris. 
 
 It happens — though only in one case was 
 it on Browning's own initiative — I became 
 acquainted with several of the ladies — middle- 
 aged for the most part — who at different times 
 and under different circumstances, now in 
 Italy and now in England, were among the 
 poet's really intimate friends. There was 
 Miss Isa Blagden, to whose villa, at Bello- 
 sguardo, Browning went a few days after his 
 
58 MEMORIES 
 
 wife's death. She had been in Florence Mrs. 
 Browning's most intimate associate. I remem- 
 ber her staying with the Herbert Mayos — or, 
 was it then the Miss Mayo's ? — and telling 
 me, before them, she had just had Swinburne 
 discussing with her Fifine at the Fair — the 
 new book. " But what is the moral of it ? " 
 she had asked that not particularly sensitive 
 appreciator of a moral. " I only see the im- 
 moral of it," Swinburne had replied. Both 
 laughed ; but Miss Blagden laughed uncon- 
 vinced. 
 
 Then there was Mrs. Sutherland Orr, a 
 sister of the poet's friend, Lord Leighton. 
 She, with less humour than Miss Blagden, 
 worshipped faithfully. Mrs. Orr wrote a Life 
 and an exposition of Browning's poetry, quite 
 excellent on their own lines. 
 
 Then, far less known to the Public, or to 
 any section of the great world, was Miss 
 Egerton Smith— the "A. E. S." to whose 
 memory La Saisiaz was dedicated, and by 
 reason of whose death it alone came to be 
 written. Caring for Literature and serious 
 thought, most of all was she an adept in 
 " music's ways, vast, though winding." That 
 was the great link. She was a perfect pianist. 
 At her house, by Holland Park, she has played 
 to me alone ; and my copy of The Ring and the 
 
BROWNING 59 
 
 Book has, pencilled in it, an inscription from 
 her hand — because she was kind and 1 was 
 young. 
 
 I have said before, that the house in which 
 Browning lived during all his later stay in 
 England, except the last year or two, may be 
 known, more or less, " by pictures " ; yet I 
 doubt if any one more considerable than the 
 pictorial journalist who chronicles the affair 
 of the moment, has ever bethought him to 
 make picture or drawing of that stucco- 
 fronted house facing the Regent's Canal. 
 That which has been reproduced — at all 
 events the essential part of it— is the interior : 
 the aspect of the large double drawing-room, 
 for, not to speak of any other prints, I remem- 
 ber that a volume of Selections from Mrs. 
 Browning's poems contained an illustration 
 of their Florentine Salon, and the aspect of 
 that apartment was practically reproduced in 
 London. The furniture and the hangings, and 
 all the objects about the place, were what they 
 had been at the Casa Guidi ; and the hangings 
 were — for a modern Tyburnian abode — very 
 remarkable. There were tapestries ; the walls 
 quite covered with them, and a fine bit of 
 tapestry used, I remember, as a portiere. They 
 were Italian, of the Thirteenth, and Flemish 
 of the Fifteenth Century— that did not go so 
 
60 MEMORIES 
 
 badly together. And I remember that long 
 after Mr. Browning had told me about them, 
 and interested me in them, 1 had pleasure in 
 endowing my " Mr. Rutterby," in one of my 
 imaginative sketches — A Last Love at Pornic 
 — with those most admirable and character- 
 istic things. I liked the association. The 
 furniture itself, in Warwick Crescent, was 
 much of it old Italian, richly or finely carved ; 
 blackened with age, or what not. 
 
 About the double drawing-room — with, in 
 the middle of the smaller part of it, a grand 
 piano over whose keyboard Browning's fingers 
 sometimes only tentatively and meditatively 
 wandered — he used, when I was alone with 
 him, to pace (and when earnest and a little 
 indignant, I have known him stalk), as he 
 poured out, with interesting freedom, opinion, 
 sentiment, narrative. Never, of course, court- 
 ing, and seldom even suffering, discussion, or 
 much mention even, of his poems when he 
 was in the world, he spoke of them readily 
 enough to any one, I have no doubt, who was 
 genuinely interested, who saw him or was 
 accustomed to see him at home. He told 
 me, for instance, that the Good News from 
 Ghent — with its movement of eager gallop — 
 was written on shipboard — or composed. 
 " Composed," " written," " finished." were one 
 
BROWNING 61 
 
 and the same thing to him. A thing was 
 " finished," for instance, when not a line had 
 been set down. It was held in his head — all 
 of it. Finished, not in the ordinary sense, but 
 finished, or almost finished, in his own, was 
 The Ring and the Book, when, quite early in 
 1868 — if not in 1867 — I was shown, in his study, 
 the square, yellow book — the very pleadings in 
 the case — the volume which has passed into the 
 possession of Balliol College. I do not say — 
 for that would have been impossible — that it 
 was as finished as was the little poem, in 
 Asolando, that Mrs. Bronson or her daughter 
 tells of as having been composed during a drive, 
 and then straightway recited before it had 
 been written down at all. That was the out- 
 come of some meditations on what seemed to 
 Browning the inhuman treatment of bird and 
 animal life — now in the interests of Fashion, 
 and now of Science. As to Vivisection — 
 which they both hated — he and Tennyson 
 may have been right or may have been wrong, 
 upon the matter. In either case — I admit it 
 — feeble Human Nature, like my own, feels 
 and avows an instinct to prefer the folly of 
 great poets to the wisdom and the wide, deep 
 outlook of the average medical man. 
 
 Kindness — unmeasured kindness and con- 
 sideration — was characteristic of Browning, 
 
62 MEMORIES 
 
 eminently. I have seen his solicitude for 
 Sarianna, his sister, who lived with him and 
 kept house for him, from a few weeks after 
 his father's death in Paris to the last days 
 in the Palazzo Rezonnico. She returned to 
 the full his affection. And when Browning's 
 son was an Oxford undergraduate — though 
 Browning was far too sensible to desire that 
 the boy should not feel his own feet, in his 
 passage through his now expanding world — 
 there were moments at which one knew that 
 it was out of his own experience that the 
 poet had devised for the Ring and the Book 
 those telling interruptions in the Advocate's 
 absorption in his work — his thought returning, 
 willy-nilly, to his child : — 
 
 " I trust Cinnuzzo ties on tippet, guards 
 The precious throat on which so much depends ! " 
 
 The published records of Browning, which 
 tell abundantly, conclusively, of his extreme 
 regard for Tennyson — of his admiring affection 
 for him — indicate, I think, less clearly his 
 attitude towards a contemporary not less 
 great — Charles Dickens. But Dickens got 
 from Browning his due. And Dickens — who 
 valued, and had valued during a generation, 
 Browning's poetry — valued also his sagacity 
 and discretion. The poet happened to men- 
 tion to me that when the novelist was in some 
 
BROWNING 63 
 
 doubt as to the reception that might be meted 
 out to — shall I call it his most ambitious ? — 
 certainly his most dramatic Reading — the 
 "Sikes and Nancy," from Oliver Twist, it 
 was himself alone who was invited to join 
 Fechter in sitting in close judgment, anxi- 
 ously, at a rehearsal of the tremendous 
 episode. 
 
VIII 
 
 SWINBURNE 
 
 IT was at Lord Houghton's house — a house 
 he hired one season in Bruton Street — 
 that I first saw Swinburne. Being Swinburne, 
 he was of course immediately communicative, 
 enthusiastic and agreeable — his interest in 
 things emphasized a little, or at least the 
 appearance of it, by a slight quivering move- 
 ment, as if every thought suggested to him 
 some fresh memory, some fresh excitement. 
 
 I remember asking him whether he was as 
 devoted as ever to Walter Savage Landor. 
 As a youth — the reader will know — Swinburne 
 made a pilgrimage to Florence on purpose to 
 see Landor ; and now the classic veteran — 
 master of neat verse and stately prose — was 
 long dead. "It is my one hope," said Mr. 
 Swinburne. " It is my one aspiration — I look 
 forward to seeing Landor in the Isles of the 
 Blessed." 
 
 After a lapse of many years, save for a 
 chance meeting on one occasion — I think at a 
 theatrical performance ; probably that of the 
 
 64 
 
SWINBURNE 65 
 
 Elizabethan Stage Society (for he was never 
 an ordinary playgoer) — I saw Swinburne 
 again, in the summer of 1897 : lunching with 
 him and Theodore Watts-Dunton, at their 
 villa at Putney. We talked, of course, of 
 Poetry ; and at luncheon Theodore Watts- 
 Dunton said that was a good sonnet of his 
 friend's that my daughter and I had chosen 
 for reproduction in Poems of the Love and 
 Pride of England — an anthology of patriotic 
 things. It was a poem Swinburne had pub- 
 lished in the Athenaeum : the one beginning, 
 " New Year, be good to England ! " Swinburne 
 answered Watts-Dunton only by saying " You 
 have written a hundred much better." 
 
 After luncheon, I talked to Watts-Dunton 
 a little, in the long, narrow garden which had a 
 statue, a grey stone statue, at the end of it — 
 giving to the place, in a simple way, a touch of 
 distinction, an association with the Past and 
 with Beauty, that the suburban garden gen- 
 erally lacks. 
 
 Afterwards, we went upstairs to Swin- 
 burne's study, and found him supremely 
 happy, and as busy as a man could be, over 
 his early editions of the Elizabethan Drama- 
 tists. Several of the rarest and least known 
 — the rare editions of most rare men — he 
 showed me with enthusiasm and pride ; read- 
 e 
 
66 MEMORIES 
 
 ing out or reciting a line here and a line there, 
 and criticizing always favourably, and generally 
 shrewdly, by the way. I am not Bibliophile 
 enough to know, but I suspect that his collec- 
 tion of the Elizabethans was as memorable as 
 is Edmund Gosse's cabinet of the Dramatists 
 of the Restoration. 
 
IX 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS AND OTHERS 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS I had a fewdealings 
 with : professional, so to speak, on his 
 part, as well as social. The first time that I 
 saw him, it was a propos of the furnishing of 
 our small dining-room, in Church Row, H amp- 
 stead. I had chosen practically everything 
 myself; but his people had sent me a carpet 
 which made me ill. They said that it was all 
 right : I, that it was all wrong ; and the up- 
 shot of it was that Morris wrote to me to say 
 he would come himself to see it. 
 
 He came. It was not then upon the floor. 
 He talked about pictures ; about old Church 
 Row ; looked at the Liber Studiorum prints 
 upon the walls — took particularly kindly to 
 the print called "Hedging and Ditching," 
 which represents a cold, clay country, poplars, 
 bare fields and " pollard labourers," as Ruskin 
 well calls them. Mr. Rawlinson does not like 
 it ; and it has its faults — and its charm also. 
 " There must be a pleasant walk beyond that 
 turn of the road," Morris said ; pointing to the 
 
 67 
 
68 MEMORIES 
 
 path on the low hill-side. " And now about the 
 carpet." It was brought into the room : laid 
 down. Morris backed himself against the 
 wall, to note the effect of it. A moment, and 
 he looked at me expressively. A tragic dis- 
 illusion. " Roll it up," he said. We rolled it 
 up, and there was the end of that matter. 
 
 I think the next time that I saw Morris 
 was several years afterwards, at lunch at the 
 Henry Arthur Jones's. We had come, half a 
 dozen of us, in an informal way, for the 
 sake of hearing a new, unacted play. So, 
 the meal over, we went up into the study, 
 which I had known previously as Alma 
 Tadema's studio. For we had been at that 
 house under three tenancies, so to speak — first, 
 as the guest of Edmund Gosse soon after 
 his marriage, when he was locum tenens for 
 Tadema ; then several times when the 
 Tademas themselves were at home ; and now 
 as guests of the Henry Arthur Jones's, who 
 had lately come into London from the country. 
 
 Bernard Shaw was there, I recollect, and I 
 conjecture that one is always the merrier when 
 he is present — and the more optimistic. It must 
 have been to define at once Shaw's work and 
 the character of his talk, that there came into 
 existence — and I say it pleasantly — the pro- 
 verb, " Nothing happens but the unforeseen." 
 
WILLIAM MORRIS & OTHERS 69 
 
 That day, at Jones's, we formed a semi- 
 circle in the study ; Morris making himself 
 particularly happy with his pipe, which he 
 filled with tobacco from a pouch of wondrous 
 art workmanship and noble, satisfactory colour. 
 
 Jones read his play with energy, and we 
 were all appreciative. It was the piece called 
 Wealth, and it was destined for the Hay- 
 market — where indeed it duly appeared, in the 
 earlier days of the Beerbohm Tree manage- 
 ment. But " Henry Arthur " has got far 
 beyond that piece, now ; interesting, human 
 and dramatic though no doubt it was. I do 
 not think that its production had any great 
 influence upon the fortunes of the theatre — 
 which The Dancing Girl distinctly raised. 
 Some of the scenes were made effective ; but, 
 if I remember rightly, the rather slow methods 
 of Tree did not seem suited to the vehemence 
 of feeling, and to the situations, intended by 
 the author. I think I remember Jones telling 
 me that Tree had said to him he could not 
 get on very well with the part as it was 
 written. " You must give me a few more 
 planks," he had said. They were given. I 
 think that Jones formed the impression, in the 
 end, that he had given Tree too many. The 
 skill of Sir Herbert, in character acting, and 
 his imaginative power, no one, I think, appre- 
 
70 MEMORIES 
 
 ciates more distinctly than 1 do ; but the 
 inequality of his art is one of his characteristics, 
 and unless I am mistaken, it was discovered — 
 it was laid bare — in Wealth. Again, if I 
 remember rightly, Lady Tree — a woman 
 accomplished and clever — was singularly 
 colourless and ineffective in her part in this 
 piece. Had there been some one there, with 
 more of impulse, perhaps the thing might 
 have been different. As it was, I remem- 
 ber nothing in Lady Tree's performance (she 
 was not " Lady " Tree in those days) that 
 was quite satisfactory — artist though she 
 undoubtedly is ; intelligent to the finger-tips ; 
 and having fortunately scored, since then, dis- 
 tinguished successes — of which the one which 
 rises first to my own mind, was not at her 
 husband's theatre, but at the Shaftesbury, 
 where she played with Lewis Waller and his 
 wife, Miss Florence West. 
 
 Lewis Morris — William Morris's quite 
 well-known namesake — when one met him 
 in Society — I met him at Lady Lindsay's 
 and elsewhere — never particularly, if even at 
 all, suggested the poet. But then, upon the 
 surface, Browning did not do that. Only, 
 even in moments when he was saying pleasant 
 things to dull but well-placed elderly women 
 at parties or Private Views, you still did 
 
WILLIAM MORRIS & OTHERS 71 
 
 somehow feel there was the poet — the great 
 poet, too — behind the citizen of the world and 
 the adept at acceptable small-talk. Lewis 
 Morris was more reticent, yet a man of the 
 world also ; sensible, thoughtful, and con- 
 siderate — that above everything. 
 
 I have named Lady Lindsay in connection 
 with Lewis Morris. May I leave poets a 
 moment — but I am not leaving them, since 
 I am talking of Lady Lindsay herself — may I 
 leave the others then, and say that at Lady 
 Lindsay's, I have sat, on one night, next to the 
 daughter of Dickens, and on another, next to 
 the daughter of Thackeray. How much each 
 is her father's child ! At Lady Lindsay's too, 
 I met, almost in his last days — but No : it was 
 just before he issued to his private friends the 
 remarkable book on Byron (scarcely a grand- 
 son's tribute, but the truth had to be told) 
 — Lord Lovelace, dapper, neat and kindly : 
 very pleasant company indeed ; and that old 
 friend of Lady Lindsay's, Mr. Lecky, who in 
 the physical sense towered benevolent and 
 bland, above every group in which he found 
 himself, but I was not for my own part fortu- 
 nate enough to strike oil in my conversation 
 with him. And now, back to the poets, and 
 a final word. 
 
 I never felt the music of Alfred Austin's 
 
72 MEMORIES 
 
 verse as much — though I have felt it, certainly, 
 from time to time — as when the Laureate read 
 a short selection from his poetry, to the mem- 
 bers of the Royal Society of British Artists 
 and their friends, in the summer of 1897 or 
 1898. Work, and an eager, active tempera- 
 ment exercised over many years — and mainly, 
 one must say, in political writing for the 
 Standard newspaper — had at that time clearly 
 told on him, and he wanted strength ; his 
 voice was weak, not to say hoarse and rocky. 
 He wanted chest power, and flexibility — which 
 last might have been got, I should have 
 thought, by the mere habit of public speech 
 or public reading. At once I liked the man, 
 and the thing he was doing — with whatever 
 temporary deficiencies in the " production " of 
 his work. He was lucid ; he was intensely 
 in earnest ; he felt deeply the music of which 
 he was delivering himself, and at the end 
 we were charmed. My delightful and sym- 
 pathetic old friend, Sir Wyke Bayliss — then 
 President of the Society — got up to propose 
 a vote of thanks to Alfred Austin, with artful 
 simplicity : " loth," as he said, to " break the 
 spell " — but the thanks had got to come. 
 
 Of younger poets, chief of them William 
 Watson — interesting continually, and great, 
 beyond a doubt, in Wordsworth's Grave and in 
 
WILLIAM MORRIS & OTHERS 73 
 
 the Ode on the Coronation of King Edward the 
 Seventh — and of Rudyard Kipling, no item of 
 whose vivid writing can be needed to increase 
 the gratitude that is due to him for the Reces- 
 sional — I could willingly say something ; 
 having studied the best of their work with 
 admiration and sympathy. But they belong, 
 as a word 1 have already used has implied — 
 and as the reader knows of course — to a 
 later generation. They are eminently of the 
 Present ; and, I hope it may be, of the Future. 
 Therefore, they are not for this book. 
 
X 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER 
 
 APROPOS of something he had read, 1 
 think, in my early volumes, Studies in 
 English Art, I had a note from Frederick 
 Locker, asking me to come and see some of 
 his treasures, in the tall, narrow, Chesham 
 Street house — a house of the 'Thirties or of 
 the early 'Forties, I must suppose- — where he 
 abode. I was there more than once : once by 
 daylight, I think, seeing drawings, two or 
 three of which were of a certain importance ; 
 others perhaps rather insignificant. What 
 interested me most were his bookbindings — 
 objects of Art with which I was in the main 
 unfamiliar. They had their fascination, and 
 Locker — Locker-Lampson he had not then 
 become — guarded them with reverent care. 
 They were by various men, in various periods. 
 I remember asking with particular solici- 
 tude, Had he any Trautz-Bauzonnet's ? — for 
 an authority had told me what in later years 
 some little acquired knowledge and experience 
 have led me to confirm : that of the bookbinders 
 
 74 
 
FREDERICK LOCKER 75 
 
 of the generation that at the time of our con- 
 versation had just closed, Trautz-Bauzonnet 
 was the best. I do not think Locker, though 
 admiring his work, put him in an excep- 
 tional place. For myself — following my 
 earlier informant — I shall still venture to put 
 and to retain him there. For perfection of 
 craftsmanship, France leads ; and it was 
 Trautz-Bauzonnet who led in France. What 
 other binder shows quite that neatness and 
 precision, quite that reticence, quite that taste 
 never at fault, quite that delicacy of ornament 
 never obtruded, quite that simplicity of beauty 
 never departed from ? For me, a binding by 
 Trautz-Bauzonnet — Janseniste, if possible — 
 reaches the very highest of discreet levels in 
 his charming craftsman's art. 
 
 Locker, I think, had liked my interest in 
 George Cruikshank — an interest justifiable 
 enough, I hope, as far as it went, but an 
 interest that time has not increased. He 
 sent me an impression of a latish Cruikshank 
 plate that belonged to him — that was wrought 
 for him — a plate fertile in fancy, and full of agile 
 touch — "Fairy Connoisseurs inspecting Mr. 
 Locker's Collection of Drawings." It repre- 
 sents the graceful, piquant side — a rare side, 
 certainly — in Cruikshank's art. He sent me 
 also, very kindly, either then or later — or No : 
 
76 MEMORIES 
 
 he, rightly, did not send me, but told me where 
 1 could obtain them at threepence apiece, or 
 thereabouts — a dainty little selection of those 
 charming small prints after drawings by 
 Stothard for The Novelists' Magazine, which 
 appeared towards the end of the Eighteenth 
 Century, and realized delightfully the "in- 
 teriors " of their day, and those who peopled 
 them. So apprised, I trudged down to the 
 little shop, and laid hands on a dozen, or so, 
 while I could. My little Stothards — the ones 
 I had liked best — were illustrations to the 
 great novel of Richardson's. Clarissa — that 
 the giant Balzac loved and swore by — does 
 not require to be named. Of Clarissa, these 
 little pictures render all the grace and pleasant- 
 ness. Nothing of the passion, of course. Pas- 
 sion was outside Stothard. 
 
 Dining with Locker, I remember the only 
 other guest was General Hamley — quiet but 
 interesting ; quiet and interesting, I ought 
 rather to say. His writings for Blackwood — 
 military and, of necessity I suppose, in some 
 degree political — had been attracting a good 
 deal of attention. 
 
 That Frederick Locker was a most pleasant 
 host, may be concluded easily. He was chatty 
 and unexacting, and variously informed. At 
 every hour, doubtless, he was considerate and 
 
FREDERICK LOCKER 77 
 
 amiable. Mrs. Locker — equally unexacting 
 — struck me as a profounder nature ; and that 
 nature was suggested in part by the tran- 
 quillity of her grace. I diagnosed her — not, I 
 think, with undue optimism — as a woman abso- 
 lutely high-minded, curiously good. Locker, 
 with his particular gifts of perception and 
 performance — Locker, whom London Lyrics, 
 urbane and neat and friendly, in great measure 
 expressed — would have been the last to think 
 himself upon quite her level. Those are 
 almost pathetic little verses in which he avows 
 his fondness of affection for a new-born son, 
 of whom, in pleasant modesty, he does not 
 feel himself worthy to be the father. 
 
XI 
 
 LINKS WITH THE PAST 
 
 OLD Lady Castletown of Upper Ossory, 
 sitting, one Winter, in her sunny drawing- 
 room in Brunswick Terrace, at Brighton, told 
 me that she felt herself to be moored, then, in 
 a backwater of Life. " When I was in the 
 world " was a favourite phrase of hers — pre- 
 facing something — something interesting — as 
 to the difference in the times. Her years, that 
 Brighton Winter that I was accustomed to 
 call on her, were about five-and-eighty. 
 
 Lady Castletown told me she was at the 
 Coronation of the great Queen, and there, in 
 Westminster Abbey, lost a fan that had been 
 given to her mother by Marie Antoinette. It 
 made her — to my mind — like Henry Vaughan, 
 and, in a certain sense, like Lord Houghton, 
 a link with the Past. 
 
 But — like Lord Houghton : unlike Henry 
 Vaughan — she retained her interest in the 
 Present; and one of several reasons why I 
 think of Lady Castletown gratefully, is that 
 she shared with Sir James Knowles, Arthur 
 
 78 
 
LINKS WITH THE PAST 79 
 
 Symons, and a sometime Acting Manager of 
 the Empire Theatre, a certain liking for my 
 imaginative letter "To Nancy" — "Nancy" 
 was a young dancer at the music-halls. " It 
 is very touching," said Lady Castletown ; and 
 that pleased me. Arthur Symons had the story, 
 such as it was, for the Savoy. Knowles read it 
 there, and wished that I had sent it him. And 
 with the appreciation of an Acting Manager 
 — who knew familiarly the subject — thrown in 
 on the top of all this, I am amused to feel, as 
 I do sometimes feel, demonstratively indifferent 
 to the views of the suburbs. 
 
 Henry Vaughan — a second link with the 
 Past, and some of it of extreme remoteness 
 — was the man, who though not exactly the 
 founder, may be described as in all his later 
 years the "Father" of the Burlington Fine 
 Arts Club — Henry Vaughan, the collector 
 and connoisseur who lived, very lonely, in 
 Cumberland Terrace — who gave during his 
 lifetime Constable's "Hay Wain" to the 
 National Gallery. He was a connoisseur in 
 age as much as in his leisurely youth or 
 middle years: perhaps indeed more delicate 
 than ever in his judgments, even if a little 
 old-fashioned, when I knew him well, in his 
 long later days. A collector then scarcely at 
 all; a collector rather in the days of "Mr." 
 
80 MEMORIES 
 
 Turner, "Mr." Cox, "Mr." Fielding and 
 "Mr." de Wint. He visited Turner more 
 than once, I should suppose ; but undoubtedly 
 once, in the house in Queen Anne Street 
 which now bears the tablet of the Society of 
 Arts. His recollections of the painter were 
 agreeable, but not perhaps very distinctive ; I 
 fear they will not bear re-telling — they are 
 too weakly in my mind ; but the impression 
 Turner gave him was certainly a pleasant one. 
 
 Constable, Vaughan can hardly have known, 
 but he knew and had great regard for the 
 work of Constable's biographer, Leslie ; and 
 he knew Constable's daughters, who lived in 
 Hamilton Terrace— across the Regent's Park 
 from his house — and he very kindly sent me 
 there to them when I was writing on Con- 
 stable for the French magazine, UArt. I 
 remember to this day, happily, the genial 
 sunshine of Isabel Constable's presence. In 
 it one basked. She was as delightful in her 
 age as she must have been in her youth, when, 
 to her qualities as a girl and a daughter, 
 dutiful and sweet, the great, saddened painter 
 paid fatherly and willing tribute. 
 
 In Henry Vaughan, more than ninety years 
 old when he departed, I had a friend who was 
 actually a little in touch with Coleridge. But 
 Vaughan's references to " Mr." Coleridge were, 
 
LINKS WITH THE PAST 81 
 
 to tell the truth, never quite satisfactory. He 
 went, he has told me, with two or three others 
 who happened to know Mr. Gillman of High- 
 gate, to the abode of the surgeon — in the 
 later years of Coleridge's residence with him. 
 Mr. Vaughan's reverence for great Literature 
 was, I fancy, by no means on a par with his 
 reverence for great pictorial Art ; and I gather 
 that he took it rather ill, that on going to tea 
 with Mr. Coleridge " Mr. Coleridge talked all 
 the time." That was all he remembered. 
 
 Speaking to Vaughan one day, about the 
 Stage, I recollect asking him — when the great 
 actor had been thirty years before the London 
 public — " Have you ever seen Henry Irving ? " 
 Vaughan paused a moment ; gave a tranquil 
 smile — as if the contingency was improbable. 
 I must have seemed very young to him, to put 
 the query at all. " No " — he said, at last — " I 
 have never seen that gentleman. I have seen 
 Mrs. Siddons — driving round the Regent's 
 Park." 
 
 Partly with a view to exercise and health, 
 and partly with a view to monetary prudence 
 — the prudence of the old when they are also 
 the rich — the excellent Henry Vaughan was, 
 almost until the last, accustomed to walk 
 home — and entirely unaccompanied — from the 
 brightness of the West End streets into the 
 
 6 
 
82 MEMORIES 
 
 distant vastness and the gloom of the Park in 
 which he had beheld Mrs. Siddons. He held 
 that Cumberland Terrace — notwithstanding 
 its Art treasures — was not a place in which 
 he could dine cheerfully. Three times a 
 week he dined at the Athenaeum — three times 
 a week in the somewhat different decor of 
 the Blue Posts in Cork Street. To Henry 
 Vaughan, one of the attractions of that dis- 
 tinguished tavern was its nearness to the 
 Burlington Fine Arts Club. Eminently credit- 
 able. Another was its saddle of mutton — 
 which was of peculiar tenderness. He knew 
 the days of the week when the saddle would 
 be forthcoming, and those were the days on 
 which the Athenaeum was without attractions 
 for him. Then, on the Sunday, he would sup, 
 penitently, at home. 
 
 I have spoken before — incidentally — of 
 Lord Houghton ; one of the occasions on which 
 I met Tennyson having been at his rooms. 
 That was at Almond's Hotel, in Clifford 
 Street, during one of Lord Houghton's briefer 
 sojourns in London. "George Eliot" and 
 her long-time associate, George Henry Lewes, 
 were of the little party. I knew Lewes's 
 son, Charles Lewes — a child of his early 
 marriage — extremely well at that time, but 
 had never before happened to see "George 
 
LINKS WITH THE PAST 83 
 
 Eliot's " friend. One has heard, of course, all 
 sorts of versions of his character and bearing. 
 To some people, I am obliged to conjecture 
 that he was very distasteful. Me he impressed 
 pleasantly. He was simple, friendly, talkative 
 almost to loquacity — if one may call a man 
 loquacious who is all the time saying what it 
 is worth while to listen to. 
 
 With him, as I say — two or three yards 
 from him perhaps, in the sitting-room in Clif- 
 ford Street — was the grave figure of " George 
 Eliot " : a woman, it must be avowed, of 
 extreme physical ugliness, but delightful in 
 manner, of careful yet natural conversation, 
 of not too laboured profundity, and curiously 
 deferential in her reception of crude things said 
 to her by crude young people like myself: 
 one would almost have thought it an affec- 
 tation — so marked was it ; but I think it was 
 part of the character ; I think it was sincere, 
 though undeserved. 
 
 My knowledge of Lord Houghton was 
 scarcely, I suppose, got at the period at which 
 he was capable of the best of his work ; or 
 perhaps it was that the number and diver- 
 sity of his interests seemed to scatter his 
 mind a little, so that substantive achievement 
 was no longer his aim. But he was of remark- 
 able social brightness, as well as kindliness ; 
 
84 MEMORIES 
 
 and though he seldom pursued even the most 
 interesting of subjects, in conversation, for any 
 considerable time, he was sure to say some- 
 thing pregnant about everything under dis- 
 cussion. I think it is very likely one failed 
 sometimes to do justice to his remark because, 
 in a moment, some other matter was on the 
 tapis, and that occasion for appreciation suc- 
 ceeded by something else. The change was 
 kaleidoscopic. 
 
 One of the houses at which I had the 
 pleasure of going to him was a house on the 
 west side of Arlington Street. Its early 
 Georgian double drawing-room it would 
 scarcely have been difficult to recognize (even 
 if Lord Houghton had not reminded me, a 
 lover of Hogarth, of the fact) as the scene of 
 the first picture in the " Marriage a la Mode " 
 series. 
 
 I forget whether it was at that house, or 
 in Brook Street or Bruton Street, that at an 
 evening party I first saw Mr. Gladstone, grave, 
 polished, quiet, courteous, earnest always ; 
 and, on the same occasion, the famous "Jer- 
 sey Lily " of that Spring or Summer — Mrs. 
 Langtry, in the brief but brilliant days when 
 she was first in Society, before she took to the 
 Stage. I think it was in her first season that 
 I saw her ; possibly in her second. The cordial 
 
LINKS WITH THE PAST 85 
 
 appreciation of Royalty had already done much 
 to make Mrs. Langtry famous, and she had 
 just been painted, I think by Poynter and 
 by Watts. The simplicity of the woman in 
 Watts's portrait — his portrait of her when still 
 very young — is in itself an admirable instance 
 of the refinement and high idealization of this 
 great master of painting and of thought. Mrs. 
 Langtry struck me, as of course she struck 
 everybody, as extremely good-looking ; per- 
 haps even as unique ; the style at all events 
 was an uncommon one ; but to say of her, 
 thirty years ago, or more, that she was the 
 most beautiful of women, was almost, if not 
 quite as silly as it would have been to say the 
 same, twenty years later, of Miss Edna May, 
 or, a year or two since, of Miss Elsie. Her 
 rich brown hair, her large eyes, violet-coloured, 
 her shoulders, the poise of her head — these 
 were perhaps her points. Mrs. Langtry's con- 
 versation did not seem remarkable — but had 
 it the very slightest occasion to be ? 
 
 At breakfast, much more markedly of course 
 than at his large evening parties, it was Lord 
 Houghton's pleasure to bring into meeting 
 people whom one would have considered in- 
 congruous. They " shook down " together, 
 nearly always, however ; Lord Houghton's 
 perfect amiability and notable many-sidedness 
 
86 MEMORIES 
 
 greatly aiding the process. The hardest thing 
 that could be said, or was said, about that 
 house — that salon — really so hospitable and 
 pleasant, was that the eccentric were apt to be 
 supported — or suffered. But I think that they 
 were suffered mainly that they might be under- 
 stood. 
 
 Lord Houghton knew the very last story 
 about the last man of mark. He knew also 
 the place it was at the particular moment 
 deemed desirable to go to. His answer to a 
 note of mine, saying that, alas ! a very obstinate 
 bronchitis prevented me from staying with 
 him at Fryston, was, that for obstinate bron- 
 chitis, Fryston was not as good as the West 
 Indies. When hardly another Englishman 
 and very few Frenchmen knew Le Cantal, 
 just south of Auvergne, Lord Houghton could 
 expatiate on its noble mountains, and had 
 apparently endured its ignoble inns. The 
 latest explorer was at Lord Houghton's break- 
 fasts, and the latest visionary ; along of course 
 with many, many people of solid power and 
 inevitable fame. It was said of our admirable 
 friend — in allusion, obviously, to his at least 
 occasional gay preference for the unexpected 
 — that if Judas Iscariot had appeared in 
 London, Lord Houghton would have asked 
 him to breakfast. The force of that remark 
 
LINKS WITH THE PAST 87 
 
 lies in the application of it. It cannot be 
 taken seriously. 
 
 These large breakfasts — for generally a 
 dozen or fourteen men were present at each 
 of them — were entertainments in direct suc- 
 cession to those of Samuel Rogers. Your 
 attendance implied a not professionally occu- 
 pied morning ; for they began at half-past ten 
 and lasted until some people were thinking, or 
 would generally have been thinking, about 
 lunch. The institution was not, to all the 
 world, precisely convenient ; but the occasion 
 was agreeable invariably, because your host 
 was delightful, and your fellow-guests were 
 at their best. 
 
 A chapter whose raison d'etre is " links 
 with the Past" — and social links more par- 
 ticularly—should hardly close without the 
 briefest reference to the seventh Duke of 
 Rutland, who died less aged than Henry 
 Vaughan, but much, much older than Lord 
 Houghton, and long afterwards. Known 
 through, roughly speaking, three-quarters of 
 his life as Lord John Manners, he was — as 
 Lord John, and afterwards as the Duke — 
 a real personal friend (he had also been a 
 Minister) of the great Queen. About the 
 Queen's early life, as Sovereign — with Lord 
 Melbourne guiding her steps (Lord Melbourne, 
 
88 MEMORIES 
 
 who proved more equal than it was supposed 
 he would be, to supporting quite creditably 
 his delicate relations with a youthful and im- 
 pulsive Monarch) — the Duke told me more 
 than one interesting thing. 
 
 I surmised, rather than actually heard, that 
 with his late Majesty, King Edward the 
 Seventh, the Duke — thrown naturally, by 
 reason of years, much less into intercourse — 
 was in less perfect sympathy than with the 
 great and aged lady King Edward had 
 followed. But son and Minister were alike in 
 revering the Sovereign who had gone ; and 
 I remember the Duke spoke gratefully of 
 solicitude shown him by the King at the 
 Coronation. " He would not let me kneel." 
 That was in kindly consideration of growing 
 infirmity. 
 
 The Duke of Rutland's advanced age — in 
 which he kept his mental alertness and his 
 simple serenity — was unaccompanied by any 
 disability to play the part of a host. It was 
 agreeable, for instance, to see the serious and 
 sustained interest he would throw into a con- 
 ference with his young neighbour, the Marquis 
 of Exeter. He breakfasted with his guests, 
 and at no particularly advanced hour. He did 
 not separate himself from them more than 
 a man of forty would have done, in any large 
 
LINKS WITH THE PAST 89 
 
 house that must put forth throughout the day 
 its hundred claims on its owner's attention. 
 Telling little improvements — in which no 
 doubt Lady Victoria Manners had a hand — 
 were being made, to the last. The artistic 
 eye of Lord Wemyss had discovered a point 
 of view that wanted a seat — and it got it. 
 After lunch, on a Sunday, there would be a 
 visit to the gardens, the dairy, and the stables ; 
 and for a favourite mare there would be " tit- 
 bits " from the Duke — and a pat. 
 
 Habits at Belvoir were relatively unaffected 
 by the vogue of the moment. It was one of 
 the places in which — when I was there — it 
 was possible for one to feel not quite " out of 
 it" because one never played Bridge. The 
 groups of guests were pleasantly divided — 
 tactfully broken up — and if, here, there were 
 Cards, there one could be the listener and the 
 witness to a charade in French, excellently 
 carried forward by Mr. Brinsley Marlay and 
 Miss Elspeth Campbell — or, it might be, Lady 
 Marjorie Manners. 
 
XII 
 
 MORE "LINKS" 
 
 IN the earlier days of my occasional attend- 
 ance at Lord Houghton's parties, the full 
 rank of "Ambassador" was not, I think, 
 accorded to, or claimed by, the official repre- 
 sentative of the United States. Who he was 
 I forget ; but officially he was " the Minister 
 of the United States," if I remember rightly. 
 But by the time that America sent to us one 
 of the most distinguished of her men of 
 Letters, and one of the most sympathetic — a 
 literary artist charged to the full with the 
 appreciation of the Literature and ways of 
 England, a man of singular conservatism of 
 thought, and of a taste refined and chastened 
 — I have now I suppose named, or indicated, 
 Mr. Lowell — her Minister had reached the 
 higher grade. It would hardly have been 
 possible to avoid meeting Mr. Lowell at this 
 or that set " function " ; but it happens that it 
 was only once I met him in close quarters, 
 and that was at the house at Chelsea which 
 his countrywoman, Mrs. Lea Merritt — the 
 
 90 
 
MORE "LINKS" 91 
 
 author of one of the most acceptable and 
 gracious of the pictorial allegories now visible 
 at the Tate Gallery — had, if I may quote her 
 own description of it to me, " built round her 
 things." The words did ill justice to the 
 architectural quality of the " Cottage," which, 
 when Mrs. Merritt retired into Hampshire, 
 passed into the possession of Mr. Percy 
 Bigland — the deft producer of many portraits 
 and of an admirable and well-observed record 
 of a " Quaker's Meeting " — but they were 
 characteristic of Mrs. Merritt's modesty. 
 
 In that place, Lowell was at home. He 
 was recognized, of course, as intrinsically too 
 good a talker, too really genial a participator 
 in the give and take of social and familiar in- 
 tercourse, to have, at any particular moment, 
 on any particular occasion, to "produce him- 
 self" and live up to a certain reputation. It 
 was his wont to be natural and at rest. He 
 did not scintillate. But little gleams of Fancy 
 illumined his thought ; his meditation, his 
 most homely reflection, took an imaginative 
 form — I remember, for instance, his dilating 
 to me upon the romance that, to any one who 
 had just passed over from the American 
 climate to the English, attended upon his 
 every walk in street or country. Our mist- 
 veiled world, he said, held for him always the 
 
92 MEMORIES 
 
 promise of adventure and the charm of re- 
 moteness. In Boston, in the clear, thin air, 
 almost from the beginning he could see his 
 journey's end. In London, and about our 
 farm-lands and great country parks, he was 
 a wanderer with the unknown and unimagined 
 always before him ; and to have returned from 
 a single hour's stroll was to have returned — 
 so Lowell averred — from nothing less than a 
 great separating experience. 
 
 In England, and also, as it happens, in 
 America, I saw something of another " link 
 with the Past" — something of Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes. I had already seen him before I 
 was invited to deliver at Harvard a dis- 
 course on " Modern Life in Modern Art," the 
 " argument " of which, if I may call it argu- 
 ment, was, in my estimation, somewhat wanted, 
 in what was at that time — as far as " Art " is 
 concerned — our rather allegory -ridden, legend- 
 ridden, tradition-ridden England. In* 1885, it 
 was unacceptable here. Now, it would not 
 be in the least required ; every theme of 
 Modern Life being by this time recognized 
 as a possible theme for the artist. But in 
 America there was no such prejudice to over- 
 come as that which existed amongst us — 
 thanks, mainly, I suppose, to Academic 
 criticism and teaching. In America it had 
 
MORE "LINKS" 93 
 
 not occurred to them that only the Past, or 
 only the unreal, must be the theme of Paint- 
 ing. Dr. Holmes then — reading in his Boston 
 paper the report of my by no means inspired 
 or peculiarly enlightened remarks — was at all 
 events not displeased with them ; and he 
 called on me, at the Hotel Vendome, speci- 
 ally to tell me so, and when he came over to 
 England for his "hundred days," a year or 
 two later, and realized the desire of something 
 like half a century to revisit some haunts of 
 his student life and to see a few things he had 
 not known in the reign of William the Fourth, 
 I visited him at Brown's Hotel, and " took " 
 him, one afternoon, at his desire — but it was 
 the blind leading the blind — to see some places 
 associated with Goldsmith and, above all, with 
 Johnson. I was no specialist in these matters 
 — in fact so very little did I know about them 
 in any detail, myself, that I betook me, in 
 advance, to the house of the Royal Society 
 of Arts, to find there an antiquary as well 
 versed in the knowledge of old literary 
 London as was another friend of mine, now 
 lately dead, alas ! — William Loftie. It was 
 Mr. Wheatley who, at the Society of Arts, 
 gave me the information not then so readily 
 at every one's command as it would be to-day. 
 And so, after visiting the Temple Church 
 
94 MEMORIES 
 
 with Dr. Holmes, and visiting the spot most 
 associated with Goldsmith, we went on to 
 Gough Square, out of Fleet Street, and were 
 received amiably by the occupants of the 
 abode in which the great Dr. Johnson wrote 
 his Dictionary. 
 
 There was a certain quaintness about Dr. 
 Holmes. He was affable, natural, and as- 
 suredly sincere — retaining in old age much 
 freshness of interest. But for anything further 
 — of more weight and moment — than pleasant 
 social intercourse, a story mildly comical, a 
 simple narrative told lucidly, one would, as I 
 conceive it, have at that time looked in vain. 
 Holmes was a veteran whose work was done 
 — whose effort had been undertaken and 
 finished. Boston had made much of him, 
 during a full generation. He was one of 
 those who, in earlier days, had brought her 
 her literary renown, and no one could be- 
 grudge him his position as in his latest years 
 her adored, I need not say her " spoilt," child. 
 " Spoilt " he was not, by any means — he had 
 too much sagacity, good sense, sense of 
 proportion, to be spoilt really. And I have 
 no difficulty in persuading myself that the 
 gifted, keenly intelligent old man knew that, 
 though well equipped indeed — happy, in- 
 formed, and balanced — even the creator of 
 
MORE "LINKS" 95 
 
 Elsie Verner was not quite so great as Boston 
 had got to think him. 
 
 Another light of Literature — W. G. Howells 
 — I have lunched with at Lady Seton's. But 
 indeed I had seen him before that in America, 
 and he had sent me, wisely, because of " local 
 colour," to the Bowery Theatre in New York. 
 
 A word now for two Hampstead friends — 
 Mrs. Sharp and Margaret Gillies. 
 
 Mrs. Sharp was a niece of Samuel Rogers, 
 that kindly and sagacious banker who ensured 
 immortality for one edition of his verses — the 
 " Poems " of 1834 — by seeing that they were 
 illustrated by the most refined of all possible 
 little landscape prints made after drawings 
 which he commissioned Turner to execute. I 
 have said that Rogers was " kindly." 1 know 
 that he had the character of saying malicious 
 things about people, in his very low voice, 
 whenever he went into Society ; but I know 
 too that, when accused of doing so, he gave 
 as his excuse that, with a voice so feeble, he 
 would have no chance of being listened to 
 at all, if he did not speak scurrilously. 
 
 This venerable distributor of the discredit- 
 ing anecdote had a profound admiration for 
 Samuel Johnson, and hearing, when he was 
 himself old, that there was some one living 
 who had talked with Johnson, Rogers desired 
 
96 MEMORIES 
 
 that he should be sought out and brought to 
 him. And this was done. Now I will confess 
 to the reader, that being myself as great an 
 admirer of Johnson as Rogers was — as Mr. 
 Birrell is — it is a little pleasure to me, in 
 my later day, to know that I have touched 
 the hand of a lady whose uncle, Rogers, whom 
 she knew familiarly, had touched the hand of 
 the unnamed acquaintance who had touched 
 the hand of Dr. Johnson. Only one remove 
 further, there are Burke, Reynolds, and 
 Garrick — the elect society of the latter half 
 of the Eighteenth Century in England. 
 
 But then, in knowing a little that delight- 
 ful Lady Castletown, I touched the hand of 
 one whose mother had touched the hand 
 of Marie Antoinette. . . . Enough of these 
 babblings ! 
 
 Miss Gillies, a venerable woman who in the 
 'Seventies and early 'Eighties of the Nineteenth 
 Century still exhibited graceful and senti- 
 mental drawings at the Shows of the Royal 
 Society of Painters in Water Colours, had, 
 in the 'Thirties, been a visitor at Rydal 
 Mount, and had painted at least one doubtless 
 elaborate and at the time very popular minia- 
 ture of Wordsworth. Wordsworth had taken 
 to her: had found her — so I gathered from 
 her humorous and modest talk of early days 
 
MORE "LINKS" 97 
 
 — both a convenience and a pleasure. In 
 ways slow, formal, ceremonious, quite his 
 own, Wordsworth had given evidence of his 
 sense of the young woman's utility and charm. 
 
 Instances shall be cited. 
 
 Walking alone with her to church one day, 
 as soon as they were well started, the Poet 
 Laureate gave Miss Gillies to understand 
 that he had become conscious he was too 
 thinly clothed ; that he feared taking a chill 
 while sitting in church ; and that he had 
 devised a plan by which she could come to 
 his help. " Margaret " must sit very close 
 to him — he gave her to understand — and he 
 trusted, sincerely, that her skirts were ample 
 enough to envelop and protect his legs. There 
 must be no mincing matters — Margaret's 
 skirts must be well round him. His behest 
 was fulfilled, and an attack of rheumatism 
 discreetly averted. But it appears that the 
 parish clergyman did say, afterwards, " How 
 badly you were behaving — you and Miss 
 Gillies ! " 
 
 On the morning of Margaret Gillies's 
 leaving Rydal Mount, a matter of some 
 moment seemed to occupy the elderly poet. 
 He had become attached to Miss Gillies, 
 and, like the very human person that it may 
 be the author of The Leech Gatherer and the 
 7 
 
98 MEMORIES 
 
 Ode on the Intimations of Immortality was 
 accustomed to prove himself, in the intimacy 
 of his home, he was of opinion that the 
 conventional or even the more ardent hand- 
 shake would be but an inadequate expression 
 of his sentiments towards his young friend — 
 on her departure. In plain English, he was 
 bent upon kissing her. Some men would 
 have deemed it wiser to forgo this satisfac- 
 tion. Others would have settled the matter 
 out of hand. It was characteristic of the 
 ever dutiful and meditative poet, that he 
 referred the matter to Mrs. Wordsworth. 
 And so impartial and admirable a Court of 
 Appeal did he find in her, that she pro- 
 nounced immediately in favour of the em- 
 brace. I imagine the poet making it plain to 
 Miss Gillies that it must be clearly under- 
 stood that his wife "associated herself" — as 
 a Frenchman might have put it — with this 
 parting salutation. 
 
XIII 
 
 ARTISTS AT HAMPSTEAD 
 
 I HAVE known, on the whole, I think, 
 remarkably little of English painters and 
 sculptors ; seeing that so much of my life has 
 been not unwillingly devoted to the study, 
 and to the encouragement of the study, of the 
 arts that are their profession. Certain of my 
 critical friends have a nodding acquaintance, 
 perhaps even as much as a Club camaraderie — 
 which is not very compelling after all, for I 
 call it the weak " understudy " of a friendship 
 that counts — they have one or other of these 
 relations — the slighter or the less slight — with 
 everybody who puts anything of his own into 
 a frame. When anybody begins to show a 
 disposition to put something, not by another, 
 into a frame, that is my signal for avoiding 
 him. 
 
 But, of course, there are a hundred excep- 
 tions. If chance — if the accident of social 
 intercourse — brings you into relation with a 
 painter of genius, with a sculptor of high 
 talent — shall I say rather, with any artist in 
 
 99 
 
100 MEMORIES 
 
 any Art (including one's own) as to whom 
 there is cause to believe that he is markedly 
 individual : himself, and not the copy or the 
 uninteresting modification of another — what 
 good reason would it be possible to urge for 
 not profiting by the opportunity ? I, at least, 
 know of none. Nor am I so silly as to con- 
 jecture that all of a great man that is worth 
 knowing is enclosed within the achievement of 
 his art. The greater he is, and the more 
 genuinely distinguished, the more of himself 
 has he got into his art undoubtedly ; but 
 the whole of himself he will, in every case, 
 have been utterly unable to get into it. There- 
 fore, we are to suspect ourselves, rather than 
 the person of whom the remark is made, 
 when we assert — and it is often asserted — " A 
 Celebrity is so disappointing." A celebrity in 
 the Arts is of course meant. But a celebrity 
 need not be disappointing, unless he is a 
 celebrity who does not deserve to be one. 
 And many such there are, without a doubt. 
 And, of the justified celebrity, it is but fair to 
 remember that he cannot possibly trot out for 
 our particular benefit, under the chance cir- 
 cumstances of social intercourse, anything that 
 in quality of thought, of feeling, or of charm, 
 can vie with that which was vouchsafed to the 
 happy moment of inspiration or was the result 
 
ARTISTS AT HAMPSTEAD 101 
 
 of the meditative and laborious hour, the care- 
 ful labour of the file. 
 
 Again, it may not be amiss — because it is 
 conducive to the refreshment of novelty — to 
 see less of those whose arts are akin to our 
 own — and that certainly is no disparagement 
 to those persons — than of folk whose life-work 
 is on other lines than ours — than of men of 
 affairs, for instance, of lawyers and physicians, 
 sailors who talk generally, and soldiers who 
 talk little, wine merchants, Bishops, great 
 landlords — people of the world. Everybody, 
 of course, should have his share of friends and 
 chums among those of his own particular 
 metal and make, who can answer him in his 
 own key. But at the same time, he should 
 not be absolutely unable to be happy in the 
 society of a Chorus lady, to have a waiter for 
 his friend — or a Duchess — or to spend, as I 
 have spent, half of a Bank Holiday with a 
 carpenter upon the pier at Brighton. 
 
 If, in your knowledge of a great city, a 
 not infrequent change of living and neighbour- 
 hood is, as Bacon has it, " a great adamant of 
 acquaintance," a great adamant of acquaint- 
 ance with men is that you live for a while 
 at least within easy hail of them. Hampstead, 
 when we first lived there, did not pretend to 
 be London at all. The omnibus conductor, 
 
102 MEMORIES 
 
 on his way to the capital, used to announce 
 the fact. " Lunnon ! Lunnon ! " he would 
 say. Of late years, Hampstead is London 
 verily — but a second-rate London, I am told. 
 In my early time, it was the chosen abode — 
 never, of course, of any section of the great 
 world : that will not be expected — but of 
 many people who, to social refinement, added 
 intellectual interest and ambition. Some of 
 these were stimulating and some were restful. 
 Several of these people — friends, or, at the 
 slightest, very friendly acquaintances, of mine 
 — have been mentioned incidentally, in one or 
 two earlier chapters. Amongst them were 
 pictorial artists of individuality enough to 
 make them worth knowing. 
 
 George Du Maurier was one of them. It 
 was in Hampstead, much more than in Lon- 
 don, in his best and freshest years — it was at 
 Hampstead evening parties that he found his 
 type of the Adonis up to date. Church Row 
 itself gave him more than one of the models 
 in whom one recognizes his ideal of youthful 
 feminine charm. The names of these ladies 
 shall not be torn from me. The literary 
 Canon, weird of countenance, lived in Hamp- 
 stead : so, perhaps, did the great man of 
 music — we had three or four Academicians : 
 among st them, Edwin Long, a man of dignity 
 
ARTISTS AT HAMPSTEAD 103 
 
 and interest, whatever may have been the fate 
 of his Art (and to the ingenuity of his better 
 pieces justice has not lately been done). We 
 had, too, the really eminent architects, Bodley 
 and Norman Shaw : not to speak of younger 
 ones — Basil Champneys, Garner, Reginald 
 Blomfield, and others who have come into 
 wide fame since that day. It was in the 
 garden of the veteran water-colour painter, 
 my old friend Carl Haag — still in a green old 
 age, and retired in a castle on his " German 
 Rhine" — that Du Maurier gave me, with 
 interest and hopefulness, a long account of 
 Trilby, when as yet Trilby was but in manu- 
 script : shall I say in a state of unpreparedness 
 and very notable undress. 
 
 James Sully — one of the most acceptable 
 and readable of students of Psychology — lived 
 at Hampstead. Furnivall, in the late 'Seventies 
 and early 'Eighties, used to walk up from 
 Primrose Hill and call upon us on a Sunday — 
 bringing without fail bis spirit of energy and 
 cheerfulness ; his air of perpetual, of constantly 
 renewed youth. In his quick brown eye, you 
 saw it, and in his ready step, and in his 
 capacity to be instantly and vitally interested 
 in every subject that arose in conversation : 
 the things he knew, and the things to which 
 he was eager to have entrance. 
 
104 MEMORIES 
 
 A residence at Hampstead, in that day, 
 brought me into familiar contact, into sincere 
 friendship, with leading members of a group 
 of men who by production, as well as by 
 organization, were doing a great deal for 
 English Water- Colour. If the Schools of 
 the " Royal Institute " had to be abandoned 
 before they had been long established, and if 
 the body exhibiting to-day in Piccadilly in the 
 galleries designed by Mr. Robson has not 
 exactly the interest for us that it had at one 
 fortunate epoch in its history, that is no 
 reason for ignoring what was actually the 
 greatness of a prolonged hour, in its Past. My 
 old friend Sir James Linton is almost the only 
 survivor of those conspicuous in that time — 
 though the time was but thirty years ago. 
 In the early 'Eighties — first at the little 
 Gallery in Pall Mall which passed subsequently 
 into the hands of a chatty advocate of the Old 
 Masters — Mr. Martin Colnaghi — and then at 
 the fine place in Piccadilly — one saw, in each 
 Exhibition of the Institute, contributions, 
 eminently worthy, by Hine and Collier, 
 Green, Linton, Gregory, Fulleylove. 
 
 The admirably simple nature of Charles 
 Green was not incompatible with his posses- 
 sion of that keenness of observation without 
 which such a master of character-drawing 
 
ARTISTS AT HAMPSTEAD 105 
 
 could not have been. Linton requires no word 
 — and, living, could, by my arrangements lor 
 this volume, scarcely receive it. The fidelity 
 of Fulleylove's friendship, his quiet sagacity, 
 his manly humour, are among the possessions 
 of my mind — lost only in a measure to my 
 present days. Not lost at all is my deep 
 sense, my knowledge, of the worth of 
 his Art — of its immense, unfailing dignity. 
 Our School of Water-Colour has had no such 
 draughtsman of Architecture, since the earlier 
 days of Turner and the noble youth of Girtin. 
 The masculine handling of his best period — 
 the late 'Seventies, the earlier 'Eighties — places 
 him above the reach of any comparison 
 with Prout — save in the pencil-drawings in 
 which both were so excellent. I remember 
 something that he did — a morning vision 
 of the Medici Gardens — was declared by 
 F. G. Stephens to be worthy of Poussin. 
 With that eulogium, I will leave Fulley- 
 love. 1 
 
 Gregory was an extraordinary executant in 
 Painting, who did not, perhaps, in the produc- 
 
 1 Fulleylove — like Sir George Douglas, Sir Coleridge Grove, 
 and Edward Tait, the worthy son of a remarkable man in whom 
 Savory and " Tom " Smith, at St. Bartholomew's, had recognized 
 their intellectual equal — was, later, amongst those concerned in 
 a conspiracy of kindness, which took the form of a dinner and a 
 presentation to me at Prince's. I am bound to note this, briefly. 
 
106 MEMORIES 
 
 tions of his later maturity, quite do justice to 
 the almost startling promise of his earlier years 
 — as to which, however, it should be recollected 
 that the " promise " was also a performance. 
 To the loyalty of Gregory's character — the 
 certainty of his friendship — tribute should also 
 be paid. I hope I shall not be accused of 
 introducing the irrelevant, or the quite un- 
 justifiable, if I add that this good-natured, 
 and thoughtful, capable, great burly blond 
 had the most hopelessly disconcerting and 
 amusing stutter that it was ever given to me 
 to hear. Cyril Maude, at his very funniest — 
 and that, upon the stage, has made me shake 
 with laughter — could not stammer quite so 
 effectively. I wonder whether Charles Lamb 
 did. The spirit of compromise was not in 
 Gregory : he made no terms with any word 
 with which he was in difficulty. There was 
 no getting round it ; Gregory was intransi- 
 geant ; the word had to be produced — that 
 and no other — though you waited for three 
 mortal minutes, respectfully, considerately, as 
 if you did not notice his travail. It was a 
 relief when the explosion came. I remember 
 Fulleylove, who knew Gregory intimately, 
 telling me, that, asked at lunch, on one 
 occasion, what he was going to drink, there 
 began in Gregory the evidences of a struggle, 
 
ARTISTS AT HAMPSTEAD 107 
 
 and they waxed greater. Fulleylove knew 
 quite well what Gregory wanted. It was ale. 
 " Won't Beer do, Gregory ? " — his friend in 
 desperation suggested. Useless. They had 
 to wait till "Ale" was duly pronounced — and 
 the un conquered Gregory was again at ease. 
 
 For Hine and Thomas Collier a more serious 
 comment ; though I fear I cannot add any 
 further feature to those I indicated in On 
 Books and Arts, soon after the death of these 
 delightful and so strongly contrasted painters. 
 I knew the works of both before I knew the 
 men ; and, when 1 knew both men, I should 
 have said, looking at them, that Hine ought 
 by rights to have painted all the Colliers, and 
 Collier all the Hines. Hine who, in his hale 
 old age, had the appearance of a benevolent 
 and thoughtful, withal a humorous, skipper, 
 found his vocation when he was well past 
 fifty ; and it lay in the treatment, wholly subtle 
 and suave, of the long lines of the chalk country 
 in which his childhood had been cast. The 
 Sussex Downs, with their golden uplands and, 
 in their hollows, thin grey shadows, stretched 
 out under the skies, pearly or opalescent, of 
 changeless September weather. Collier never 
 reached old age, or any age near to it. He 
 died at about fifty — friendly and gentle — and 
 in the years in which I knew him, and I 
 
108 MEMORIES 
 
 suppose always before, he had looked frail 
 and spare, and had seemed hesitating, timid. 
 But he knew what he wanted — exactly what 
 he wanted in his Art. Nothing could be 
 more decisive, or more potent. A vigour 
 comparable only with that of David Cox — 
 when Cox approaching old age, reached virility 
 — was allied with a subtlety all his own : the 
 subtlety of " relations," " values," faultlessly 
 observed, and with touches slow but certain 
 transferred to his paper. In his sketches, 
 which — with one or two exceptions — are the 
 best of his work, his economical and learned 
 touches bring before you, like the prose of 
 Hardy (in a famous piece in the Return of the 
 Native), the passage of wind over an open 
 land. I love his freshened seas. Collier had 
 genius ; and, more and more, it is getting 
 to be recognized. 
 
 In the early 'Eighties, too, lived at Hamp- 
 stead — and I saw a great deal of her — a 
 woman, then in late middle age, who had 
 been, in many matters, the confidential asso- 
 ciate of leading painters and writers of a day 
 that was twenty years earlier. This was Mrs. 
 Gilchrist, Anne Gilchrist, a friend of Carlyle, 
 a friend of D. G. Rossetti, and the close 
 friend, while and before I best knew her, of 
 the man of the most original mind America 
 
ARTISTS AT HAMPSTEAD 109 
 
 (as I suppose) has ever produced. Of course 
 I speak of Walt Whitman. Mrs. Gilchrist 
 was the widow of the Art critic — art historian, 
 and thinker, I must take leave to add (though 
 as a sympathetic thinker Anne Gilchrist her- 
 self was, one cannot but believe, more distin- 
 guished) — who wrote the Life of Etty, and who, 
 just before his early death, had produced the 
 first and less excellent Edition of the Life of 
 William Blake. That Life of William Blake, 
 Mrs. Gilchrist herself subsequently put into 
 ship-shape ; edited in the form which lovers 
 of the Songs of Innocence and of the weirder 
 visions know and like : my reference, of course, 
 is to the volumes issued by Fisher Unwin. 
 
 When I passed a few weeks in America in 
 1885 — and lectured at Harvard and at that 
 Johns Hopkins University which gives dis- 
 tinction to Baltimore — Mrs. Gilchrist fur- 
 nished me with an introduction to Walt 
 Whitman ; but I, detained by hospitality at 
 Boston, had to rush through Philadelphia on 
 the way to Baltimore. I mean I could not 
 stay a night there. I arrived in the forenoon ; 
 crossed the ferry to Camden — found in a small 
 terrace of brick-built houses the abode of the 
 Master : " W. Whitman " was the inscription 
 on a small brass plate on door or gate. But 
 Walt Whitman, his health just permitting it, 
 
110 MEMORIES 
 
 had gone into the country, to make his modest 
 best of a late Autumn day. It was early 
 November : the bright crispness of " the Fall." 
 And all I saw of the great " Walt " — the great, 
 brotherly poet — -was the house, the caretaker, 
 and the upstairs-room in which the old man 
 mainly lived and worked — -tables strewn with 
 newspapers, and more especially, " cuttings " 
 from newspapers, bearing possibly upon future 
 labours, sure then to be but of a fragmentary 
 kind. The cuttings were interesting enough, 
 in their piled or scattered untidiness, as show- 
 ing how concentrated Whitman's thought was 
 upon what happened there and then : how in 
 the America of his day alone did Whitman 
 find inspiration. 
 
 I remember that when I got back to Eng- 
 land and London, my first duty was the utterly 
 unexpected one of going to Kensal Green 
 Cemetery, to attend the funeral of Walt Whit- 
 man's friend. It was a dark November morn- 
 ing. Anne Gilchrist — kind, helpful, always in- 
 terested in others, and in things of the mind, 
 which with her were interfused, as they should 
 be, with things of the spirit — lay in the closed 
 coffin, in the chapel, while the sentence was 
 read to us — a small and earnestly regretful 
 group — "Man that is born of a woman is of 
 few days, and full of trouble." 
 
XIV 
 
 MY EDITORS 
 
 IN the chapter that begins here I discuss 
 lightly, or lightly approach the discussion 
 of, certain aspects at least of several dis- 
 tinguished men who in my time were Editors 
 of one or other of the publications to which 
 I was privileged — generally speaking — to 
 rather largely contribute. 
 
 When I was astonishingly young and of 
 necessity incompetent, I wrote one or two 
 articles for the Contemporary Review, and 
 perhaps a dozen or sixteen, or more than that, 
 for the Spectator. 1 knew very little of the 
 Editor of the Contemporary, Henry Alford — 
 at that time Dean of Canterbury — and Alford 
 — kind and worthy — must have known very 
 little about Modern Art, or he would have 
 found wanting in artistic knowledge — and 
 possibly artistic feeling — my papers on Hippo- 
 lyte Flandrin and his master, Ingres. The 
 Dean's justification for accepting them — if he 
 had any — was that they did bring before a 
 section of the public some knowledge of the 
 
 ill 
 
112 MEMORIES 
 
 existence and the character of perhaps the last 
 great religious painter that Europe has seen, 
 and of the modern Classical artist whose work 
 he revered and by whose teaching he profited. 
 Here I have had to say a little about my- 
 self, because there was scarcely anything I had 
 to say of Dean Alford. My opportunities 
 of knowing Richard Hutton and Meredith 
 Townsend — joint Editors of the Spectator — - 
 were greater. Hutton I knew chiefly by pay- 
 ing a series of pleasant calls on him, at the 
 office in Wellington Street, where, with a 
 single eyeglass — never with him an instrument 
 of offence, as it could become so easily in the 
 eye, searching and condemnatory, of Mr. 
 Whistler — he sat over a pile of books and 
 papers, and, though at first with the air 
 (through shyness, in his case), a little threaten- 
 ing, of a watch-dog shaggy and sagacious, was 
 ever ready to say something thoughtful and 
 suggestive. Of all I heard from him, I am 
 afraid that at this distance of time I can 
 recall definitely only two things. One is that 
 he — a very infrequent playgoer, and certain, 
 when he went to the Theatre, to judge things 
 by a standard uncustomary, unconventional, 
 and very worthy — agreed, most cordially, with 
 the high estimate I had formed of Miss Kate 
 Terry, an estimate I had expressed, not for 
 
MY EDITORS 113 
 
 the first time, in an article in the Spectator 
 bewailing her too early retirement. Kate 
 Terry's absolute unstaginess, her quick in- 
 telligence, her delicate method, as well as her 
 somewhat undefinable charm — of which these 
 were but a part — Richard Hutton, it was 
 evident, set great store by. 
 
 The second thing is that Hutton one day — 
 a propos of what, I forget — calmly expressed 
 the opinion that we were " all more or less 
 humbugs." I said nothing — or if I said any- 
 thing, perhaps mildly assented, with the kind 
 of non- committing assent that you in pure 
 politeness accord to an opinion you do not 
 propose to discuss. But by the time that I 
 was in the street, I am certain that I rebelled. 
 Of Hutton's self his saying was utterly untrue. 
 There was nothing whatever of the humbug 
 about that austere follower of the Wordsworth 
 of the Ode to Duty — that ever-anxious in- 
 quirer for the truth, and for the truth espe- 
 cially in the matter of Ethics. I do not think 
 that Hutton was ever insincere for a moment 
 — and to be "something of a humbug" one 
 must be insincere with reasonable frequency. 
 
 Of Hutton I saw little after those early 
 Spectator days. During his later years, while 
 I was still often interested in his own subtle 
 essays — literary and theological — I rather 
 
114 MEMORIES 
 
 wearied of the imitation Huttons who had, 
 doubtless, his good principles, but scarcely his 
 vision ; and I became impatient — and im- 
 patient increasingly — that in a journal so 
 reputable, and in some ways so authoritative 
 — in a journal held in almost romantic respect, 
 it is believed, in many a Scottish manse, and 
 in some English parsonages, and the expression 
 of whose political opinions commanded the 
 attention of the well-informed — a work of 
 literary or of pictorial art should hardly ever be 
 approached from the point of view from which 
 it might reasonably demand to be judged. A 
 work of Literature, especially, was apt, it 
 seemed to me, to be appraised much more 
 with reference to what was deemed the 
 correctness or faultiness of its ethics than 
 with reference to the faultiness or the com- 
 pleteness of its art. The Spectator — it seemed 
 to me — was, in grave artistic matters, in 
 matters which may outlast the utterance of 
 contemporary, or at all events of immediate 
 and superficial opinion, scarcely a desirable or 
 reasonably constituted Court of Appeal. 
 
 Hutton's colleague, Meredith Townsend, 
 chief author of the political and social articles 
 during a whole generation — of whom I saw a 
 good deal at his own house, and at his mother's 
 house at Hampstead, and once or twice at my 
 
MY EDITORS 115 
 
 own — was, I may be permitted to remind the 
 younger generation of readers, one of the first 
 political writers, and one of the most engaging 
 social inquirers, of his time. He started, like 
 his partner, with the possession of the in- 
 evitable basis of all sound criticism of matters 
 great or small, political, social, or artistic — 
 honesty and courage. Those virtues both 
 men retained. Would only that in artistic 
 matters they had added to them those other 
 virtues of comprehension and taste ! 
 
 Townsend — dead but lately, at about eighty 
 years old— was brilliant, pungent, positive. In 
 defence of his extreme positiveness it may be 
 said, that, at all events much oftener than 
 most very positive people, he was actually 
 right. Right even in his gift of prophecy. 
 Seldom can there have been any one more 
 thoroughly absorbed in his profession — more 
 thoroughly hemmed in by it — than he was. 
 There were hours when, in his study in 
 Harley Street — conscious of his influence and 
 the weightiness of his view and the exactness 
 of his deliverance — he may have thought, not 
 so much that Meredith Townsend came into 
 the world to write on great issues, as that 
 great issues came to be pending in order that 
 Meredith Townsend might write about them. 
 Of the dignity of his profession, honourably 
 
116 MEMORIES 
 
 exercised, Townsend was fully conscious. He 
 and his friend, the genial E. D. J. Wilson, of 
 the Times, survived to a day when, in the 
 eager search for the sensational, the methods 
 of journalism had, as he held, deteriorated. 
 And it must be granted that he was right. 
 
 In Townsend's great day, and Hutton's — 
 possibly before the advent of Mr. St. Loe 
 Strachey in Wellington Street — Mr. Asquith, 
 already making some mark at the Bar, wrote 
 a good deal (if I remember rightly what I 
 was told at the time) in the journal Townsend 
 partly edited and partly owned. 1 recollect 
 the gravity with which Meredith Townsend 
 held forth on Mr. Asquith, when the spirit of 
 prophecy was upon him. Very earnestly did 
 he declare, " If Asquith's brain lasts " — I am 
 not aware that there was ever any doubt 
 about that — "if Asquith's brain lasts, his 
 place will be a great one." 
 
 I have named — hardly more than named — 
 Meredith Townsend's mother. But she was 
 interesting, and few words may indicate 
 roughly something of her character, and her 
 relations with the son she was proud of. 
 
 From the time of her capable old age to 
 that of her old age nearly spent, every Satur- 
 day afternoon he arrived to be with her. 
 The Spectator had been on her breakfast-table 
 
MY EDITORS 117 
 
 early in the morning. To its studious perusal 
 the hours of the day — until " Meredith's " 
 hansom drew up in Church Row — were regu- 
 larly consecrated. By the time of his coming, 
 the venerable woman, white-haired, but fairly 
 erect, could have passed a creditable examina- 
 tion in the contents of her son's paper — an 
 examination that could hardly have been 
 deemed otherwise than satisfactory, even in 
 a house where standards, set by the great 
 Meredith, were amusingly exacting, or 
 amusingly high. I have been told of the 
 deep disappointment that clouded the coun- 
 tenance of the political journalist on an occa- 
 sion when — it having become necessary to 
 verify a fact or a statement made in chance 
 conversation — a grandchild in the house was 
 found unable to produce, at a moment's notice, 
 a particular article in a particular volume of 
 the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which was de- 
 manded to settle the question out of hand. 
 It was a regrettable deficiency : a lamentable 
 lapse- — but childhood must be childhood still. 
 In the evening — after dinner — I incline to 
 think that conversation was less strenuous 
 and responsible. The publicist would give 
 himself his sole recreation : he would take 
 a hand at whist, with his Mother, and his 
 sisters ; or, that one of these might be relieved, 
 
118 MEMORIES 
 
 my wife would be summoned from our 
 neighbouring house, and, in the intervals 
 between the tricks, Townsend would ad- 
 minister to her sage counsels destined for 
 herself in the first place, in the second for me, 
 and in the third for the world at large — since 
 the habit of holding forth was strong. 
 
 The Editor of the Academy, in its first 
 and the most learned of its days, when Mr. 
 Murray was its publisher, was Charles Edward 
 Appleton. I made my debut in that journal 
 with a sober little article on Ingres, written as 
 we were taking possession of our first house. 
 I wrote it on the kitchen table, while the 
 workmen were bringing in the furniture from 
 the van. That Appleton himself — fresh from 
 the common room at Oxford, where he had 
 been a Fellow of St. John's — lived at Hamp- 
 stead, I did not know at the time ; but we 
 were often afterwards at Netley Cottage, 
 the interior of which Mr. Basil Champneys 
 charmingly arranged for him with blue and 
 white china against a primrose background ; 
 and I remember meeting there many interest- 
 ing people — Pater among the younger, Gosse 
 among the youngest of them, and, among the 
 older, James Hinton, author of The Mystery 
 of Pain (he was a subtle thinker, appreciated 
 by the few), and again among the elder men, 
 
MY EDITORS 119 
 
 one of the most solidly gifted of the Prse- 
 Raphaelite painters, Ford Madox Brown. I 
 recall Brown's genial and manly presence — 
 his ways picturesque and winning, and the 
 pleasantness too, of his daughter, Lucy, who, 
 a very little later, became Mrs. William 
 Rossetti, and of his son Oliver, who died 
 young. 
 
 At Appleton's, I saw one evening, a nephew 
 of Napoleon. This was Prince Lucien, the 
 philologist ; long resident in London. Like 
 his cousin, the undesirable " Plon-Plon," and 
 unlike his other cousin, the great poetic 
 dreamer, the lovable if faulty thinker, who 
 reigned in France till the catastrophe of 
 Sedan — and to whom, only now, intellectual 
 England (influenced at last by Olivier) may 
 be beginning to do justice — Prince Lucien 
 bore a striking — dare I say, in its real, and 
 not in its slang sense, an almost awful resem- 
 blance, to the Man of Austerlitz and of the 
 Code and of the Hundred Days. Prince 
 Lucien though, in bearing and in conversa- 
 tion, had something of the graciousness of 
 English Royalty. I could not talk to him 
 about Philology. He saw my feebleness, and 
 talked to me about the Theatre : recognizing, 
 I think with sincerity, its interest, and what 
 one may consider its importance. 
 
120 MEMORIES 
 
 It was said by a University wit, that 
 Appleton had been born "to show that" — 
 who was it ? but the name does not matter — 
 " to show that " a certain already well-known 
 person "was not a prig." The burden that by 
 implication thus rested on the shoulders of the 
 Editor of the Academy was supposed to be a 
 particularly heavy one. He was Academic, 
 undoubtedly — and so able to sustain it — but, 
 withal, an amiable, worthy, quite unaffected 
 man — a little wanting, it may be, in a sense 
 of humour ; and the absence of a sense of 
 humour is certainly an excellent foundation 
 on which the edifice of a prig may be raised. 
 
 I liked Dr. Appleton — had little complaint 
 to make of him as an Editor, and wrote for 
 him for three years or thereabouts, and some- 
 times afterwards for his successors, my friends 
 C. E. Doble and H. J. Cotton (the latter, a 
 high authority on India), notices of the 
 Theatre and of Fine Art. And I believe 
 Appleton had no grievance against me, but 
 that, when I called upon him, I chose an hour 
 at which he was yet in his bath. 
 
 With the Academy, much of which was 
 too learned for the Public — for in comparison 
 with the articles on Philology, even Dr. 
 Ebenezer Prout was lightness itself, he was 
 gossamer, relatively, on Music — with the 
 
MY EDITORS 121 
 
 Academy, then, Appleton had uphill work. 
 But notwithstanding the existence of the 
 Athenceu7>i, the journal was supposed, in both 
 Universities, to supply a " felt want," and so, 
 the " sinews of war " failing here, the Editor 
 toured America — or those parts of America 
 in which Learning had most friends — to beat 
 up help. He dined out laboriously, at in- 
 fluential houses, night after night, in Boston 
 and New York — I fear to little purpose. 
 Appleton 's health became affected. He was 
 " ordered " as the ridiculous phrase is — that is, 
 he was advised, by the doctors he elected to 
 employ — to go to Egypt. He left many 
 friends to regret his early death. 
 
 My next Editor was W. H. Mudford, of 
 the Standard ; but as he still lives — to linger 
 happily over trout streams, and, I hope, to 
 hear good Music — I am forbidden by the rule 
 I have thought it best to lay down for myself, 
 to do more than briefly mention him. I may, 
 however, repeat, what is of common know- 
 ledge, that Mudford was one of the most 
 esteemed and successful Editors of his time. 
 He did not attempt to cover one half or 
 quarter of the ground which it is the ideal of 
 the very modern and more or less American- 
 ized journalist to occupy. He was not an ad- 
 mirer of endlessness and indifferent to quality, 
 
122 MEMORIES 
 
 for Mudford wanted little from you : but he 
 wanted it as good as it could be. I may add 
 the not very significant detail that he was one 
 of the last Editors to keep up the tradition 
 of inaccessibility. He went out little — was 
 charming when you met him ; but on the 
 whole was as closely confined as James 
 Knowles, whom next I speak of, was largely 
 repandu. 
 
 That certain commentators in the daily 
 Press, whose knowledge was superficial and 
 whose point of view was remote, should have 
 expressed of James Knowles, on the morrow 
 of his death, an impression of him strangely 
 unlike that made on those of us who were 
 accustomed to be in his society, and who from 
 time to time were in his confidence, was per- 
 haps not a matter to provoke surprise ; though, 
 to myself, it did occasion disappointment. 1 
 The conception that such commentators — it 
 may be that there were but one or two of 
 them — put forth, tended to belittle our friend, 
 inasmuch as, in the view presented, we were 
 invited to attribute his place in the world, 
 and the success that attended his career, less 
 
 1 The first four paragraphs relating to Sir James Knowles 
 are reprinted, hy permission, from my share in the " tribute " 
 to his memory which appeared in The Nineteenth Century the 
 month after his death. 
 
MY EDITORS 123 
 
 to high individuality, comprehensiveness of 
 mind, and strength of character, than to a 
 quick scent for the thing that was acceptable 
 and popular — with that more thoughtful 
 section of the public, of course, which alone, 
 presumably, his Review was intended to 
 address. To have a keen, quick scent ; to 
 know what the better public was asking for, 
 or wishing for, and to provide it in abundance, 
 as a capable man of business — that, it appeared, 
 was his essential characteristic. That it was — 
 was it ? — that caused James Knowles not only 
 to be motioned during thirty years, in every 
 social thing, to what Robert Browning de- 
 scribed graphically as "the velvet of the sward," 
 but to be, in a sense, the intimate of illustrious 
 and exalted personages ; very much the inti- 
 mate of statesmen, poets, and withdrawn 
 philosophers. One would have thought that 
 a little reflection would have persuaded such 
 a commentator as I have pointed at that the 
 possession of gifts useful, creditable, but withal 
 a little vulgar — having nothing of rare or fine 
 — could not have enabled any man to compass 
 those better ends which confessedly James 
 Knowles, during a long and influential life, 
 attained. 
 
 The comprehensiveness of Knowles's mind 
 and its sustained freshness, his prolonged 
 
124 MEMORIES 
 
 youthful enthusiasm — that and his kindliness 
 of purpose — were what most impressed me. 
 Even one like myself, condemned by other 
 studies and interests (while yet they are the 
 interests and studies of my choice) to hopeless 
 ignorance of Politics, Philosophy, Physical 
 Science — who knows, indeed, what else ? — 
 may have an inkling, when these things, any 
 of these things, are raised in his presence, as 
 to whether the speakers on them have, in 
 Goethe's phrase, their " eye on the object." 
 An "eye on the object" — an eye turned on 
 the object with singular sagacity — struck me 
 always as the fortunate and carefully cherished 
 possession of James Knowles. 
 
 If Art — Art in the widest sense — Painting, 
 Engraving, Literature, the Theatre — was 
 spoken of, an ignorance which I am fain to 
 believe more measurable allowed me to ap- 
 praise approximately, roughly, the value of 
 the communication Knowles upon any occa- 
 sion happened to make. It was not as a 
 devotee of the Playhouse, not as a devotee of 
 Painting, not as a devotee of Literature that 
 one could have regarded him. That is to say, 
 he never narrowly "specialized" — he never lost 
 balance. But he was interested genuinely. 
 One wondered, perhaps, at his keen interest 
 in each and in all. And why he never lost 
 
MY EDITORS 125 
 
 balance — never lost that sense of proportion 
 which the longer one lives one feels the more 
 convincingly to be the property of all im- 
 portant minds — was, that in thinking of 
 pictures and of prints, of acted plays, and of 
 imaginative or critical writing, it was really 
 Art ; it was always Art that he was thinking 
 of. No hard and fast line divided, or could 
 divide, for him, the Stage from Painting, 
 Painting from Literature ; and so it was that 
 an admirable common-sense guided his spoken 
 criticism of the Drama — and his remarks 
 made havoc with popular names, and pre- 
 served always a reverence for genius : for such 
 a genius as Irving's. And so it was, too, that 
 in a criticism of Literature it was the root of 
 the matter that he went to — he could put 
 conventionalities and the expected aside, and 
 see things as they were, and welcome the 
 newer treatment, and be just to the success 
 of the old. And so it was that in Painting 
 he could do what painters seldom do — the 
 craftsmen foolish people appeal to, who rarely 
 admit the possibility of any right groove but 
 the particular rut in which they happen to 
 practise — he could admire work the most 
 diverse ; and I have myself accompanied him, 
 within the limits of an afternoon, to an en- 
 thusiastic inspection of the drawings of 
 
126 MEMORIES 
 
 Poynter (if he had a preference, it was 
 towards Classicism that instinct and judg- 
 ment drew him), and a hardly less enthusiastic 
 or sympathetic inspection of the prints and 
 pastels of Whistler. 
 
 I do not wish to insist, to elaborate, to 
 labour the point ; but what I am convinced 
 of is that no small part of the success of 
 James Knowles, in his high calling of public 
 guide and monitor — that no small part of his 
 much talked of, quick, and managerial appre- 
 ciation of the pulse of the public, and of his 
 much less talked of width and readiness of 
 sympathy with individual men and women 
 with whom he was in contact — had its origin, 
 and found ever its best support, in the gifts of 
 his own nature ; no merely business faculty, 
 unusually sharpened, but an intellect alert 
 and keen, a temperament receptive, tolerant, 
 fearless, sincere. 
 
 I have seen at Queen Anne's Lodge, St. 
 James's Park, a pretty, tasteful water-colour, 
 by Queen Alexandra. She had given it to 
 Knowles during his first " week-end " visit to 
 Sandringham. It was at a later visit there that 
 there occurred a little incident that he related to 
 me soon afterwards. On the Saturday evening, 
 he had admired the design of the Cross of the 
 Victorian Order. On the Sunday morning, 
 
MY EDITORS 127 
 
 as the guests were assembling in the hall, 
 ere starting to attend Church Service, King 
 Edward appeared upon the scene ; a sword 
 became visible, and Knowles received the 
 accolade, followed at once, if I remember, 
 by the " gaud " — I use the word in no dis- 
 paraging sense — by the "gaud" he had ap- 
 proved of. And "This should have been 
 done before," said King Edward, very nicely : 
 remembering — apparently a little more effec- 
 tually than his " responsible advisers " : the 
 Government of the day, whatever it may 
 have been — the length and range of James 
 Knowles's services. 
 
 Another little story of Royalty I remem- 
 ber Knowles told me ; but I doubt if he got 
 it from Sandringham. It was a story of the 
 great Queen, and of old Lady Southampton 
 — who by reason of age, long-proved devoted- 
 ness, and reciprocated friendship, was privileged 
 to talk of many things. In some such terms 
 as the following, Lady Southampton felt her- 
 self inspired to address the Queen one day. 
 " Do not you think, Ma'am, one of the satisfac- 
 tions of the Future State will be not only our 
 reunion with those whom we have loved on 
 Earth, but our opportunities of seeing face to 
 face so many of the noble figures of the Past 
 — of other lands and times ? Bible times, for 
 
128 MEMORIES 
 
 instance. Abraham will be there, Ma'am. 
 Isaac too, and Jacob. Think of what they 
 will be like ! And the sweet singer of Israel. 
 He, too. Yes, Ma'am. King David we shall 
 see." And, after a moment's silence, with 
 perfect dignity and decision the great Queen 
 made answer : " I will not meet David." 
 
XV 
 
 LORD LEIGHTON— MILLAIS— ORCHARDSON 
 
 IS it ever given to any one but his dearest 
 friend, to know well — really well, I mean 
 — the head of a Government, or an Archbishop, 
 or the President of the Royal Academy ? In 
 different degrees, all these posts, and others 
 more or less like them, are so absorbing, with 
 the burden of acquaintances absolutely innu- 
 merable and duties absolutely multifarious, 
 that each man's view of the holder of such 
 posts must be partial and limited — limited 
 too often to one particular facet of the human 
 object of his study. 
 
 I make the remark a propos of my own 
 most slight acquaintance with Lord Leighton 
 — and because I have felt, always, that it is 
 useless to attempt to know thoroughly the 
 people singled out for great place and un- 
 relieved responsibility. What is it to have 
 seen at a dinner-table a handsome man, quite 
 conscious of his own elaborate comeliness and 
 Italianized grace ; to have had a hand-shake 
 and a word or two with him from time to 
 time ; to have had notes, not merely formal, 
 
 9 139 
 
130 MEMORIES 
 
 I admit — expressing, undoubtedly, his real 
 thought on the matters they dealt with ? It is 
 not much. It is interesting — sometimes even 
 enlightening, up to a certain point — to have 
 been not quite out of touch with such a 
 man and with the likes of him ; but, the 
 thought comes, If the moments and occasions 
 of your contact with him were removed alto- 
 gether from his life, to his life what difference 
 would that make ? 
 
 I met Leighton first, I remember, as I met 
 Sir John Millais — and it was on the same 
 evening — at dinner at Marion Spielmann's : 
 an artistic feast (the entremet was "Royal 
 Academy Pudding ") given by Mr. Spiel- 
 mann, in honour of the visit to England of 
 Emile Wauters, a distinguished Belgian 
 painter, and an interesting man. Leighton 
 was, as 1 have seen him afterwards — or as I 
 have never failed to see him when I saw him 
 at all — ready, cheerful, courtly, and fluent : 
 en evidence: spending himself without stint, 
 but also without effort. Agreeable as a guest, 
 as a host he had quickness and tact. To see 
 him receive the crowd at an Academy Soiree 
 — I had not, in Leighton's time, the privilege 
 of attending that more select function, an 
 Academy Banquet — was a study in gradations 
 of manner. 
 
LORD LEIGHTON 131 
 
 A courtier honest and trustworthy, Leighton 
 was admittedly ambitious. In the presence 
 of Royalty, he was at his ease of course. 
 He would have been, even if Royalty — the 
 Royalty we in England know — had not 
 generally itself the faculty of putting at his 
 ease every one. But, in the presence of 
 Royalty — or so I thought, on the occasion 
 on which I saw him so circumstanced, at one 
 great Ball — it was with Royalty, nothing else 
 but Royalty, that Leighton elected to be 
 concerned. A failing perhaps, but a small 
 one. Noblesse oblige, and the superiority of 
 Leighton to the average man constituted him 
 Noblesse before actual rank came to him — 
 and he accepted his responsibilities — Royalty 
 being absent — and was nice to every student 
 he spoke to, and to his models was chivalrous 
 and charming. 
 
 Lord Leighton did too many things with 
 skill and with facility to do very much with 
 perfection. But self-control, and the studied 
 arrangement of his time — -in which is included 
 a faultless punctuality, a soldier's punctuality, 
 in every engagement (he was punctual be- 
 cause he was busy) — permitted him to get 
 from himself, if not the highest results of his 
 labours professional and social, at all events 
 the most necessary and the most numerous. 
 
132 MEMORIES 
 
 And, if a hundred engagements, official and 
 in the world, did at times — as one felt — lower 
 a little, by mere diversion of interest, the 
 quality of his artistic performance, he at least 
 never bent to the public for which it was his 
 business to work. That is to say, his Art, 
 though it suffered disadvantages, suffered 
 never the disadvantage of conscious compro- 
 mise. What he willed it to be — what he felt 
 it was his duty to make it — that, as far as 
 possible, it became. There were times when 
 he had willed it to be agreeably decorative ; 
 times, rare times, when his aim was Drama ; 
 frequent times when what he sought was the 
 luxurious — and in all these endeavours— in 
 the endeavours to these ends — Leighton had 
 the public support. 
 
 But in a good deal of his later work an 
 aim ever present was the aim at an intricate 
 and balanced and often stately design. In 
 that, the public could not follow him ; and he 
 knew it — he looked it in the face. I remem- 
 ber once having a note from him, speaking of an 
 important effort in this particular direction — 
 an effort in which he believed that he had com- 
 passed his particular ends. He expected no 
 applause for it : he was receiving, or quite ready 
 to receive, with a calm dignity, a reception cold 
 and inadequate, from a world of alien tastes. 
 
M1LLAIS 133 
 
 Before I pass on to another, let me note 
 that in this matter of the dominance of 
 Design, or at the least its very visible 
 presence, Leighton was the precursor of a 
 group of artists whom some of us have been 
 busy in enjoying and commending, to-day. 
 They work in various mediums: not much 
 thus far in the medium that was Leighton's 
 chiefly ; but they work in his spirit — often 
 with the preoccupation that was the pre- 
 occupation of his later life. I think of men 
 like Brangwyn, Livens, Walter Bayes, Cayley- 
 Robinson. Design is a quality they strive 
 for. More than that, a quality they attain. 
 In the labour of one of them, it may be florid 
 and fluent ; in that of another it may be 
 abrupt and arresting ; in that of a third, 
 obviously learned ; of a fourth, graciously 
 tender or austerely reticent. But it is 
 Design always. And, for Lord Leighton, it 
 is one of " Time's revenges " that the uprising 
 of this Art — and some appreciation of this 
 Art — should have occurred. 
 
 Let us get to Sir John Millais — though, 
 having got to him, there is little I want to 
 say. That is not through lack of admiring 
 Millais, and liking him, but because his quali- 
 ties, as man and artist — and more especially 
 as man — seem to me to have lain open to 
 
134 MEMORIES 
 
 popular appreciation, on lines sufficiently 
 simple. If there is any nature that the 
 average healthy Englishman can understand 
 readily, it is the nature of Millais. What 
 was he but an average healthy Englishman, 
 himself — an average healthy Englishman with 
 extraordinary potency in expressing himself 
 in paint ? An artist courageous and gifted ; 
 with firm grip of the present fact ; a man 
 with the instincts of a great gentleman — the 
 frankness, geniality, directness, loyalty — and, 
 withal, a bit of a Philistine : the price he paid 
 for being British so typically. More than 
 that I shall not try to say. Very likely I 
 have not been able to make any contribution 
 whatever of my own towards the further 
 understanding of him. I suppose that I 
 agree with the common verdict. I feel at any 
 rate that my own absolutely casual experi- 
 ence of this most likeable and generous- 
 minded man, suggested nothing to induce me 
 to dissent from it. 
 
 Has it not sometimes occurred to the 
 reader, in thinking over the characters of 
 those he more or less knows, how amusing, 
 how illuminating, it would be to be allowed, 
 and to be able, to watch and listen to an 
 otherwise tete-d-tete interview between some 
 couple of men strongly contrasted — con- 
 
BURNE-JONES 135 
 
 trasted to the point of incompatibility, what- 
 ever overtures and efforts at politeness and 
 goodwill might pass between them on the 
 surface? An enforced tete-a-tete between 
 Henry Irving and Whistler — that is what I 
 should very much like to have listened to. 
 My interest in the result would hardly have 
 been less had it been possible to see, in 
 closest quarters with each other, Millais, of 
 whom I have just been speaking, and Sir 
 Edward Burne-Jones. 
 
 In my youth, when a wave of iEstheticism 
 — of the type rather roughly though very 
 funnily satirized by Sir W. S. Gilbert in 
 Patience — passed over much of English Litera- 
 ture, I wrote of some manifestations of Burne- 
 Jones's art with a warmth of praise I could 
 not now rise to. Much of it I still admire. 
 Design occupied Burne-Jones on the whole 
 hardly less — perhaps not at all less — than it 
 occupied Leighton. But it was not Design 
 that gave Burne-Jones popularity. There was 
 grace of life in abundance ; there was naivete 
 of expression ; there was prettiness of detail. 
 And that last characteristic — scarcely a great 
 quality, indeed, though a permissible endow- 
 ment — is of extreme seductiveness to the 
 superficial and the ill-informed. With Burne- 
 Jones pictorial invention overflowed. His 
 
136 MEMORIES 
 
 brush was garrulous : pleasantly garrulous, like 
 his talk — in both there was just an approach 
 to a delusive and undue and even monotonous 
 smoothness. Everything was lubricated. You 
 wanted to grip the road a little. You wanted 
 sometimes to feel the brake. 
 
 It would be unfair to judge any painter 
 or draughtsman — even a figure-painter like 
 Burne-Jones — by the lasting or fleeting at- 
 tractiveness to oneself of his type of hero- 
 ine. Yet that does count for something ; and 
 it is borne in upon one by experience that 
 the type of "Ned" Jones — to give him the 
 name chosen for him by certain of his pals — 
 has, with its obvious attractiveness, such dis- 
 abilities as may attend the anaemic and yearn- 
 ing. He had no deep care for Landscape. I 
 think his attitude towards it was completely 
 expressed in a sentence he said to me at 
 Stopford Brooke's : — " I like a Landscape well 
 enough, as long as it is over a man's shoulder, 
 or under a man's arm." He had a right to 
 that attitude. Decorative background. And 
 that background he built up, of various con- 
 stituents : the art of the earlier Italian Renais- 
 sance — the art of Diirer, with his towers and 
 walled cities and abrupt hill-sides — and perhaps 
 an art unrealized, that Burne-Jones dreamt 
 of, when sleep had hardly come, and contact 
 
ORCHARDSON 137 
 
 with the firm day and its reality of defined 
 form had hardly vanished. 
 
 With the Art of Orchardson, distinguished, 
 almost aristocratic, and with his personality, 
 so common-sense and manly, while so refined, 
 I was — I must suppose — in readier and more 
 cordial sympathy than with that of Burne- 
 Jones, generally. The sources of Orchardson's 
 art go back no further than to the elegant 
 Eighteenth Century in France. Orchardson 
 appreciated not only the well-proportioned 
 architecture and the furniture and accessories 
 of the days of Louis Quinze and Louis Seize ; 
 but, even more, the poses and manners, the 
 grace that was Nature in that age. In feel- 
 ing and in submitting to the influence of 
 France, Orchardson was, after all, but playing 
 the refined Scotsman's nearly inevitable role. 
 The influence did not deter, it only happily 
 encouraged, his own development. About 
 him, with his Scottish, and I suppose Edin- 
 boro' accent, there was somehow, though less 
 than was the case with his contemporaries 
 and fellow Academicians, Edwin Long and 
 Calderon, a touch of Spanish grace. He was 
 a reader : he was an assiduous listener. It 
 was Lady Orchardson's not disagreeable task 
 to read to him, as he slowly made progress 
 with his canvas, page after page of Eighteenth- 
 
138 MEMORIES 
 
 Century Memoirs. He spent his hours under 
 the aegis of the Ancien Regime. 
 
 For recreations, I have met Orchardson at 
 the theatre ; and he might in later years have 
 been met where I should not, for my own 
 part, have had the patience to stay for him — 
 fishing in his stream of the Darenth, during 
 his "week-ends," when Portland Place was 
 deserted for his country abode, near Dartford. 
 Years ago, he was one of the devotees of the 
 real Tennis, in comparison with which Lawn 
 Tennis is as a snack by the wayside to a 
 square meal. 
 
 I remember Orchardson's giving me, at 
 dinner once, at my own table — and it is a 
 little example of his hold upon reality, so 
 characteristically firm — a word of explanation 
 of " the light in the eye " — talked of by many, 
 in sentimental fashion, as if it were an inner 
 light — a light visible under happy emotion, 
 and especially in the anticipation of it. Such 
 a light there is, said Orchardson, but it is, of 
 course, no "inner light" at all, and — save 
 indirectly — no manifestation of the spirit. 
 Instinctively, mechanically, under circum- 
 stances of joyful surprise, the upper eyelid 
 is lifted and recedes, and the eye itself ex- 
 posed, of necessity, to a fuller illumination 
 than it habitually receives. 
 
ORCHARDSON 139 
 
 In regard to his own work, the world knows 
 Orchardson by Portraiture and Genre. Long 
 ago, he told me it was his ambition to paint, 
 ere he departed, one great landscape. He 
 had it in his mind. He was hankering after 
 it. That ambition was never realized ; for he 
 did not imagine that in one or two small 
 canvases, of landscape alone, he had done 
 anything for which long life or particular 
 fame was reserved. The nearest approach to 
 its fulfilment was made perhaps, some time 
 after he first spoke to me about it. It was 
 made in " The Borgia " — a picture of a feast at 
 evening : a sinister intention in one observant 
 figure, and, in the dark, tall screen of Classic 
 foliage, a background tragic, ominous and 
 weird. 
 
XVI 
 
 MANY ACTORS 
 
 IT was when I was a boy indeed, and 
 spending a few days in London with a 
 cousin who was my guide, to see the great 
 Exhibition of 1862, that I was first inside a 
 Theatre. The house was the Haymarket ; 
 the piece, Our American Cousin; the attrac- 
 tion, Sothern as Lord Dundreary. We went 
 at " half-play" ; and I remember seeming very 
 unexpectedly high up. It may have been 
 the upper boxes, it may have been the 
 gallery, that we sat in. What I know is, 
 that we saw, and watched intently, the 
 second half of a performance finished and 
 entertaining. Certainly the Dundreary of 
 Sothern was a well-wrought character, of 
 eccentric Genre. 
 
 My second visit to London and the Theatre 
 was paid a few months later — when the Town 
 was enveloped in the fogs of Autumn. I 
 was with my Father and an Aunt, in 
 lodgings in Kensington ; and a " growler " 
 of those days took us, by devious ways, 
 
 140 
 
MANY ACTORS 141 
 
 after an early dinner, to Sadler's Wells — 
 it was during the last weeks of Phelps's 
 management. Phelps played Hamlet, and, 
 was already, as it seemed to me, too old, 
 too stiff, and too artificial. Still, it was a 
 serious occasion ; and I beheld of course 
 with interest and respect a worthy who had 
 fought for a Drama with brains — a steady- 
 going enthusiast, of slow, invisible fire, who, 
 1 was told, had taught Shakespeare to the 
 North of London. 
 
 After that period, Phelps's performances 
 were more or less intermittent ; and it must 
 have been something like ten years later, 
 that under the management of John Hollings- 
 head, I saw him at the Gaiety — in The 
 Merry Wives of Windsor. He was Falstaff, 
 of course ; but a Falstaff wanting in geniality 
 and bonhomie ; a Falstaff dry : infinitely too 
 deliberate, it seemed. Thus, my small per- 
 sonal experience of this valiant, self-reliant, 
 eminently conscientious and in the main 
 judicious actor, was not exactly happy. It 
 was silly, perhaps, to miss an opportunity 
 which might have been mine also, in Phelps's 
 latest days, of seeing him as Sir Pertinax 
 Macsycophant, in The Man of the World — 
 an old and formal comic drama in which, 
 I have heard always, his comedy did not 
 
142 MEMORIES 
 
 lack effectiveness. But it was in distinctly 
 earlier Victorian days that Phelps — as it 
 appears — deserved to be spoken of in terms 
 not so carefully measured : in phrases that 
 denote something more than a succes d'estime. 
 He was then Macready's first lieutenant. 
 As such, in Macready's absence, he played 
 with force and fire— Mr. Browning has told 
 me — in one or more of the dramas of the 
 poet then young ; and I know it was Robert 
 Browning's impression that at least once 
 Phelps was the innocent cause of arousing 
 Macready's jealousy, to the detriment of the 
 run of the piece. 
 
 The mention of the more famous of these 
 two tragedians reminds me that as a school- 
 boy I heard Macready give, at Weston- 
 super-Mare, a Reading of Prose and Verse, 
 for a Charity. Old age was well upon him, 
 but it appeared to have done little to under- 
 mine his strength. Unfatigued, apparently, 
 and with voice full and resonant, he, who 
 had done justice, as I doubt not, in the 
 earlier part of the performance, to the prose 
 of Sterne, did more than justice to the 
 effective rhetoric of Campbell's Lord UllirCs 
 Daughter. And, if my memory of a thing 
 so long ago still serves me with accuracy, 
 Macready did not fall into the temptation 
 
MANY ACTORS 143 
 
 that an actor, speaking generally — the average 
 actor that is — would not recognize as a tempta- 
 tion at all — he would walk into it blindfold and 
 unquestioning— the pitfall of treating a Read- 
 ing as if it were a Stage performance, and so, 
 in transitions abrupt and mechanical, giving 
 force, it may be— obvious force — to an imper- 
 sonation, at the cost of sacrificing the unity 
 and literary quality of the whole. 
 
 In the very last days of Buckstone's 
 Haymarket management, I had my glimpse 
 of the elder Compton — Edward Compton's 
 father — and of Chippendale. Compton was 
 accepted as the ideal Touchstone : a part 
 in which quaint dryness is a virtue. To 
 Chippendale — a man of presence, of a cer- 
 tain impressiveness, and a judicious actor — 
 there fell some of the more substantial and 
 outstanding roles in old-world comedy, and 
 more particularly in Eighteenth Century 
 comedy, in which, more than in any other 
 genre, " presence " is a qualification not to 
 be denied. When Chippendale was on the 
 stage, the stage was furnished. 
 
 A little later — but it is already long ago 
 — when they were at the Prince of Wales's, 
 I saw the Bancrofts in several of their 
 principal productions and revivals. I saw 
 also, at that time, John Hare : never until 
 
144 MEMORIES 
 
 the days of A Pair of Spectacles better 
 fitted than in Gerridge, the gasfitter, in 
 Caste. As the "heavy swell" of the 'Seventies 
 in one at least of T. W. Robertson's comedies, 
 Bancroft was to the manner born. One was 
 amused by him — -the performance was so 
 slight and yet so telling an exaggeration 
 of what one could see in the life, by walking 
 down St. James's Street, or keeping one's 
 eyes open in the social world. But I doubt 
 if I ever saw Sir Squire to really better 
 advantage than as Triplet, in his revival of 
 Masks and Faces. The amour propre and 
 happy self-deception of the poor gentleman, 
 his essential good nature — since sufferance 
 is the badge of all his tribe — was excellently 
 indicated. Nothing could be more popular 
 than the Polly Eccles of Lady Bancroft ; 
 but if in that part her gaiety of temperament 
 was most clearly manifested, it was in a 
 piece of Gilbert's in which the character she 
 played was first young and then picturesquely 
 and even touchingly old, that she showed most 
 completely the ripeness of her feeling and 
 the discretion of her art. 
 
 In the late days of the Prince of Wales's 
 Theatre in Tottenham Street, with the Ban- 
 crofts there was associated Ellen Terry, charm- 
 ing and pathetic in Masks and Faces, as the 
 
MANY ACTORS 145 
 
 deserted wife of Vane. I cannot quarrel with 
 Miss Terry, however, for preferring, even to 
 this part, her part of Olivia, in The Vicar of 
 Wakefield — seen at the Lyceum. There, with 
 an admirable impulse, she was filial and sisterly : 
 her rightful place upon the stage uncontested, 
 even when beside her was Irving as the Vicar 
 — Irving grandly simple and grandly benign. 
 
 Ellen Terry's Lady Macbeth gave occasion 
 for Mr. Sargent's picture. That of itself per- 
 haps justifies it. Her performance of Gamma, 
 in The Cup, was invested with a certain author- 
 ity and splendour ; and the Doge's was not 
 the only Court in which there was felt the 
 large persuasiveness of her Portia. Her 
 Beatrice, in Much Ado About Nothing, was 
 bewitching and brilliant of aspect : of bear- 
 ing more jlamboyante than that of her sister, 
 Kate, who played it quite delightfully, during 
 a few weeks only, in the last of the 'Sixties — 
 I will not accept the responsibility of awarding 
 the palm ; but it is fitting that the earlier 
 impersonation should be remembered. 
 
 There is no better moment than the present 
 one for speaking — albeit it may be inade- 
 quately — of one other member of the Terry 
 family ; Miss Marion Terry, whose health, I 
 believe, much more than anything else, stood 
 in the way of her due recognition by the 
 10 
 
146 MEMORIES 
 
 Public in her early days — though it was cer- 
 tainly then also that she was least sympathetic. 
 It is only as a woman past her first youth that 
 Marion Terry's art has been conspicuous — as 
 in Quality Street, and Lady Windermere's 
 Fan, and Captain Drew on Leave. And I 
 am minded to add that the word " con- 
 spicuous," which I chance to have employed, 
 is not at any time a happy one in dealing 
 with an art like hers ; remarkable, not for 
 attractions felt at the first moment by the 
 first comer, but rather for nuances and Jinesse, 
 a modern delicacy of light and shadow. 
 
 The inconspicuous ease of Marion Terry's 
 Stage bearing and delivery, in all these later 
 years of a career now far advanced, and there- 
 fore discussable, has had (though my com- 
 parison will not, I suppose, be generally 
 relished, and may even be considered a little 
 surprising) some affinity with that of the 
 veteran Stage counsellor in times of trouble 
 and occasions of difficulty — Charles Wyndham 
 — who, since the brilliant indiscretions of his 
 theatrical youth (Pink Dominoes, for instance), 
 and the not undemonstrative chivalry of his 
 David Garrick — it may be a little " rubbed 
 in " — has taught us an art long supposed to be 
 beyond the scope of English players— the art 
 of reconciling the audience to a great mono- 
 
MANY ACTORS 147 
 
 logue, sustained in drawing-room tone. The 
 actors of the Gymnase, the Vaudeville, and 
 the Francais were alone, it was conjectured, 
 equal to coping with the effective delivery of 
 lengthy drawing-room arguments and man-of- 
 the-world philosophy, such as fell from the 
 pen of the greater and younger Dumas. But 
 Sir Charles Wyndham, through a manner not 
 in the least incisive, but faultlessly insinuating, 
 has manifested his right of entry into the 
 ground that was theirs. 
 
 A method far more obvious, yet not pre- 
 vented by that circumstance from being in its 
 own way sterling, was one of which a pleasant 
 acquaintance with Wilson Barrett and Miss 
 Eastlake made me a rather frequent witness. 
 It is true I never saw Wilson Barrett till he 
 got to the Princess's ; but there, in realistic 
 melodrama, such as The Silver King and Lights 
 o London, and in pieces of more marked 
 ambition, like Claudian and The Manxman — 
 not to speak of Hamlet — I listened to an 
 utterance and diction telling and distinct, and 
 saw what importance could be assumed, what 
 authority exercised, upon the stage, by a short, 
 thick-set, perfectly intelligent, yet not highly 
 imaginative man who knew his business and 
 was strenuously bent on the pursuit of it. 
 
 Miss Mary Eastlake I had seen at the 
 
148 MEMORIES 
 
 Criterion — a simply sweet and well-mannered 
 blameless heroine of a piece that I fell very 
 foul of — Pink Dominoes. I had also seen her 
 in the Engadine. At the Princess's, the erst- 
 while bewitching young person had given place 
 to an actress capable, interesting; and, although 
 not without mannerisms, Miss Eastlake was 
 still attractive. In her art, she made pro- 
 gress. It had, in Clito, what is called 
 " realism " — presumably, the uglier side of 
 reality. On the whole, I preferred her in parts 
 not only more sympathetic to any audience, 
 but in more real accord with what I believe to 
 have been her nature and temperament. 
 
 One day, when she lunched with us — both 
 she and Wilson Barrett and his family were 
 almost neighbours of ours — I remember that 
 though by no means habitually priding myself 
 upon my role being imitative, I was imitative, 
 servilely. I reproduced upon the luncheon- 
 table, with humiliating accuracy, an arrange- 
 ment of flowers — golden yellow, yellow, pale 
 yellow, white and yellow, and pure white — 
 which I had beheld, only the day before, on a 
 table set out by Mr. Whistler. Miss East- 
 lake was complimentary ; and, when I had 
 named the source of my inspiration, I was at 
 ease, and could listen to the actress extolling 
 the merits of the placid farm-yard country 
 
MANY ACTORS 149 
 
 that she loved. At her house, I have found 
 myself in the pleasant company of Hall Caine, 
 and of the blithe Miss Marie Corelli : with 
 whom indeed and many others I was once 
 upon a house-boat, boarded for half an hour 
 by le General Boulanger, in his quality of Pre- 
 tender. Upon these social rounds, Boulanger 
 was discreet. At Wilson Barrett's, one of my 
 remembrances is of the manly figure of Bret 
 Harte. 
 
 Not far removed from that period of 
 Theatrical History in which Wilson Barrett 
 and Miss Eastlake received the most of popu- 
 lar approval — roughly, a quarter of a century 
 ago — was the time at which several very inter- 
 esting and then, generally speaking, quite 
 young actresses, devoted heart and soul to 
 the intellectual Drama, did excellent and 
 striking work ; and most of them I was privi- 
 leged to know. Two of them were of 
 American birth — Miss Marion Lea, who first 
 played the heroine of my humble adaptation 
 from Andre Theuriet, at the Vaudeville (it 
 was called The Farm by the Sea, and was 
 later taken into the country by Miss Muriel 
 Wylford, whom, to my delight, I rehearsed in 
 it, at Liverpool), and Miss Elizabeth Robins, 
 like Miss Lea, as everybody knows, a con- 
 firmed Ibsenite. My own admiration of Ibsen 
 
150 MEMORIES 
 
 is wont to be limited to the pieces of poetic 
 outlook and of happily unexplained mystery, 
 like The Master Builder and The Lady by the 
 Sea. The charm of Miss Robins as an actress 
 was one that I did not feel strongly: her force 
 and mental agility as a woman, I have never 
 doubted since first I met her in Stanhope 
 Place, at the house of the father of my friend, 
 William Poel. Miss Lea — married while 
 still young to a son of Dr. Weir Mitchell — 
 was interestingly imaginative, and could ex- 
 press a genuine emotion, though with no very 
 finished art. There was a great deal in her. 
 
 Contemporaries of these ladies were Miss 
 Eleanor Calhoun, Miss Janet Achurch, and 
 Miss Alma Murray. Miss Calhoun — 1 might 
 have recollected before — was, like Miss Lea 
 and Miss Robins, American — but 1 am to be 
 excused, because she belonged, by tempera- 
 ment and by appearance, to Southern latitudes. 
 Hers was an affluent, an impressive, as it 
 were a semi-Spanish beauty. She played, for 
 a time, with the Bancrofts at the Haymarket ; 
 but was seen, I think, to most advantage after- 
 wards, as Hester Prynne, in an adaptation 
 from Hawthorne. I met her first either at 
 Lady Wilde's or at Mrs. Chandler Moulton's. 
 
 Miss Achurch — brilliantly acceptable, emi- 
 nently human, in The Dolls House — played 
 
MANY ACTORS 151 
 
 delightfully in another adaptation of the 
 Scarlet Letter than that which was prepared 
 for Miss Calhoun ; and it was possible, and 
 very interesting, to see the two within a day 
 or so of each other. Each performance had 
 conspicuous and perfectly individual merit ; 
 and if a good piece and illuminating acting 
 always got their deserts, the run accorded to 
 both plays would have been longer. I re- 
 member that Miss Janet Achurch, in Oakley 
 Street, said to me many penetrating things, 
 that I received gladly, and gave me one 
 piece of information it pierced me to the 
 quick to hear — " Charlie," said she, in answer 
 to my inquiry (she was speaking of Mr. 
 Charles Charrington), " Charlie does some- 
 times read Dickens — reads him when he is 
 tired." 
 
 Not very long before these interesting and 
 really gifted young exponents of modern 
 problem-drama were under the impression 
 that the talent of Ghosts and of A Doll's 
 House overpowered the genius of Copperjield, 
 I had followed what were even then the too 
 infrequent performances of Miss Alma Murray 
 — who, with her husband, Mr. Forman, we 
 counted among our friends. I saw her, with 
 Hermann Vezin, I think, it must have been, 
 in The Cenci. I saw her, to my infinitely 
 
152 MEMORIES 
 
 greater joy — more than that, to my com- 
 pletest satisfaction — in the In a Balcony of 
 Browning. Browning himself — who, between 
 Helen Faucit's day and Alma Murray's, had 
 gone very little to the theatre — praised her 
 with characteristic earnestness. For many 
 parts she had disqualifications — in prose she 
 was not very telling — but it is certain that in 
 her we had for a brief space an artist upon 
 whom no subtlety of the Poetic Drama was 
 lost. And she warmed herself, and us, at its 
 fire. 
 
 Of French actors — not to speak of those 
 who are in the front, to-day — I have enjoyed 
 in their time Favart and Delaunay, the ex- 
 ponents of Musset at his best : of Musset in 
 the Nuit d'Octobre. I have enjoyed Got, as 
 conscientious in his art as in his life : Rejane — 
 yes, she is still with us— in La Robe Rouge 
 and in the Course du Flambeau: Croizette 
 too — Carolus-Duran's sister-in-law — who had 
 electricity, magnetism : and Helene Petit, who 
 had naturalness, naivete", normal emotion, and 
 the best of young womanly charm. 
 
 From Philippe Burty, in Paris, one of his 
 friends, I heard a good deal, as long ago 
 as in the 'Seventies, concerning Constant 
 Coquelin — the elder and greater Coquelin ; for 
 about Coquelin cadet there was always 
 
MANY ACTORS 153 
 
 something, quaint and sympathetic if you 
 like, but still well-nigh aggressively bizarre. 
 Coquelin was a good deal in the society of 
 Gambetta, at the period I speak of, and 
 it used to be hinted, broadly, that he had 
 a certain political influence — never, per- 
 haps, was it quite asserted that, like the 
 splendid Rubens, he was a great, informal 
 Ambassador. In later years, a corrected ver- 
 sion of Coquelin's relations with Gambetta 
 has come to me from a source more distinctly 
 authoritative. It is the one that I believe. 
 Gambetta, when he rose to power, knew 
 little of the ways of the polite world. He was 
 a genuine patriot, but unfamiliar — it seems — 
 with Society's usages in a thousand little 
 circumstances and affairs. Unwittingly — by 
 speech, by silence, by bearing, even by be- 
 haviour at table, the very handling of that 
 which was before him — he would, I am 
 assured, transgress the social rule, at every 
 hour. Coquelin, for a while, was about him 
 to tell him of his mistakes. Coquelin, in a 
 difficult situation, would " put him through " 
 — until, in fine, Gambetta, great himself, 
 though also, in his hatred of Napoleon the 
 Third, the enemy of greatness — learnt "his 
 way about." 
 
 But that Coquelin, though not the in- 
 
154 MEMORIES 
 
 fluential private diplomat he was sometimes 
 considered, was in himself very agreeable 
 company, a man of supple and informed 
 intelligence, whom one would willingly 
 hear speak on any matter — I can myself 
 bear witness. His performances at the 
 Theatre I have never followed with system. 
 Of course, I have often seen him on the 
 stage — oftener when he was at the Francais 
 than after he had left it — and sometimes 
 rather incidentally. I mean, the motive of 
 my visit was not often Coquelin. In cer- 
 tain of his more famous parts — in his part in 
 M. Rostand's best-known piece, amongst 
 them — I have missed him altogether. But 
 1 am certain that for qualities delicate and 
 tactful, no performance of his on the avowed 
 and public stage was ever better than that 
 which Coquelin "gave," if I may so put it, 
 after a dinner at Henry Arthur Jones's table 
 at the Reform Club, when, in the happiest 
 and most natural manner in the world, he fell 
 to talking — dare I not say, informally lec- 
 turing — about Moliere. One or other of us 
 present — and the company was not wanting 
 in distinction, for Frederic Harrison was 
 there, James Knowles, Sir Evelyn Wood 
 — said just enough to give him la replique 
 (to be a "feeder" is the English theatrical 
 
MANY ACTORS 155 
 
 phrase) : to give him the excuse for going on 
 — and on he went, delightfully, with criticism 
 serious and acute, of which the matter, the 
 main substance, had, I am certain, been long 
 with him, but of which the form was wont 
 to be shaped adroitly, or modified variously, 
 in accordance with the requirements of the 
 actual hour. 
 
XVII 
 
 WALTER PATER 
 
 THERE appeared, the other day, in the 
 Academy newspaper — it does not matter 
 what it was a propos of — an article by Frank 
 Harris, on Pater. The " appreciations " of 
 Mr. Harris are invariably original and courage- 
 ous. They set one thinking. And so it is 
 no wonder that the article roused in me the 
 inquiry, " Do I agree or disagree, in the 
 main, with this none too flattering portrait 
 of the man — with this none too favourable, 
 yet in no sense malevolent, impression of a 
 most interesting mind, of a reserved and 
 complex and enigmatic personality ? " 
 
 The very form of the inquiry in a measure 
 answers the question, and I am under no 
 obligation to answer it more definitely. In- 
 directly it may be answered a little further 
 if I set down my own brief and comparatively 
 superficial — at all events less suggestive — 
 record. 
 
 I think I heard of Pater first at the house 
 of John Addington Symonds. In what was 
 
 156 
 
WALTER PATER 157 
 
 then the study of that admirable Georgian 
 house at Clifton Hill, wherein his father, the 
 physician, had practised before Symonds wrote, 
 there lay upon the table the volume of Essays 
 that had just appeared; and Symonds, my 
 senior, as well as my superior in all knowledge 
 of Academic things, talked to me of Pater, 
 and of the mark this book was certainly 
 making ; and of the mark that Pater himself 
 had made at Oxford, as Fellow of Brazenose. 
 Of course I read the book ; of course I de- 
 lighted in its unceasing regard for Style ; 
 and I was, I am now inclined to think, even 
 unduly impressed by the personality the book 
 seemed to reveal. Whether I ever shared in 
 the ecstasy that has been occasioned to others 
 by that most ornate passage about the Mona 
 Lisa which has since become so celebrated, 
 really I cannot remember ; but I think it 
 unlikely — for the picture itself was never 
 among the things I most cared for. But 
 the book revealed a personality. Pater ap- 
 peared to one, in it, and in some subsequent 
 writings, as the High Priest of an artistic 
 religion, and as that rare creature, the maker 
 of perfect sentences. As time went on, I 
 looked forward to meeting him. 
 
 Whether the first meeting happened at 
 the Hampstead cottage of Charles Appleton 
 
158 MEMORIES 
 
 — the Editor of the Academy in its first 
 and its most learned days — at Netley Cottage, 
 with Edmund Gosse, I remember, as the 
 third guest of that particular evening (Edmund 
 Gosse, young, blond, and genial, stroking 
 continuously, with contentment, Appleton's 
 faultless cat, to which I also was desirous to 
 do homage) — or whether it happened at the 
 Humphry Wards', at Oxford, where, after 
 seeing the performance of the Greek play at 
 Balliol, I had rushed into a dress-coat for 
 dinner, with a celerity that had beaten any 
 previous record of mine, I cannot certainly 
 say. But, having regard to the swiftness and 
 to some feeling of unusually pleasurable antici- 
 pation as to what was immediately to come 
 about — over and above my appreciation of 
 the society of Mrs. Ward and her husband 
 — I should be inclined to say that it was 
 at Oxford that I was first in Pater's presence. 
 Really that does not matter. On both oc- 
 casions — and often afterwards — I enjoyed 
 meeting him. He had liked very much, it 
 appeared, my little Pastorals of France. 
 And I found him from the beginning — 
 wherever the beginning was — extremely 
 agreeable. 
 
 Later — I think before we knew his sisters, 
 but when they had just settled in Earl's 
 
WALTER PATER 159 
 
 Terrace, Kensington — having left Oxford 
 as actual abode — he dined with me at Thurlow 
 Road, in Hampstead : being one of several 
 poets or poetically minded people who arrived 
 from remote parts of the Town — by methods 
 which seemed incongruous. What particular 
 conveyances I would have had these friends, 
 of such exalted minds, take, I honestly cannot 
 say ; but I recollect that it did seem to me 
 inappropriate that one of them should have 
 walked up from the Swiss Cottage and the 
 grime of the Underground Railway, and 
 that another should have required to change 
 his shoes in or about our little hall. Rare 
 spirits — once it was Hardy ; once Austin 
 Dobson : I could add other names of charm 
 — they deserved fairy-like vehicles, and did 
 not get them. It seemed quite natural that 
 I should myself repair by Hampstead omni- 
 bus, to the heart of London, when bent on 
 evening engagements. But, that our suburban 
 door — at which postmen knocked, and many 
 dear, worthy, unillustrious people besides — 
 should open to disclose some great imagina- 
 tive writer, betrayed by the weather — that, 
 I admit, to the end of the chapter would 
 always seem to me curious. 
 
 Let us come to Earl's Terrace : wherein — 
 arrived from Oxford, in whose inner Academic 
 
160 MEMORIES 
 
 circles he had always, or often, been held 
 wanting in orthodoxy — Walter Pater dwelt, 
 and dwelt, as Mr. Frank Harris rather super- 
 fluously assures us, with perfect propriety (I 
 forget the exact phrase) : in an "early Vic- 
 torian " interior, he takes occasion to let us 
 understand. I should have said a mid- Vic- 
 torian however ; for William Morris had 
 inspired the decoration and furnishing, though 
 he had not actually carried them out. They 
 were sad-coloured ; dull— the remains of his 
 earlier method. Sage-green, perhaps, here, 
 which absorbs the light as much as sunny 
 green reflects it. And there, terra-cotta red, 
 with no virtue of splendid crimson, which, 
 as Morris himself knew, and later showed 
 us, is not only fine in itself, but blends with 
 a certain blue so admirably — while terra- 
 cotta colour blends with nothing charming 
 in this world at all. But of course there 
 were pleasant pieces of furniture at Pater's ; 
 and, doubtless, blue china, and I seem to 
 remember lustre ware — possibly De Morgan's 
 — and prints and photographs worth having 
 before one, and grave books, or a French 
 novel : at the least a conte of Merimee's. 
 
 Coming to the man himself, Frank Harris's 
 view — interesting partly because it is entirely 
 untinctured by the Academic, and the views 
 
WALTER PATER 161 
 
 put forth of Pater have too often been young 
 Academic, wholly and unreservedly eulogistic, 
 when they have not been old Academic and 
 drily unfavourable — Mr. Harris's view, I say, 
 is that Walter Pater was a curious contradic- 
 tion : " he talked little, just as he wrote little, 
 and it was difficult to know him well." Further, 
 "At first he kept to conventional, stereotyped 
 phrases, dropped hesitatingly, almost timidly. 
 He never became confidential, even when 
 writing." And again, "Pater belonged by 
 Nature to the fraternity of the Faithless. 
 This world filled his horizon." As to his 
 appearance, and as to its significance, " The 
 jaws were strong enough to keep the desires 
 in leash, and so the great dome of the fore- 
 head, where thoughts had room to pause and 
 swing on wings of rhythm, came to mastery." 
 To quote these phrases, turned so admir- 
 ably, and with at least their reasonable share 
 of insight, affords occasion for producing my 
 own mental notes, amplifying, modifying, or 
 contradicting some of the points these phrases 
 raise, or, it may be, even some of the state- 
 ments they make. I do not remember that 
 Pater " talked little " ; though he did not 
 talk conspicuously much. What he said, was 
 not so much "conventional" — I think — as 
 measured, tolerant, judicial. If his remarks — 
 u 
 
162 MEMORIES 
 
 those apt to be made, it is implied, in the 
 earlier stages of an acquaintance — were ever 
 "stereotyped," they were stereotyped by him- 
 self alone. They were not other people's. His 
 "That is quite true," very slowly uttered — 
 uttered staccato — had an impressive effect, as of 
 grateful meditation ; and I believe I have found 
 myself sometimes wondering whether it was 
 extended, out of sheer politeness, to cover the 
 reception of the sufficiently obvious, as well as 
 of the happily surprising ; since not only the 
 new thought, but the obvious thought, may 
 have truth, and "That is quite true" may mean 
 " That is quite unnecessary." William Sharp, 
 I remember, told me — but to William Sharp, 
 with his Celtic imagination, much strange 
 experience was vouchsafed — that Pater could 
 follow at one and the same time two currents 
 of meditation : that he could think out, quite 
 calmly, in the recesses of his mind, some 
 elaborate problem, while taking part in, and 
 apparently being absorbed in, the discussion 
 of some trivial topic. This was an alarming 
 revelation ; discounting, if one believed it in 
 its entirety, the value of the " That is quite 
 true." 
 
 Then, as to Pater never becoming con- 
 fidential " even when writing," I should have 
 thought that a good deal of his mental analysis, 
 
WALTER PATER 163 
 
 in the Essays, in the Imaginary Portraits, in 
 the Marius the Epicurean — not to speak of 
 one fragmentary piece more strictly auto- 
 biographical — was so personal that it may be 
 almost called " confidential " too. But I think 
 Pater's confidences were more for the many 
 than for the individual — more for the type 
 than for the individual, rather — for the type, 
 that is, that he imagined as receptive of his 
 work ; though the impression is on me, I 
 allow, that from that type also he held some- 
 thing back. His confidences may never have 
 been complete. To no one, in any case — to 
 no one, either real or ideal — did he perfectly 
 unbosom himself; did he lie bare and open, 
 as did Rousseau. Lastly, if he " belonged by 
 Nature to the fraternity of the Faithless " — 
 his horizon, this present world — the passage of 
 time, and many a reflection, and perhaps many 
 a craving, wrought in him, I imagine, at least 
 as much change as deepening experiences 
 wrought in the end on his own Marius, who, 
 passing onwards, willingly suffered himself to 
 be fortified by the rites of a belief not ancient 
 in that Roman day, indeed, but at all events 
 destined to be long-lived. 
 
 Upon my appealing to Pater once, to be 
 moved by some singular exhibition of womanly 
 beauty, more probably in Art than in Life, he 
 
164 MEMORIES 
 
 responded, I remember, but coldly ; though 
 he sought for an explanation of his attitude — 
 or had it at hand. His life at Oxford, he said, 
 had made him so much more familiar with the 
 beauty of boyhood, the beauty of male youth. 
 One must have known Pater a good deal 
 better than I did, to know whether, at all — in 
 days remote or recent — he had ever had a love 
 affair. His description of Mona Lisa — " la 
 Joconde " — does not suggest it : what there 
 fascinated him was the weird mystery of an 
 expression : little else. Yet Marius appears 
 sensible of the attraction of the graceful, good, 
 young Christian mother, who was his friend — 
 who influenced him ; and in Marius, the 
 Epicurean and the quasi -convert, I have always 
 seemed, as I have implied before, to detect 
 a little of Walter Pater. But certainly, from 
 his imaginative as well as from his critical 
 writings, Love interest — " female interest," as 
 the actor or the conventional dramatist calls 
 it, when he holds it to be indispensable — is, on 
 the whole, strangely and conspicuously absent : 
 perhaps even more absent than it is from the 
 writings of Louis Stevenson. 
 
 He was not of a long-lived race. A certain 
 weakness of the heart, which, as time ad- 
 vanced, did not diminish, caused him perhaps 
 to hold habitually before him the ideal of 
 
WALTER PATER 165 
 
 restraint, and of a close and narrow measure 
 of even the most permissible joys. Nor, after 
 all, do 1 think that he required, as much as 
 some men, to " burn with a hard, gem-like 
 flame." I do not imagine Pater excited — 
 stirred at all to the depths — by admirable 
 Humanity, or by noble Landscape, or by 
 the profoundest Art. Rather, it was his 
 function to contemplate pleasurably ; to reflect 
 sagaciously — and then, with nicety and charm, 
 to record. 
 
XVIII 
 
 HENRY IRVING 
 
 BEFORE ever I knew Henry Irving per- 
 sonally, I had watched with admiration 
 and interest — and in each case more than 
 once — three of the greatest, subtlest, of his 
 Stage creations : Digby Grant in Two Roses, 
 Mathias in The Bells, and, last of the three, 
 his Hamlet. Then, when he was still playing 
 Hamlet, Mrs. Wynne, the pleasant widow of 
 a Welsh squire — who, by the marriage of her 
 youngest brother to the famous Miss Bate- 
 man, became nearly connected with Irving's 
 manager, and of course knew Irving — asked 
 me to dine, one Sunday night, to meet him ; 
 and, on arriving, I saw, in quiet talk, leaning 
 against the mantelpiece in the back drawing- 
 room, a slender, pale-faced student — himself 
 the very Hamlet. 
 
 He was, as everybody who ever met him in 
 Society knows absolutely well, entirely simple, 
 modest, chatty, unaffected. And — notwith- 
 standing his absorption in his work — he was 
 one of the comparatively few actors who do 
 
 166 
 
HENRY IRVING 167 
 
 not seek to talk about the Theatre. Often, 
 of course, he had to talk about it. He cared 
 too profoundly for his profession and his art 
 not to be interested in talking about it, to 
 any one of reasonable intelligence upon the 
 subject, whether really expert or not. But, 
 in chance meetings with him, unless you had 
 broached the Theatre, the chances were that 
 you would get a friendly little " tip," such as, 
 " If you are ever in that direction, the ' Cock ' 
 is still an excellent place at which to get a 
 chop." Or you might be told, " No, 1 take as 
 little salt as I can possibly manage with. I 
 am told salt gives you rheumatism." 
 
 Not long after the meeting, at Mrs. 
 Wynne's, Mr. Bateman asked me to the 
 Lyceum, to see the " Hundredth " consecu- 
 tive performance of Hamlet, and to sup. If 
 I remember rightly, that was before the days 
 when suppers at the Lyceum were served on 
 the stage side of the curtain. We supped, I 
 think, in a largish room looking upon Welling- 
 ton Street. I sat by Mr. Critchett, the oculist 
 —Sir Anderson's father— then elderly, while I 
 was very young. " You have good eyes," he 
 said, having looked at me keenly— and when I 
 think of it I remember that they certainly 
 have served me well, a whole generation since 
 then : examining performances and people, 
 
168 MEMORIES 
 
 manuscripts, pictures, prints. "Very close 
 work does not hurt decent eyes." And I 
 think Critchett added, " I have never "—or 
 perhaps it was " seldom "— " had a watchmaker 
 as a patient." 
 
 Irving entered late, and, with what I after- 
 wards learnt to recognize as his even unsur- 
 passable modesty. He went round to a quiet 
 corner that had been kept for him. Charles 
 Dickens the younger — one of the best after- 
 dinner speakers of his time— proposed a Toast, 
 later in the night, and to that, or to another, 
 Irving replied, with words few and appro- 
 priate, and then he slid into a story or two, 
 which he told in the best vein of gentle 
 comedy. 
 
 After that, I used occasionally to go to see 
 him behind the scenes ; but never, as I con- 
 sidered, very fruitfully. On the whole I am 
 against excursions from stall or box to tiring- 
 rooms — I am talking of interviews that happen 
 while the play is still in progress, and the actor 
 occupied of necessity a good deal with his 
 " make-up," with the last touches of his dress- 
 ing for the next act, or for his next entry. 
 All talk is on the surface of things. But 
 Irving was, to my mind, a personality so 
 magnetic, so subtle, and so complex, that it 
 was impossible to find nothing of interest, 
 
HENRY IRVING 169 
 
 nothing that was characteristic, even at such 
 interviews. Besides, other people of a certain 
 mark were sure to be in and out. I remem- 
 ber once it was Sir James Knowles — already a 
 friend of mine — and the talk was of Sir Theo- 
 dore Martin and his spouse, "the immortal 
 Helen." Another time, it was W. P. Frith, 
 the popular Academician, who had an interest 
 in the Theatre as genuine as Knowles's, and 
 perhaps more strictly practical, though less 
 keenly critical — an average actor's interest, 
 more than that of a peculiarly cultivated man. 
 But that is not to say at all that Frith had 
 not a keen dramatic sense. His pictures, of 
 themselves, prove that he had. However, 
 from a remark of Irving's when Frith, on this 
 occasion, had taken his departure, I gathered 
 that he had vexed Irving a little by believing 
 him to be incapable of that in which he had 
 soon afterwards confessedly succeeded. What 
 the part was, does not matter. Frith knew 
 the actor had succeeded, and so had, in his 
 brief visit, complimented Irving ; but Irving's 
 benediction — "God bless you!" — as he went, 
 followed him to the door and beyond it, from 
 rather distant heights— indicating almost that 
 the ingenious painter would be a peculiarly 
 fitting object of help and succour. " Bless 
 you ! " — and a turn to me, as soon as the 
 
170 MEMORIES 
 
 Academician was beyond ear-shot. " He 
 thought I could not do it ! " On the stage, 
 one night, the instant the curtain had fallen, 
 Irving, rather absent-mindedly, introduced me 
 to Ellen Terry. " I knew him before you 
 were born, Henry 1 " was the remark that 
 followed this introduction. Very character- 
 istic of Miss Terry was that picturesque and 
 gracious exaggeration, 
 
 Much more fruitful was it to see Henry 
 Irving when he laid himself out for seeing 
 one — was without preoccupation, and could 
 allow his temperament — never itself really 
 restless — to take its meditative, social rest. 
 Once pleasantly in the country ; twice or 
 thrice at private dinners in that room at the 
 Garrick Club that to the right of the door, on 
 the ground floor, looks out into King Street, 
 did I so see him. He talked something very 
 nearly his best on those occasions ; and he 
 got other people to talk something very 
 nearly their best also. Edmund Yates, 
 Hamilton Aide", Sir Squire Bancroft, Sir 
 George Lewis, George Boughton, the late 
 Sir Frederick Pollock, are but a few of those 
 whom I remember as being very pleasant at 
 his table. At H. D. Traill's, at the Henry 
 Arthur Jones's, and at other houses, of course, 
 have I seen Irving with interest. The very 
 
HENRY IRVING 171 
 
 last time, in the drawing-room after dinner, 
 when I had done anything but force myself 
 upon him — he drew up his chair, I recollect, 
 to talk of a given subject with an air of leisure- 
 liness that is itself restful and rest-begetting. 
 Often 1 was quite content to watch him. He 
 was more interesting than any character he 
 played. In unexpected ways the charm of 
 his personality came out. It must be a full 
 generation now since at a garden-party I was 
 the witness of his introduction to Madame 
 Taglioni : then living, old but vivacious, in 
 Connaught Square — and giving still to very 
 chosen pupils a few dancing lessons. It was 
 in French that Taglioni talked. But in 
 French — if I may put it that way — in French 
 Irving preferred to be silent. He made 
 amends for silence by gesture. He bowed 
 over the hand of the seated lady — kissed her 
 hand with deference, the homage of expres- 
 sive eyes, and a smile that said it was a crown- 
 ing moment : nothing less. And I am sure 
 that Madame Taglioni cherished in her mind 
 — among the spoils of age — a charmed recollec- 
 tion of that interview. 
 
 It has never been anything short of a matter 
 of wonder to me, when people — talking to me 
 about him — have doubted whether Irving was 
 a great actor. That he was an actor with 
 
172 MEMORIES 
 
 abounding faults, some awkwardness, some 
 mannerism, some disabilities, I do not question 
 in the least. And all the denials, that I have 
 ever heard, of his being a great actor, have 
 resolved themselves into this — that he was an 
 actor with faults. All sorts of cultivated 
 people, expressing their incredulity — from 
 Canon Ainger downwards, or from Canon 
 Ainger upwards (for his was really neither a 
 height nor a depth : he only wrote, with a 
 measure of learned dullness, an article in 
 Macmillans Magazine that Irving happened 
 to talk to me about) — all sorts of cultivated 
 people then, were either by temperament or 
 prejudice, or amiable prepossession for some- 
 body no longer present, betrayed into mistake 
 in this matter. 
 
 But the best part of the English Theatre 
 was never for an instant so betrayed. A pretty, 
 rather vain American actress said to me, once 
 • — in a reflective parenthesis — "but Irving is 
 not an actor " ; and Mrs. Terry, who had seen 
 and lived with Macready and the Charles 
 Keans, said to me, forty years ago, " Isn't he 
 great?" It was she, and not the young lady 
 who had not got her engagement, who re- 
 flected the instinct of the profession — of its 
 most capable members — its members at "the 
 top of the basket." And the best part of the 
 
HENRY IRVING 173 
 
 French theatrical world — the people at the 
 Theatre Francais, twenty and thirty years ago 
 (some of them, happily, alive and prospering 
 still to-day) — was of precisely that opinion. 
 The great French actors of lrving's time, who, 
 during their visits to London, saw Irving with 
 alert curiosity and trained attention, all, I 
 think, found him a great artist. Generally, 
 even, they forgot his imperfections, in their 
 sense of the presence of a great personality 
 — of a comrade who had probed his matter 
 to the core. 
 
 The younger generation, that in his last 
 years — after he had left the Lyceum — Irving 
 gathered about him, repeated, I am delighted 
 to remember, the wholesome enthusiasm which 
 had possessed those of us who were the 
 younger generation in the 'Seventies and 
 'Eighties. But in the interval — and especially 
 in the later years of his tenure of, or of his ap- 
 pearance at, the Lyceum — there was, in more 
 quarters than one, a certain cynical indifference 
 to Irving ; attributable, in limited measure, to 
 conditions of his health which did affect his 
 performances — there were times when his 
 utterance, which at his best could be so nobly 
 expressive, was singularly indistinct and in- 
 effective. The absence of his fullest strength, 
 and a certain want of impulse — those were the 
 
174 MEMORIES 
 
 days of many discouragements — tended to 
 accentuate his mannerisms. There were occa- 
 sions on which the very personal magnetism 
 seemed lacking, and the firmly possessed 
 knowledge of his business, and the Irving 
 manner, had to do duty for the soul and for the 
 sensitive art which had withdrawn into the 
 background and were no more seen. But he 
 emerged finally — though alas ! only for the 
 so brief remainder of his days — from the 
 bad period, when established at Drury Lane; 
 and his performances in the revival of 
 Becket — which gave occasion for perhaps 
 the worthiest, assuredly for the most sym- 
 pathetic, of his pictures of great Church- 
 men — were of amazing dignity and feeling. 
 At the end — when, in reality, a danger of 
 complete collapse attended him in each exact- 
 ing performance — he learned to save himself 
 from something of the merely physical task 
 and strain. What he gave us then was the 
 refined gold of his art and nature. Nothing is 
 so difficult as to class great actors — their past 
 is past so completely : there is no dead man's 
 landscape hanging on the wall as living evi- 
 dence of his accomplishment: no poet's book 
 to turn to and reopen : no book with its 
 renewed appeal — but, for my own part, if I read 
 theatrical history rightly, I must suffer no 
 
HENRY IRVING 175 
 
 English actors but Garrick and Edmund Kean 
 to stand by Irving's side. 
 
 A yet younger generation — that has had no 
 chance of seeing Irving at all — has arisen, since 
 he is dead ; and with my eye upon them, and 
 on those others who know nothing of the 
 actor's earlier and most productive time, I 
 shall allow myself to enumerate, in a last 
 paragraph or two about him, what seem to 
 me outstanding moments in performances 
 through a career I somewhat studiously 
 followed. 
 
 The Digby Grant, of Albery's Two Roses, 
 as Irving at the Vaudeville presented him, 
 was a blend of Pecksniff and Turveydrop, 
 with, in his polished pretentiousness, the style 
 and the refinement of a later time, and, more 
 particularly, of a better social world. As it is 
 given to-day to Mr. Hawtrey, pre-eminently, to 
 lie with charm, so it was given to Irving, forty 
 years ago, to be pretentious and hypocritical 
 with good breeding. To be that, he needed to 
 be inventive ; and the imaginative portrait — so 
 quietly dramatic, so bringing into the fore- 
 ground the inner man in Digby Grant — 
 received, I think, its finest touch in the scene 
 in which the testimonial, got up by himself 
 for the most part, is presented to Digby 
 Grant, to his extreme surprise and gratified 
 
176 MEMORIES 
 
 bewilderment, in presence of the village crowd, 
 and the obligation rests upon him — and he is 
 chivalrously in a hurry to discharge it — to 
 return thanks in a speech. Anxious that 
 nobody shall fail to be the witness of his 
 gratitude, he mounts a kitchen or a cottage 
 chair, in nervous agitation, and with one most 
 artful and revealing stumble. His feelings are 
 too much for him. It was the cleverest 
 imaginable little bit of genre painting — a thing 
 appropriate to Comedy alone. 
 
 Then, in The Bells you had melodrama, but 
 psychological melodrama — and I have heard 
 Irving, in conversation, defend even the melo- 
 drama that is unconcerned with psychology. 
 The nervous apprehensions of Mathias — who 
 had been betrayed into this murder — had been 
 apparent from the beginning ; but the Mathias 
 of Irving was strong enough at first to cope 
 with what he deemed the possibilities of sus- 
 picion. But tension tells upon him : gradually 
 undermines him ; and after the prolonged and 
 dreadful labours of his dream, he springs or 
 struggles to a chair, and dies awfully. To have 
 seen that performance was to have supped full 
 of horrors. The first time I saw it, it affected 
 me so much that in going homewards in a 
 hansom, I felt obliged to resist the closing 
 down of the window, though I had for my 
 
HENRY IRVING 177 
 
 companion only a wholly innocent and gentle 
 friend who was my guest. 
 
 At the " first night " of Hamlet, under the 
 Bateman management — the night on which 
 Irving, lifted into creditable notoriety by Two 
 Roses and The Bells, first took his definite 
 place, from which, whatever might be the 
 variations of public favour, he was not after- 
 wards ousted — the charm and the appropriate- 
 ness of his earlier scenes, and the beauty of 
 the actor's delivery of the soliloquies, made an 
 impression, or confirmed an impression which, 
 from the rising of the curtain, had been favour- 
 able ; but it was not until the play-scene that 
 Irving, with his compelling show of wild 
 excitement, drove it home to people that here 
 were dramatic effects not seen, at the latest, 
 since the days of Macready. 
 
 After that triumph, in how many pieces, 
 during how many years, what great moments ! 
 And if I say " moments " I am not unwilling 
 to emphasize the fact that Irving's was an art 
 of endlessly considered detail. Touch upon 
 touch built up his impressiveness. The right 
 relations of all these ingenious, well-imagined 
 details — the welding them in this wise into a 
 whole that had unity — gave him his breadth ; 
 but it was breadth got very differently from 
 the breadth of the doyen of the Francais, the 
 12 
 
178 MEMORIES 
 
 now venerable, always capable Mounet Sully, 
 with his art of large neglect of detail — his art 
 of concentration on great gesture, great voice, 
 great mien. 
 
 I remember Irving telling me — many weeks 
 before his " first " of Macbeth — that he was 
 going into the country, to lie in a hammock in 
 a Gloucestershire garden, and " have a tug at 
 the Thane of Cawdor." It was " a tug " 
 always — that understanding a character as 
 Shakespeare drew it, and then that thinking 
 himself into it by which there became identi- 
 fied with each other the actor and the art. 
 His Macbeth was reasonably successful : a 
 universal favourite it by no means grew to be. 
 But his imagination followed faultlessly, it 
 seemed to me, the fortunes of the Thane, and 
 towards the end — with its braced diction of 
 the great Fifth Act and, best of all, of that 
 act's latest scenes — the actor got his cue for 
 allowing decisiveness to pass onwards into 
 wild desperation. His Othello I do not re- 
 member clearly. That his I ago had subtlety 
 and slyness and a wicked cunning, was a 
 matter of course. So had his Mephistopheles 
 — to the point of loathsomeness. So had his 
 Louis the Eleventh, and to boot, in its exe- 
 cution, it had the deliberate certainty, the 
 detailed exactness, of a Holbein. I did, I 
 
HENRY IRVING 179 
 
 recollect, a little resent that the version of the 
 story Irving used gave no opportunity for any 
 human touch, except that characteristic touch, 
 for Louis Onze, of an enjoyed familiarity 
 with the low-bred. But in Casimir Dela- 
 vigne's drama — in the old man's sense not of 
 craven fear but of essential loneliness — there 
 are hints of pathos and regret. 
 
 The Romeo of Irving has been held up to 
 ridicule. He was already a little too old for 
 this embodiment of headstrong love, when he 
 first took the part, and, unlike Delaunay, who 
 sighed out till old age the romantic verses of 
 Alfred de Musset, he could not conceal his 
 years. Had Irving lived in the suburbs, he 
 too might have run after an omnibus — daily, 
 as an approved gymnastic, fitting him for the 
 theatre. But if the very figure of Irving, more 
 than his actual age, contributed to disqualify 
 him for Romeo, what other actor has appeared 
 to our eyes as so consumed with virile passion ? 
 Moments of homage there were which com- 
 pared fairly well with Irving's wooing — with 
 flushed face, and craving eyes — of Anne, in 
 Richard the Third. And again, has there 
 ever been shown us a Romeo who put the 
 force that Irving put into those lines to the 
 Apothecary about the poison he had bought 
 from him and the " worse poison " of money — 
 
180 MEMORIES 
 
 " Here's gold for thee "—which Romeo was 
 now placing in the Apothecary's hands ? The 
 lines are too philosophical for Romeo ; but 
 that was Shakespeare's fault : not the Lyceum 
 player's. He had but to render them. And 
 it is safe and interesting to conclude that an 
 actor of the calibre of Irving, appearing in his 
 least appropriate part, finds means to throw 
 new light, somewhere or other, and, in the 
 midst of a foreseen failure, scores some un- 
 suspected success. 
 
XIX 
 
 WHISTLER, HADEN, LEGROS 
 
 A GENERATION ago, three great artists, 
 working here in England, were in the 
 midst of their conspicuous successes, in the art 
 they practised best. They were the three 
 most famous Etchers of the last half of the 
 Nineteenth Century : perhaps of the whole 
 Nineteenth Century — save Meryon. It was the 
 time of the Revival of Etching, and I speak 
 of Seymour Haden, Whistler, and Legros — 
 each one a man of striking individuality of 
 character. I knew them all, more or less 
 well ; and it is a pleasure to recollect — what- 
 ever failings or peculiarities one had to re- 
 cognize and make allowance for — how much 
 they all stood out as interesting personalities : 
 head and shoulders above most of those 
 fellow-executants who were their contempo- 
 raries : head and shoulders above the average 
 educated person. Each one of them, on your 
 acquaintance with him, could contribute some- 
 thing to your knowledge of Life, and your 
 vision of it. You were in contact not only 
 
 181 
 
182 MEMORIES 
 
 with brilliant performers, but with beings 
 sensitive, receptive, and communicative : with 
 spirits who observed, and thought, and 
 felt. 
 
 But all that Mr. Whistler succeeded, or 
 endeavoured to " contribute " or " communi- 
 cate " to me, the first time that I met him — 
 sitting opposite to him at a friend's at dinner 
 — was, I am bound to admit, an impression 
 wholly unfavourable. By his own written 
 account (a letter, since printed, which, when 
 I read it, a few years ago, did not strike me 
 as conspicuous for accuracy), he set out with 
 the intention of being curiously disagreeable, 
 directly he knew who I was. He may have 
 owed nothing to me as a fellow-guest — that 
 is " neither here nor there " — but something, 
 in any case, he owed to his hostess — sitting 
 between us — and that something he entirely 
 forgot. Remarks definitely intended to be 
 " nasty " to me — and which of course I was 
 to hear — he planted on our hostess with 
 decision. She tried to stop him ; but it was 
 impossible. He was continuously aggressive. 
 His brassy laugh rang out louder and louder, 
 more and more penetrating, at each produced 
 example of his triumphant rudeness. 
 
 Next time — but when it was, or how long 
 afterwards, I forget — the strange creature of 
 
WHISTLER, HADEN, LEGROS 183 
 
 genius was in milder and more chastened 
 mood. It is hardly likely, though, that when 
 that " next time " came — however long after- 
 wards — I was myself particularly prevenant. 
 For what was I to expect ? Still, there was 
 no friction. And, later, things improved. 
 Walter Sickert's pleasantness — or his facile 
 sense of comedy ; but I think it was the former 
 — caused me to be seated by Whistler at a 
 congratulatory Dinner of the New English 
 Art Club, where the sometime provocative 
 painter said pleasant things about me in a 
 speech, and I warned him, with equal pub- 
 licity, that I was elusive, exceedingly. Later 
 still, the gentleness of Mr. Malcolm Salaman 
 did its part, I think, in bringing us together ; 
 and of Whistler himself — as far as personal 
 intercourse is concerned — all my remaining 
 memories are agreeable. Staff in hand, as 
 the comrade who would also be the in- 
 structor, he has led me round his picture 
 galleries. 
 
 I have seen him at home, in the whitest 
 Summer raiment, of a London July, mixing 
 cooling yet not unstimulating drinks for me. 
 I have seen him print impressions of his 
 etchings, and, guided by the result, stopping 
 after the examination of each proof to add 
 what seemed to him desirable dry-point 
 
184 MEMORIES 
 
 touches on the copper. I have seen him 
 withdrawing himself from easel and from 
 canvas, with an admiring and delighted 
 "Amazing!" as he apprehended the height 
 of his achievement. This was at the Vale 
 — a modest, narrow house, in some quiet back- 
 water off the Chelsea main road — a house in 
 which there was not much then gathered, but 
 a house at least in which everything was 
 simple, and nothing ugly. The white cloth 
 lay habitually — all day — on the dinner-table. 
 There was English silver of the simple, 
 classical time — that 1790 that I love the 
 most, for its form, refined and purified. There 
 was a little late Georgian furniture ; a little 
 blue china ; neat matting on the floor, and a 
 background of primrose yellow. 
 
 Seymour Haden, great etcher, brilliant 
 surgeon, and may I allow myself to add, 
 excellent and convincing writer — and " Bien 
 ecrire, cest bien penser," Buffon says — I first 
 met at a small dinner at the Burlington Club. 
 Rubicund, energetic, enthusiastic, and at the 
 same time with a captivating appearance of 
 being judicial, he passed from discussions upon 
 Fine Art to discussions upon Earth burial — 
 he was all for wicker-baskets, flower -piled, 
 and quick dissolution. That was at a period 
 at which, I remember, Seymour Haden was — 
 
WHISTLER, HADEN, LEGROS 185 
 
 for all his then conceded triumphs in Etching 
 — still practising as a high -class general prac- 
 titioner; and my first remembrance of him 
 as a guest of his (to see some of his Old 
 Masters' drawings, perhaps) in Hertford 
 Street, is of his standing at his door, 
 shouting to an infirm, grave gentleman of 
 saddened colour, in an open landau, " Good- 
 bye, Archbishop!" and, when the carriage had 
 moved off, turning to me to say, significantly, 
 "The Archbishop is very old" — which meant, 
 rather, that Tait, respected and beloved, was 
 ill, hopelessly. 
 
 Not very long after that time, Seymour 
 Haden abandoned practice, and Hertford 
 Street, and, revelling in the clearer light of 
 the country, escaping from the crowded 
 dwellings of Mayfair, took possession of an 
 old manor-house, with the modern-sounding 
 name of "Woodcote," in the neighbourhood 
 of Alresford, upon the sweep of the low 
 Hampshire chalk Downs. There I remember 
 spending a short succession of pleasant days 
 with him and Lady Haden and their daughter- 
 in-law and her young friend Miss Russell — 
 Miss Russell taking me, the day that I was 
 leaving, to see a very beautiful Romney por- 
 trait, whose home was at her mother's at 
 Petersfield. Herkomer had preceded me as 
 
186 MEMORIES 
 
 a guest at the Hadens', and they had all 
 been interested in him — in his ready intel- 
 lect, and the profundity and completeness of 
 his absorption in every branch of his work. 
 
 By this time, Sir Seymour had not entirely, 
 but still had chiefly, given up Etching. After 
 his abandonment of London life, not many 
 were his performances upon the copper. But 
 apart from, walks and drives and occupations 
 about his small estate — and a small estate, I 
 have noticed, may seem to have as many claims 
 upon its owner's own time as a great one — 
 Seymour Haden had the literary interest of 
 a generally cultivated man (1 remember he 
 suffered me to read Poetry to him) ; and 
 furthermore, he was the Curator, the careful 
 curator, of his own collection — and to be 
 the watchful curator of your own collection 
 is itself a pursuit. Print after print, pile 
 after pile of prints, abode, most delicately 
 enwrapped, most legibly numbered and named, 
 on shelf after shelf of a chamber disposed 
 like a large linen-room, and never suffered 
 to get damp in the very least degree. It 
 was on the warm side of dryness. Thinking 
 of Richard Fisher, an already deceased brother- 
 collector and friend, who dreaded exposing 
 delicate and valuable prints, in any numbers, 
 to the vicissitudes of a country temperature, 
 
WHISTLER, HADEN, LEGROS 187 
 
 even on the hill-top at Midhurst, and so had 
 rooms in the heart of London, within a 
 stone's-throw of the Museum Print Room, 
 that there at least his collection might be 
 safe, I asked Seymour Haden, I remember, 
 if he had never had any fear, and he touched 
 his walls, and said " They are three feet thick " 
 — I think it was. Fine Prints, which^ are 
 of the fragility of an American consumptive, 
 were thus provided for. 
 
 Among a score — a hundred — people and 
 subjects that we talked about freely, in those 
 leisurely days at Woodcote, Haden and I got 
 back to Whistler pretty often : in so many 
 ways he interested us both. " The longer 
 I live, the more I admire Whistler as an 
 artist," said Haden of his brother-in-law ; 
 or rather of his step-brother-in-law (for Lady 
 Haden was but Whistler's half-sister), "The 
 longer I live, the more I admire Whistler as 
 an artist, and the more I feel it to be my 
 business to avoid him as a man." 
 
 But then again — a pleasant light breaking 
 out over his face — " Yet Whistler was quite 
 lovable, as a youth. Something turned him ; 
 something warped him — I don't know what." 
 And then, after a moment or two of quiet 
 reflection, "I am sure I don't wish him any 
 ill ! " It was incompatibility of temperament 
 
188 MEMORIES 
 
 — and heat on Haden's part, and " cussedness " 
 (if one may use the word) on Whistler's — 
 that had really separated them — that had 
 made separation necessary. 
 
 And when I was alone with Lady Haden, 
 who retained a real affection for the man for 
 whom she had done so much while he was 
 yet a boy, Lady Haden would put this or that 
 question to me about him ; and I could see 
 that, at that period, he was not a person whom 
 she discussed in the presence of her spouse — 
 her spouse, an autocrat ; benevolent, I know ; 
 but an autocrat still. 
 
 Haden was far too broad-minded an artist 
 not to recognize the greatness of the third 
 great Etcher of his time apart from Meryon 
 — Alphonse Legros. He may not have had 
 particular sympathy with him. Their tem- 
 peraments were unlike. The one was optimist 
 and energetic. About the other, there was a 
 little — not of the pessimist, but of the fatalist 
 — a good deal of the laissez-aller. But this at 
 all events they had in common — and of this, 
 Whistler, save in some personal affections, gave 
 no sign — each had a deep, abiding, constantly 
 present sense of Life's seriousness and impor- 
 tance ; of the grave issues of every human 
 fate. "Je trouve la vertu dans la correction 
 de la forme " — the creed of Theophile Gautier 
 
WHISTLER, HADEN, LEGROS 189 
 
 — excellent as long as it does not pass beyond 
 the walls of a studio — was not a sentiment 
 either Legros or Haden would have approved ; 
 though there were hours when each might in 
 a sense have understood it. 
 
 It was when Legros was a Professor — Slade 
 Professor of Fine Art at University College, 
 London — that I saw most of him, and that 
 most was not a great deal, but it was of a kind 
 to make me always desirous of seeing him 
 again and soon ; and regretful I was, often, of 
 accidents that kept me from him. For, with 
 this grave Burgundian — with this child of 
 Dijon (Lulli's birthplace and Bossuet's), who 
 had a touch of slow and stately Spanish 
 seriousness — you felt you were in contact with 
 a rich nature : a soul that had suffered and 
 deepened. Legros had known hardships: long 
 want of appreciation — and to amuse himself 
 from day to day had never been his ideal. All 
 his seriousness — his sense of the macabre even, 
 which was dominant in his earlier years — is re- 
 flected in his work. There is his sense of pathos, 
 and of quietude, and of calm beauty, and of the 
 little that must needs suffice. What is not re- 
 flected in his work, is his humour — for it was 
 rather English humour than Gallic wit, but yet 
 had Gallic neatness. Legros could say a thing 
 satirically. He could enliven and bedeck 
 
190 MEMORIES 
 
 with Fancy his discourse. He could laugh — 
 he could stretch out the situation that made 
 laughter possible and natural — but there 
 lurked always in the background his know- 
 ledge of " the tears of things." 
 
 Like Haden, he was distinguished by the 
 cordiality of his appreciation of the work of 
 others ; but his appreciation was extended less 
 widely, because with his own time, he was, on 
 the whole, far less in sympathy. I am tired of 
 calling Legros what I have called him so often, 
 " a belated Old Master." But is there any- 
 thing else that one can call him as truly ? 
 Dignity, austerity, reticence, a large economy 
 of means — they were the characteristics of 
 Legros, and they were the characteristics of 
 all the greater masters who came between the 
 Primitives (who were learning their business) 
 and the charm of the Eighteenth Century. 
 Diirer and Holbein, Poussin and Mantegna, 
 and, not so visibly perhaps, but not less truly, 
 Rembrandt, were at the base of Legros's art, 
 and gave it its stability, if not its impulse. 
 Rembrandt was the master he most of all 
 revered ; and of the Moderns it is character- 
 istic that Alfred Stevens — our English sculptor 
 and our noble draughtsman — was the person 
 that Legros was most of all anxious to press 
 into recognition. 
 
WHISTLER, HADEN, LEGROS 191 
 
 I have said, that was " characteristic." It 
 was not in the least unnatural. For Alfred 
 Stevens, like Legros himself, was a man of the 
 Renaissance — a man of the Renaissance born 
 out of his due time ; born late, into our colder, 
 weaker day. 
 
XX 
 
 LECTURING AND READING 
 
 THE differences in audiences are at the least 
 as great as are the differences between 
 the persons who address them. But it takes 
 a lecturer or reader a certain amount of prac- 
 tice, thoroughly to grasp those differences, and, 
 even in a limited degree, to turn to account, 
 in his performance, that which he has suc- 
 ceeded in noting. Although I have not either 
 lectured or read very extensively, or with much 
 continuity, it does happen that I have ad- 
 dressed audiences of widely different kinds, in 
 widely different places. I have done so with 
 ever-growing interest in the work and its con- 
 ditions. And perhaps a few of my experiences, 
 and one or two of my deductions, may be set 
 down here. 
 
 First, let me say, that, taking count, I hope, 
 a little of my personal idiosyncrasies, I — though 
 I have my views, like other people — have never 
 attempted to appear on platforms political or 
 social. Also, if now and again, an after-dinner 
 speech has been politely wrung from me, 
 
 192 
 
LECTURING AND READING 193 
 
 it has been wrung from me with lively un- 
 willingness on my part. After-dinner speaking 
 is an art of its own — subject to laws of its own 
 — and I have never, I think, even begun to 
 master them. Such utterances as I have 
 made — and as I have enjoyed making — in front 
 of the public, have been comments, and more 
 or less " criticisms " — in the sense of apprecia- 
 tion, much more than of fault-finding — on the 
 Art of Literature, or on the Art that is pic- 
 torial. I have lectured on Balzac, and on the 
 Short Story, and on Charles Dickens, popular 
 and great ; and on Rembrandt, Turner, M dry on 
 — one or two others — great personalities in the 
 arts of Colour and Line. And in reading — in 
 public reading for the most part dissociated 
 from critical comment — 1 have confined my- 
 self to the Literature that is imaginative : I 
 have read great Poetry, not a line of which I 
 could ever have written, and have read short 
 stories : sometimes by Masters of the craft, 
 and sometimes my own. 
 
 The first deduction I arrive at from such 
 experiences as I have had, is, that in the de- 
 livery of the matter in hand, while correctness 
 and appropriateness are to be obtained only by 
 the study of detail, breadth must never be lost 
 sight of : breadth must be the first thing of all. 
 But that is truer of the Reading than of the 
 13 
 
194 MEMORIES 
 
 Lecture. It is difficult to apply it, fully, to the 
 Lecture ; and, in the Lecture, so far as it can 
 be applied at all, " breadth " has to take the 
 form of a certain simplicity and large variety 
 of more or less obvious effects — the alternation, 
 for instance, of the humorous, or at all events 
 the light, with passages of solid information or 
 of earnest assertion of belief. And that is a 
 matter of composition, of course, more than of 
 delivery. 
 
 In the Reading — the delivery, that is, of 
 Imaginative Literature, in prose or poetry — 
 breadth seems to me of the first importance 
 — general effect — the ensemble; though here 
 again, the ensemble, to be good at all, must 
 have been studied in every one of its parts. 
 But it must be broad first. It will not be 
 good merely because it is broad ; but it can 
 never be good unless insignificance and petti- 
 ness — the prying, minute, long-sighted view, 
 so to call it — be eschewed altogether, and the 
 breadth, once got, maintained carefully, never 
 overlaid as the result of consideration of detail. 
 In this connection, I am reminded of the phrase 
 of Mrs. Stirling, that accomplished English 
 actress, who, in her later life, gave lessons in 
 what is called Elocution — I am reminded of 
 the word she was in the habit of launching 
 from one end of the room to the other — from 
 
LECTURING AND READING 195 
 
 the end where she sat, to the end where 
 there stood before her, a young woman, a 
 friend of mine, who was at that time her pupil. 
 At the close of a passage, Mrs. Stirling would 
 condescend to no other comment than the 
 utterance of this word, and the repetition of 
 it — " Bigger, my dear ! Bigger." The passage, 
 begun again by the pupil, was now quickly 
 interrupted. " Bigger ! " And, yet again, 
 " Bigger, bigger, my dear ! " Nothing else. 
 My young friend thought Mrs. Stirling not 
 meant quite, by Nature or by Art, to be a 
 teacher of Elocution. As an actress, authori- 
 tative ; but as professor, wanting in resource. 
 Yet Mrs. Stirling's first and most cryingly 
 needed business, was to attack and bear down 
 the pettiness of the amateur. 
 
 Such elocution as I learnt, I learnt first 
 from my old schoolmaster, Till Adam Smith 
 ■ — a Quaker, with the deepest appreciation 
 of grave Poetry — an appreciation deep as 
 was John Bright's itself — and next (and that 
 was many years afterwards) I hope I learnt 
 something from Walter Lacy, the hale old 
 actor of comedy and of romantic drama, who 
 was at that time engaged, more or less, at the 
 Lyceum, under Irving. I used to visit him at 
 his rooms in Maddox Street, to receive my 
 lessons. His teaching had nothing dogmatic 
 
196 MEMORIES 
 
 in it — it was not with servility that one was in- 
 vited to follow him. He aroused one's intelli- 
 gence — he set one thinking and planning for 
 oneself. I read a little Comedy with him. 
 But his favourite teaching book was Milton's 
 Comus. In Comus — in every line of Comus : 
 almost in every word — he found means of in- 
 struction : the material for wise comment, for 
 judicious admonition. Walter Lacy was an 
 interesting man. He inspired one with liking, 
 as well as with respect. And I was sorry 
 when in process of time, the lease falling in, 
 the small and narrow house — a lodging-house 
 — which he inhabited, in Maddox Street, was 
 pulled down. Go, Lacy must. Years had 
 passed. He was getting very old. He was 
 getting dependent. Professing Elocution no 
 longer at the Royal Academy of Music — 
 then in Hanover Square — acting no longer at 
 the Lyceum ; still dragging himself, no doubt, 
 from time to time to the Garrick — I mean of 
 course the Club, and not the Theatre— he took 
 up his abode at a place, half tavern or eating- 
 house and half hotel — the "Phoenix " — off 
 Oxford Street, a simple and prosaic retreat — 
 and it was there, I think, that, well cared for, 
 as I understood, he died : full of years, and 
 not, at the last, unhonoured. 
 
 The second deduction, from my not very 
 
LECTURING AND READING 197 
 
 abundant experience, is that you can never 
 treat — or, at all events, count upon treating 
 — any two audiences in exactly the same way. 
 This is more particularly true of Lecturing : 
 it is true, though in a lesser degree, of Read- 
 ing. Actors do not, I think, feel this neces- 
 sity for differentiation, as much as lecturers 
 and readers do ; and for the simple reason 
 that a long " run " — any " run " — brings them, 
 night after night, in contact with audiences 
 that, though they are not of the same people, 
 are of the same kind of people. Actors, how- 
 ever, feel the difference between one town and 
 another. And it is with the place, more than 
 anything, that the conditions vary. Now, in 
 lecturing or reading, no one has any " run " 
 at all. Change of place is constant — there- 
 fore change in the class of audience, or in 
 its habit, or disposition. With a written 
 lecture, one does well, I think, to make some 
 allowance for this in advance ; and even in 
 reading — reading with little or no critical 
 comment — what is good for one audience is 
 often not, throughout the length of it, good 
 for another. In addition to any allowance or 
 modification made in advance, it is well, it 
 seems to me, to be observant at the time of 
 delivery, and to be ready, if the need presents 
 itself, to make slight changes and suppressions 
 
198 MEMORIES 
 
 — occasionally even, explanatory and conversa- 
 tional additions. Then, as long as an audience 
 remains quite still, even though you get no ap- 
 plause, you may be fairly safe — for there is a 
 class of audience, not necessarily stupid, but a 
 little phlegmatic, that makes you no acknow- 
 ledgment till all is over. And there is no 
 audience that will remain quite still, if it is 
 bored seriously. But the moment there is any 
 sign of fidgeting, take in your sail. Cut 
 technicalities, wherever it is possible : if there 
 is now any sign of boredom, a single dull 
 passage will bore people more, much more, 
 than it would have bored them at starting. 
 In Reading, there are audiences before which 
 it is desirable to heighten the comic, and 
 other audiences before which it is desirable 
 to heighten the poetic effect. Go with the 
 tide. Get into sympathy, as much as you 
 can, with the mood of the audience of the 
 particular night — which means generally, as 
 I have said before, with the audience of the 
 particular place. That is what I should say 
 to one who is entirely a beginner. 
 
 Obviously, the room in which you appear 
 affects you. Its size, its shape, and even its 
 appointments. Effects suited to one room 
 may be found out of keeping with another. 
 I have shouted in a Corn Exchange at Kirk- 
 
LECTURING AND READING 199 
 
 caldy, and have shouted, not perhaps enough, 
 in the large hall of the Midland Institute at 
 Birmingham. Would the method adopted, 
 or sought to be adopted, at both these places, 
 possibly, have been suited in the least to an 
 audience of critical and student-like young 
 men and women in the prettily proportioned 
 Sever Hall at Harvard, or before the fine 
 ladies and the professors at Baltimore, in the 
 rooms of the Johns Hopkins University, or 
 even in front of the beau decor (as a French- 
 man well described it to me) of the long 
 saloon of the Villa at Cannes that was built 
 for Monsieur Persigny — a foreign Minister of 
 the Second Empire ? Would it have suited 
 even the admirable theatre of the London 
 Institution ? — a place neither large nor small, 
 and not at all beautiful — simply workman- 
 like : a place in which I think you require 
 something between the method for the public 
 hall and the method for the drawing-room. 
 The audience, there, is not so close to you 
 that you need fear to "produce" yourself— 
 there is room for your effects, if you have 
 them. And yet no part of it is remote. 
 And there, as in any regular theatre, except 
 a very large one, the placing of the people 
 — their concentration — is such that it begets 
 cordiality — a little electricity even — unless 
 you are not to be tolerated at all. 
 
200 MEMORIES 
 
 Persons bent upon instructing their hearers, 
 may like Lecturing, and not like Reading. 
 For myself, I prefer Reading. Being too 
 desperately conscientious, I expect — or is it 
 only because one likes to air one's little " fads " 
 and preach one's little gospel, even with 
 the possibility of wearying men ? — there is no 
 lecture of mine that has not several dull and a 
 few difficult moments. But Reading — and 
 more particularly reading Poetry — is from first 
 to last a joy. As mere physical exercise, it is, 
 to its practitioner, pleasurable. And then, 
 than any lecture, it is so much more your own. 
 Perhaps you have written nothing of that 
 which you read. But you read it because you 
 love it, and can identify yourself with it. For 
 yourself at least you have the interest of 
 narrative and character, rhythm's music, the 
 charm of wit, and the blissful thrill of emotion. 
 
XXI 
 
 MRS. KENDAL 
 
 IF I were asked what English player, promi- 
 nently on the boards during at least the 
 greater number of my playgoing days, had 
 impressed me most, after Irving — had given 
 me most effectually that uouveau frisson to 
 receive which is perhaps our greatest gratifi- 
 cation at the Theatre — it would not be a man's 
 name that I should cite in answer. It would 
 be a woman's — Mrs. Kendal's. And in naming 
 this artist I should remember that I had taken 
 into account four facts or circumstances or 
 conditions contributory to the decision I had 
 come to — first, length of service ; then variety 
 of brilliant performance ; then the possession 
 of the artist's temperament ; then the complete 
 and firmly held acquisition of an elaborate and 
 mainly concealed art. What Mrs. Kendal was, 
 in her extreme youth, it happens that my first 
 chapter has thinly sketched. The sketch — 
 weak even in outline — shall be supplemented 
 (I cannot say filled up) by a brief reference to 
 the particular quality of her later achieve- 
 
 201 
 
202 MEMORIES 
 
 ments. Of these achievements, one or two 
 are of thirty years ago, at least. But again, 
 one or two are, as it were, of yesterday. 
 
 The performance of Galatea, in Gilbert's 
 Pygmalion and Galatea, at the Haymarket, 
 was one of the first — perhaps actually the first 
 of young Mrs. Kendal's serious triumphs. She 
 was the ideal Galatea. Waking from the 
 stone, this new slim being had an dme vegetale, 
 yet more truly than Ingress " Source." Then 
 she grew human ; but in mind a child. Every- 
 thing was novel, and to be slowly apprehended. 
 In the naivete of her awakening intelligence 
 there was admirable comedy. Later, there 
 was feeling. Last of all, as the figure, now 
 sensitive, must turn once more to marble, 
 there were regrets — poignant but in the voice 
 and face — for an experience forgone, or an 
 experience prematurely closed. That First 
 night at the Haymarket was an exciting one 
 for the audience. Exciting, too, it must have 
 been for " Miss Madge Robertson " — it left the 
 greatness of her career scarcely any more in 
 doubt. 
 
 It is natural, I think, that the first brilliant 
 success should have been, mainly, a success in 
 Comedy — and this notwithstanding a saying 
 on the Stage in France, " It takes ten years to 
 make a comedian." In the full French sense 
 
MRS. KENDAL 203 
 
 of Comedy, it does take ten years, no doubt : 
 ten years and a temperament. But then the 
 Comedy of France involves acquaintance with 
 the world : intimate knowledge of the best 
 social bearing : no small acquaintance, by ob- 
 servation or experience, with the ins and outs 
 of a light love affair, and with a woman's 
 moods in all sorts of conjunctures : wayward- 
 ness, and indulged tenderness : unreasoned 
 preference, fascinating irresponsibility. Gala- 
 tea's comedy was not of that order, or that 
 range. It was simplicity, naivete, the sudden 
 joy of living. 
 
 More difficult than that — to healthy youth, 
 like Mrs. Kendal's — was it to express with at 
 all equal force the depths of human affection. 
 Certainly, from the first there had been 
 moments when the opulence of her own nature 
 — its warmth, dare I say? and its intensity 
 — had been more or less revealed. But 
 they were "moments." They were almost 
 accidents. And the step was a long one from 
 that stage to the stage in which the artist, 
 observant and reflective, and sensitive besides, 
 could weave into her acting something of her 
 Past, or of the Past of her fellows, and 
 enhance with high imagination the thing 
 remarked or remembered. At the St. James's, 
 in association with her husband and John 
 
204 MEMORIES 
 
 Hare, many were the legitimate successes of 
 the leading heroine of domestic drama. There 
 was The Squire — Pinero's early serious piece, 
 with its strange resemblance to Far from the 
 Madding Crowd. Amazing was Mrs. Kendal 
 in the part that recalls Bathsheba Everdene ; 
 at every instant there was interest, truth, 
 vitality. Yet, as an expression of emotion, 
 twice I think within my recollection has that 
 performance been surpassed. Once was in the 
 intense pathos of the performance of Mrs. 
 Clifford's The Likeness of the Night. And 
 that achievement was in years quite recent. I 
 saw the piece, myself, by going over into 
 Kennington — to the prettiest, I doubt not, of 
 really suburban theatres — where, on a certain 
 night, Mrs. Kendal — on the eve of an attack 
 of Influenza, as it presently appeared — had to 
 make superhuman efforts to do the thing at 
 all, as I heard from Mrs. Hodgson Burnett 
 and the Miss Hepworth-Dixons, whom I 
 saw in their box. She did it with what I am 
 inclined to call superhuman power. She was 
 as one "possessed." And the other occasion 
 — a few years earlier than the time of The 
 Likeness of the Night — was at the St. James's, 
 in I think the later days of Mrs. Kendal's asso- 
 ciation with that playhouse. The play was an 
 adaptation, by Mr. Clement Scott, of Madame 
 
MRS. KENDAL 205 
 
 Emile de Girardin's one-act piece, La Joiefait 
 Peur. The butler in La Joie fait Peur — the 
 butler as he was played by Got, at the 
 Francais — is the creation that dominates. In 
 the Clement Scott adaptation, with Mrs. 
 Kendal in it, it was Mrs. Kendal who dominated 
 — and that was in the nature of things. The 
 wife — Mrs. Kendal — is in London : the hus- 
 band is in India : and there is no news from him 
 whatever : there is grave reason to fear that 
 he is dead : the wife does fear it — dreads it — 
 but her dread must be concealed ; and to her 
 husband's mother — who is a blind woman — a 
 letter — all imaginary — has to be read. And 
 you see Mrs. Kendal with forced brightness, 
 and then with many tears, inventing the letter 
 — and that is the most pathetic scene I ever 
 saw in my life — or, if it is surpassed, it is sur- 
 passed only by the moment of rapture at the 
 husband's return. 
 
 Unlike the leading actresses of the Francais 
 — the Madeleine Brohan of my boyhood, who 
 was then already mature : the Madame Favart 
 who was pre-eminently the Muse, sombre 
 and consolatory, of the Nuit dOctobre : the 
 Madame A mould Plessy of my earlier man- 
 hood, already then the greatest of grandes 
 dames, and an Elvire, in Tartuffe, a little too 
 antiquated — Mrs. Kendal was not, as a rule, at 
 
206 MEMORIES 
 
 her finest in literary drama : she was not at 
 her finest in classic parts : not even in classical 
 comedy : she was not at her finest in Shake- 
 speare. But it may be that I have shown to 
 such younger readers as exist under the dis- 
 advantage of having no experience of her art, 
 that Mrs. Kendal, on lines quite of her own — 
 as the naive girl and the devoted woman : the 
 normal woman in good and evil fortune : in 
 radiant happiness and bitter misery — did 
 traverse the keyboard of emotion : striking 
 with firm fingers the ringing treble and the 
 disconsolate bass. Since I have seen her 
 splendid counterfeit of Life, I have understood 
 Life less imperfectly. 
 
XXII 
 
 GREAT PREACHERS 
 
 " f pHERE is only one great preacher left 
 -L to us in the Church," said Mr. Brown 
 Borthwick, to me once, at Scarborough. 
 He was a thoughtful preacher himself — had 
 brought to great usefulness his church of 
 All Saints ; was an authority on music, and 
 a man of the world. " And that is the 
 Bishop of Ripon," Brown Borthwick added. 
 It was after Liddon's death. 
 
 I had not heard the Bishop then — though 
 of course I knew his reputation. Very soon, 
 I made a point of hearing him. Early one 
 Sunday evening — tired already by the agree- 
 able exercise of one of H. D. Traill's lunches, 
 where there were always half a dozen people 
 you were delighted to talk to (I mention it 
 to show that my own mood at church may 
 not have been the most receptive), I heard 
 the Bishop in his brother's pulpit in Blooms- 
 bury — in Mr. Boyd Carpenter's church of 
 St. George's, near Mudie's Library. Later 
 — not more than a year afterwards-- 1 heard 
 
 207 
 
208 MEMORIES 
 
 him at St. Peter's, Eaton Square. The first 
 impression to put down is that of his extreme 
 inequality. At St. George's, Bloomsbury, I 
 heard — I seemed to be hearing — one who 
 was scarcely less than a man of genius. At 
 St. Peter's, Eaton Square, it was a man of 
 talent, who was creditably fulfilling his task. 
 
 The sermon at St. Peter's — my second 
 opportunity — 1 have implied it already — 
 was serious and solid : it was capable and 
 a propos ; and it was delivered well, but in 
 no sense wonderfully. In the sermon at St. 
 George's, the Bishop had seemed at no moment 
 to be drawing from the convictions of his 
 Past — convictions no doubt always existing, 
 sometimes latent — to impart to him the fire 
 for To-day. He spoke rather, and from 
 first to last, from the convictions of that 
 hour, burningly within him ; and that he 
 might express them adequately — do justice 
 to his theme — he employed lavishly the 
 resources of thinker, writer, orator. He 
 was logical ; he was cogent ; he was pene- 
 trating ; he was satirical and touching. He 
 was vigour and earnestness from end to end. 
 There was no resisting such an appeal. It 
 was the appeal of a prophet, endowed with 
 sagacity as well as vision. 
 
 I have no desire to echo Brown Borthwick's 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 209 
 
 opinion — if it was true when he uttered it, 
 it may not be true to-day. " The only 
 great preacher left to us in the Church " 1 
 will not call — I should hesitate to call — Boyd 
 Carpenter. But the greatest to whom I 
 have been privileged to listen, I may, in 
 words of soberness and moderation, call 
 him. 
 
 Once I saw our new Canon of West- 
 minster conduct the business of a Committee. 
 I was the witness of his exactness and rapidity, 
 and of his grasp of the essential point. Once, 
 at a great Meeting at the large Queen's Hall 
 — Lord Rothschild in the chair — it was a 
 meeting to protest against the persecution 
 of the Jews in Eastern Europe — I heard 
 him as a platform speaker. The spare little 
 man stood up with alacrity, as soon as he 
 was called upon ; lightly clasped his small, 
 nervous hands behind him, and faced the 
 great audience without a note. He began 
 slowly and in a tone entirely conversational. 
 He put the facts before men with fault- 
 less lucidity. Then, in a voice waxing 
 more and more earnest and resonant, he 
 appealed to great principles, and, leading us 
 gradually upwards, reached, before he had 
 done, to heights of fine simplicity and noble 
 vision, such as were scaled, in the greatest 
 
 14 
 
210 MEMORIES 
 
 of his speeches, by John Bright, fifty years 
 ago, and by no one else that 1 have known 
 in my time, in English political or religious 
 utterance. 
 
 When Brown Borthwick pronounced his 
 dictum, that the only great preacher was the 
 Bishop of Ripon, Stopford Brooke had 
 already left the Church of England, and so 
 he could not be in the reckoning. I had 
 reminded my friend at Scarborough of that 
 fact. But when I think of Stopford Brooke, 
 not necessarily at Bedford Chapel at all, but 
 in times yet more remote, when he was at 
 the now destroyed proprietary chapel in York 
 Street, St. James's Square, I am convinced 
 I have in my mind a preacher who, to Boyd 
 Carpenter, was, at the least, a very good 
 second. It is true he was to some extent for 
 another public ; but that is not important — 
 there would certainly have been an overlap- 
 ping on the public's part. Half of the people 
 who would have been fitted to appreci- 
 ate the great Bishop of Ripon, would have 
 been also the best fitted to appreciate the 
 young man, eloquent and brilliant, who in 
 the 'Seventies of the last Century had come 
 lately from the chapel of the Embassy, Berlin. 
 
 Stopford Brooke was more ornate than 
 the preachers I have already discussed. His 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 211 
 
 temperament — his Irish temperament — caused 
 his work to be bedecked with flowers of 
 Fancy. To say that he was more emotional 
 than the English dignitary is not to say at all 
 that he was not intellectual. To say that would 
 be ridiculous. Thought and meditation, and 
 meditation in high mental latitudes, in regions 
 peopled by the great constructive poets — 
 Wordsworth and Coleridge perhaps the chief 
 of them — were the very basis of the fabric he 
 raised. He had the courage to face modern 
 problems, and he could preach a sermon that 
 was a criticism excellent and final of the 
 " Melancholia " of Diirer. This variety, this 
 range, of mood and mental action, accounted 
 for the range and variety of the audiences 
 that crowded the little chapel in York Street. 
 Opposite me in the gallery, I used to see Mr. 
 Justice Mellish — one of the subtlest lawyers 
 of his time — Mr. Justice Mellish sitting with 
 open mind, and a countenance trained to 
 express nothing. After the sermon, I have 
 seen Matthew Arnold walking thoughtfully 
 down the staircase, detached and analytical. 
 Neurotic women of Fashion and great place 
 have I beheld, enraptured and enthusiastic, 
 in the front seats. The young man about 
 Town was present occasionally, and you 
 would hear him, after the sortie — as he 
 
212 MEMORIES 
 
 stood on the street pavement, waiting 
 for the Fair — wondering whether Stopford 
 Brooke was " a humbug," and deciding that 
 he was not. But so much emotion seemed 
 unnatural to the young man — his own heart 
 scarcely aroused— and he remembered, besides, 
 that, like Charles Honeyman's, this was a 
 proprietary chapel, and that, as at Charles 
 Honeyman's, there were wine vaults under- 
 neath it. Still, the verdict was favourable. 
 Then there were active members of Parlia- 
 ment, busy professional men, and quiet men of 
 Letters, pretty ladies, and here and there the 
 anxious young man, still troubled, because of 
 his youth, to solve, or not to solve, the riddle 
 of the world. Moreau's " Sortie de l'Opera " 
 might have found its counterpart, or its pen- 
 dant, had some observer of Life — a Frith with 
 greater power to " spot " the characteristics of 
 the refined world — or a Jean Beraud who could 
 grasp the English type — recorded the exeunt 
 from York Street Chapel, in the 'Seventies. 
 On the pavement, there was the clash of 
 secular tongues : but in the pulpit all had 
 been earnestness, reflectiveness, eloquence, 
 reverence. 
 
 What a contrast it was- — how different 
 everything except the congregation — when, 
 one Sunday morning, unexpectedly, instead 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 213 
 
 of Stopford Brooke, with his atmosphere of 
 poetry and feeling, we had, as sole ministrant, 
 an elderly, bald - headed little gentleman, 
 dapper and prim, who read to us a sermon 
 of the very neatest, a benevolent essay of 
 the most precise, which nevertheless here and 
 there wandered for a moment into regions of 
 well-bred satire, so that we were able to re- 
 cognize, not the face only and the piping 
 treble voice, but the hand also, the individual 
 mind, of the Master of Balliol — Jowett. 
 
 As a boy, I heard the famous preaching 
 Bishop of Oxford — Samuel Wilberforce. 
 That was in Bristol Cathedral. The occasion 
 was interesting. I cannot say it was borne 
 in upon me that Wilberforce was actually 
 great. There too, at Bristol, first of all, 
 and afterwards at Leeds — and the Vicarage 
 of Leeds is the sure gate to Bishoprics — I 
 heard Dr. Woodford, whose manner was 
 based to some extent, I have been told, 
 upon that of the subtle Bishop of Oxford. 
 Indeed, 1 recognized some similarity myself 
 — but the similarity never suggested imita- 
 tion. In eloquence, but thoughtful eloquence, 
 Woodford abounded — he owed a debt to the 
 great Bossuet — and he possessed what is a rare 
 thing now, but very soothing, the " Port 
 wine voice " — the enriched tones of one who, 
 
214 MEMORIES 
 
 whatever he may be, is certain not to be 
 revolutionary — one rests with him contentedly 
 in the accepted order of things. 
 
 Stanley I heard once — soon after I had 
 read the sympathetic and appreciative sermon 
 he preached when England was lamenting 
 Dickens. An interesting and careful, and, for 
 the times, even a bold preacher; but I have 
 never understood that he was accounted a 
 great one. It was much, however, that there 
 should be, at the Westminster Deanery — as 
 the centre of social life in the Westminster of 
 his day — such a tolerant, comprehensive, liberal 
 spirit, to whom the quality of natural sweet- 
 ness could scarcely, I suppose, be denied. 
 
 When in New York, in 1885, I made a 
 point of walking across the bridge to Brooklyn, 
 in order to hear Ward Beecher ; and all the 
 more, because at Boston I had missed Phillips 
 Brooks. Of course, in Ward Beecher 's church, 
 as in the churches of his community gener- 
 ally (it was exactly the same at Dr. Parker's), 
 the preacher is everything, and all the rest 
 nothing. It was the first Sunday after 
 Beecher had come back from a long and 
 recuperative holiday, and he was, seemingly, 
 in the best possible condition. His pulpit, 
 or his platform — which was the particular 
 institution at Brooklyn I at this distance of 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 215 
 
 time forget — was made gay and festive by 
 flower and shrub, brought in from his place 
 out in the country — Pough Keepsie, was it ? 
 — I know it sounded at once American and 
 rural. The great congregation lacked no 
 element of good behaviour, and the impres- 
 sion made upon me by Ward Beecher was, 
 not of " cheapness," not of theatricality, but 
 of good solid thought, of utterance effective 
 and plucky. 
 
 From Ward Beecher one passes naturally 
 to Dr. Parker. Dr. Parker's manner — though 
 I have not the very faintest reason to doubt 
 his full sincerity — was infinitely more theatrical 
 than was Ward Beecher's : indeed there were 
 tones and mannerisms that suggested to me 
 either a close study of Henry Irving, or, 
 failing that, the magical effect of, it may be, 
 one single experience of him, acting on an 
 organization sympathetic, responsive and pre- 
 pared. Parker, like Boyd Carpenter — like 
 all men, more or less — was unequal ; but his 
 level, in my small experience of perhaps three 
 sermons, seemed always high. At his best — 
 and his best for me was when he appeared 
 ("appeared" must be forgiven) at a Wesleyan 
 Chapel at Hampstead : not in a place of his 
 own sect's — at his best, he approached great- 
 ness : I should even say, reached it. 
 
216 MEMORIES 
 
 At the Church of St. Peter's, Vere Street 
 — associated with F. D. Maurice in an earlier 
 generation — there preached habitually, during 
 a score of years or more — and it is compara- 
 tively lately that those years were over — that 
 most distinguished, in recent times, of the 
 Canons of Canterbury, Page Roberts. There 
 was a moment — after the death of Bradley 
 — at which it seemed to some that it would 
 have been altogether fitting that Page Roberts 
 should have had the Deanery of Westminster. 
 It was offered to, and accepted by, another ; 
 and then, after a little lapse of time, a 
 Deanery fell vacant within the confines of 
 Thomas Hardy's Wessex, and Page Roberts 
 withdrew himself to the grey peace of 
 Salisbury. Salisbury of course gained what 
 Westminster had lost. There was some 
 satisfaction in the move. But it was to 
 Westminster, I cannot help believing, that 
 was best adapted this piquant, luminous ex- 
 ponent of a thought that is reverent and 
 free. Intellectual London — which inspired 
 him, and which he influenced — was Page 
 Roberts's world. 
 
 Strictly speaking, the phrase " a great 
 preacher," is not the best one to apply to 
 the long-time incumbent of St. Peter's, Vere 
 Street ; but Page Roberts was — and I hope, as 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 217 
 
 Dean of Salisbury, is still to-day — a preacher 
 curiously interesting, reasonable, full of the 
 best modern spirit : and a man of the world, 
 whose conception of Life, and Life's duties, 
 had dignity and wisdom. In taste, and habit of 
 thought, sagaciously poetic — " sagaciously" be- 
 cause it is to the real poets that the secrets of 
 Life are entrusted — he lived with great Litera- 
 ture, and expressed himself in its terms. A 
 reasoner equipped and cogent upon the themes 
 he was disposed to handle, his was the gift of 
 polite sarcasm, the saving grace of humour. 
 
 To the interest of the sermon in Vere 
 Street, was added the interest of hearing Page 
 Roberts read the lessons, and something 
 besides. His performance of that task must 
 have satisfied, I should surmise, Sir Squire 
 Bancroft, whom I was wont to espy, well 
 placed in the middle of the church, carefully 
 listening. To me, of the narrative unfolded 
 in the Lesson, the reading made a living thing. 
 AVhile perfectly unconventional, the delivery 
 never sought to be extremely dramatic ; and, I 
 confess, my own views upon what is appro- 
 priate in public reading are pretty decided : I 
 avow myself an opponent of everything that 
 makes reading approximate to Acting — the 
 Reader's art is his own. Even the reading of 
 Drama and of such Fiction as is mainly, or 
 
218 MEMORIES 
 
 largely, dialogue, should very rarely, I think, 
 adopt all the means which, on the Stage, are 
 legitimate and efficacious. Regard must be 
 had to the perspective and the decor. Gener- 
 ally, in reading, I should object to the em- 
 ployment of the full gamut. A perfect reader 
 is one who comprehends and practises deli- 
 cately the art of the nuance. 
 
 How deeply does the personality affect 
 every performance, and the result that it 
 produces ! That pretty obvious truth was 
 never realized more fully by me than when I 
 saw and heard for the first time — at the Parish 
 Church of Buxton — the first Bishop of South- 
 well, Dr. Ridding, who, in his earlier function 
 of great schoolmaster, had re-made Win- 
 chester. The man said nothing, in Buxton 
 Church that day, which was strikingly fresh — 
 which you wanted to note down and re- 
 member. It was all that was said between 
 the lines — it was all that he did not actually 
 say — it was all that he avoided saying — it was 
 what he looked and was — that made up the 
 sum of his effect. It was distinction and 
 magnetism. 
 
 Several times after that impressive introduc- 
 tion to him, I heard the Bishop of Southwell, 
 in Derbyshire and London. Sometimes he 
 chose his words not very skilfully — I have 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 219 
 
 known his sentences a jumble. Even on those 
 occasions he was a great preacher — because 
 he was a great man. At the Church for the 
 Deaf and Dumb, in Oxford Street, I heard 
 him preach, with perfect apprehension of the 
 need for that particular occasion — when some- 
 body, as the Bishop spoke, translated into the 
 language of the fingers the uttered word. At 
 the Church of St. Ann's at Buxton — the mother 
 church of the place, a church perched up, 
 ancient and small, upon the Derbyshire 
 hill-side — he was among the evidences of 
 an extremely High Church ceremonial and 
 method, known very well not to be to his 
 individual taste. In bearing and in word 
 Ridding accepted with a finished tact the 
 possibility — probability even — of a utility to 
 others, of ways not serviceable to himself. 
 He was delivered of a sermon, brief, exquisite, 
 complete. 
 
 Volumes of Sermons are little noticed in the 
 public Press ; and not much attention was 
 given, outside ecclesiastical journals, I suppose, 
 to the collection of preachments issued either 
 not very long before or very soon after Bid- 
 ding's lamented death. I will venture to say 
 of it that it is a mine of liberal thought ; and 
 I think that it includes one sermon, at least, 
 which should make it especially sympathetic to 
 
220 MEMORIES 
 
 the artist — the artist in Literature or Paint- 
 ing — since it puts into nothing less than its 
 proper place the refining, sometimes the re- 
 deeming influence of all Art, upon those to 
 whom it is a pursuit, a duty, and a passion. 
 
 I doubt if such a view of Art, pictorial or 
 literary — of its almost moral functions, of its 
 immense sustenance for those prepared by 
 Nature and Thought to receive it and practise 
 it — could ever have occurred to the great 
 Liddon, whom twice, on Sunday afternoons, 
 in his later day, have 1 listened to, under the 
 dome of St. Paul's. Liddon had humour ; but, 
 so far as I know, you did not suspect it in his 
 sermons. A master of a style lucid, explana- 
 tory, he was not without literary interest. 
 But he was theologian, above everything. 
 To the inheritance of what was called " the 
 Oxford Movement " — the work of Pusey, 
 Keble, and of the English days of the most 
 rightly fascinating Newman — Liddon was the 
 direct successor. When he preached, it was 
 a substantial, a large meal for mind and 
 spirit that was eaten at the table he spread. 
 Nearly an hour it took him to preach in 
 St. Paul's — where delivery is necessarily slow 
 — one of his St. Paul's sermons. That, I 
 believe, is equal to about three-quarters of an 
 hour elsewhere — at least in most places — and 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 221 
 
 in his closely fitted writing there were no 
 longueurs. Being myself, for the most 
 part, perhaps curiously unconcerned with 
 Theology, 1 should have felt, I expect, the 
 strain of Liddon's closely knit discourse on 
 themes to which I scarcely had entrance, but 
 for the emanations of his personality, the sense 
 of goodness, the charm of comeliness, the 
 voice, bell-like in quality, and whose light 
 tones were used with skill. The congrega- 
 tion itself was impressive : people of all kinds, 
 but of the graver sort mostly, gathered from 
 all parts of London, with a contingent of 
 visitors from the country, from Scotland, from 
 America — and these, in unusual proportion, 
 were of the Cloth : worshippers who no doubt 
 had come to worship, but, above all, students, 
 as it were, who had come to study a master. 
 
 From that experience of, as nearly as may 
 be, twenty years ago, I go back — to end with 
 — to an earlier time, and to two preachers who 
 had impressed my youth, in my own country- 
 side ; and there was a sense, certainly, in which 
 both of them were great. 
 
 The life — practically — of David Wright (a 
 volume of whose sermons was published after 
 his death, with an Introduction, sympathetic 
 enough, but yet not very personal, not very 
 descriptive, not hitting the nail precisely on the 
 
222 MEMORIES 
 
 head, by the late Canon Alfred Ainger) was 
 passed as Incumbent of St. Mary Magdalene, 
 Stoke Bishop. Early in that modest and shy 
 career, David Wright, really shrinking from 
 publicity, yet conscious of his gift, and, as it 
 were, living for his sermons, won the regard, 
 not only of sober-minded folk in his particular 
 parish (where was my father's place), but of all 
 that was intellectual in the town, or Eristolian 
 suburb, of Clifton, separated from the nearer 
 portions of Stoke Bishop by only a mile of 
 down-land. To the end he kept that regard, 
 and the regard became respect, and the respect 
 reverence. 
 
 Though he was heard, I believe, at St. 
 Peter's, Vere Street, in the latest days of 
 Maurice ; though one year he was Chaplain 
 preaching at the Mayor's Chapel, Bristol ; and 
 though he preached in Westminster Abbey, 
 what is called preferment — a definite lift — never 
 came to him. Canon of Bristol is the very 
 least that it was felt he should have been. 
 David Wright was one of the people it is 
 impossible to describe. The personality was 
 elusive and retiring. It was essential he should 
 be seen and listened to in church. What one 
 remembers is a grave presence ; a head un- 
 usually noble ; lines, on the face, of thought, 
 and controlled sadness ; a voice deep without 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 228 
 
 heaviness— a voice cheerful in private com- 
 pany, but fitted well to give expression in the 
 pulpit to his unsurpassed sense of the accepted 
 pathos of our human fortunes. 
 
 In that profound and reverent gravity — 
 and in much besides — David Wright was at 
 one, absolutely, with an occasional, a fre- 
 quent preacher, whom I think he did not 
 know : an elderly Friend, Robert Charlton, 
 whom I — I am glad to say — had great chances 
 of hearing when I accompanied my Father, 
 driving into Bristol, to the Friends' Meeting 
 House, in Rosemary Street, on Sunday morn- 
 ings, before 1870, and, sometimes, after it. 
 
 The reader knows (1 hope) that amongst 
 the people called Quakers, no one is formally 
 consecrated to — his life set aside for — "the 
 Ministry." In theory — and in fact, unless 
 his utterances prove inappropriate and un- 
 welcome — any one so minded, or so "moved " 
 —any one with a " concern," in the phrase- 
 ology of the Friends — can hold forth for 
 the general edification, and for the relief of 
 his spirit, at the meetings for worship. If, 
 after a time, their spoken contributions of 
 thought and feeling are held to have value 
 —to be entitled to encouragement, for the 
 common good — these speakers are recog- 
 nized as "Ministers" — of course wholly un- 
 
224 MEMORIES 
 
 paid— and this recognition is not intended to 
 arrest or narrowly limit their interest in, and 
 pursuit of, their profession or trade. I forget 
 what Robert Charlton was, exactly — I think a 
 manufacturer or merchant, on a scale not 
 large. I am certain that in his secular work 
 Robert Charlton added to the unblemished 
 honour that is exacted of Friends — gener- 
 ally — that which is also of course en- 
 couraged, but cannot in the nature of things 
 be exacted, a treatment rather specially kind 
 and generous, of every servant or subordinate 
 with whom he had to do. Between Robert 
 Charlton's daily life in business and his life 
 of the spirit, there was, I am sure, no dis- 
 cord ; so that, without difficulty — but for- 
 tified, no doubt, by thought and reading, 
 and the practice of a charity which began, it 
 may be, but never ended with alms-giving — 
 he came from the affairs of the week into the 
 atmosphere of a Sunday which, with Friends, 
 has at no time been puritanical, into the 
 silence of the Meeting : a silence which is 
 not the barren silence of the superficial, but 
 a silence that Maeterlinck has fathomed, and 
 set forth the fruitful depths of, in the first 
 essay in Le Tresor des Humbles. Many there 
 are, as Maeterlinck remarks, " qui nont pas 
 le Silence." 
 
GREAT PREACHERS 225 
 
 For a while one would see Robert Charlton 
 — in the Ministers' slightly raised gallery — 
 sitting in reverent quietude. Deeply, more 
 deeply, was he immersed in thought. That 
 was revealed to one, as time passed on, in 
 the workings of his face. His soul was in 
 travail. What was to be the upshot? It 
 might be, he said nothing. Much likelier, 
 however, after some further wrestling, he 
 would remove his hat suddenly ; then rise ; 
 grasp the firm gallery balustrade, in front 
 of him ; and, with a countenance altogether 
 inspired, with a voice extraordinarily melo- 
 dious, pour out the burden of his meditations 
 — of his solicitude, of his encouragement — in 
 a spirit that was pure poetry and in a form 
 that was the very best of English prose. 
 
 In a sketch of some of the great English- 
 speaking preachers 1 have had the privilege 
 to listen to, it would have been a folly indeed, 
 much more — it would have seemed to me not 
 loyal — to have left out the name of Robert 
 Charlton. 
 
 THE END 
 
 15 
 
INDEX 
 
 Achurch, Miss Janet, 150 
 Agar, Mile., 36 
 Aide, Hamilton, 34 
 Ainger, Canon, 172, 222 
 Alford, Dean, 109 
 Alma-Tadema, Sir L., 68 
 Appleton, Charles, 118-21 
 Arnould-Plessy, Mme., 211, 
 
 215 
 Asquith, Right Hon. Herbert, 
 
 116 
 Austin, Alfred, 72 
 
 Balzac, Honore de, 7 
 Bancroft, Lady, 1-13-44 
 Bancroft, Sir Squire, 144 
 Barres, Maurice, 40 
 Barrett, Arabella, 53 
 Barrett, Wilson, 147 
 Bayes, Walter, 133 
 Bayliss, Sir Wyke, 71 
 Beecher, Ward, Rev., 214-15 
 Bernhardt, Sarah, 24-28 
 Berton, Pierre, 21-24 
 Bismarck, 45 
 Blagden, Isa, 57-58 
 Bonaparte, Prince Lucien, 119 
 Borthwick, Rev. Brown, 207 
 Boudin, Eugene, 6 
 Boughton, George, 170 
 Boulanger, 149 
 
 Boyd-Carpenter, Bishop, 207- 
 10 
 
 Brohan, Madeleine, 205 
 Bronson, Mrs., 61 
 Brooke, Rev. Stopford, 210-12 
 Brown, Ford Madox, 119 
 Browning, Robert, 52-63 
 Burne-Jones, Sir E., 135-37 
 
 Campbell, Miss Elspeth, 89 
 Castletown, Dowager Lady, 79 
 Cay ley-Robinson, 133 
 Champneys, Basil, 118 
 Charlton, Robert, 223-25 
 Cheri, Rose, 33 
 Chippendale, 143 
 Chute, 3 
 
 Coghlan, Charles, 12 
 Coleridge, S. T., 80 
 Collier, Thomas, 107-8 
 Compton, 143 
 Constable, John, 80 
 Constable, Miss Isabel, 80 
 Coppee, Francois, 36-39 
 Coquelin, 152-155 
 Cotton, H. S., 120 
 Crane, Dame, 50 
 Croizette, 152 
 Cruikshank, George, 75 
 
 Delaporte, Marie, 33-35 
 Delaunay, 152 
 Descle'e, Aime'e, 28-32 
 Dickens, Charles, 14-20 
 Doble, C. E., 120 
 
 227 
 
228 
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 Dobson, Austin, 159 
 
 Dumas, Alexandre, /?&, 22, 31 
 
 Eastlake, Miss Mary, 148 
 "Eliot, George," 83 
 Exeter, Marquis of, 88 
 
 Falguiere, 26 
 Fargueil, Mile., 22-35 
 Faucit, Helen, 6, 169 
 Favart, Mile., 205 
 Fechter, Charles, 5 
 Flandrin, Hippolyte, 109 
 Fosbrooke, 12 
 Frith, W. P., 169 
 Fulleylove, John, 105 
 Furnivall, F. J., 103 
 
 Gambetta, 153 
 Gerome, Leon, 40-43 
 Gilbert, Sir W. S., 135 
 Gilchrist, Anne, 108-10 
 Gillies, Margaret, 96-98 
 Girtin, 105 
 
 Girardin, Emile de, 22 
 Gladstone, Right Hon. W. E., 
 
 84 
 Gosse, Edmund, 66-68 
 Got, 152 
 
 Green, Charles, 105 
 Gregory, E. J., 106 
 Guyard, Antony, 41 
 Guyard Auguste, 40 
 Guyard, Stanilas, 40 
 
 Haag, Carl, 103 
 
 Haden, Sir F. Seymour, 184-88 
 
 Halevy, 30 
 
 Hamley, General, 76 
 
 Hardy, Thomas, 159 
 
 Harris, Frank, 156 
 Hawtrey, Charles, 175 
 Healy, G. P. A., 43-45 
 Henniker, Hon. Mrs., 13 
 Hepworth-Dixon, Miss, 204 
 Herbert, Miss, 4 
 Hine, H. G., 107 
 Hinton, James, 118 
 Hodgson-Barnett, Mrs., 204 
 Hodson, Henrietta, 12 
 Hogarth, William, 84 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 92- 
 
 95 
 Hollingshead, John, 333 
 Houghton, Lord, 83-86 
 Howells, W. G., 95 
 Hutton, Richard, 112-114 
 
 Ingres, Jean-Dominique, 202 
 Irving, Sir Henry, 166-80 
 
 Johnson, Dr., 96 
 
 Jones, Henry Arthur, 68, 69 
 
 Jowett, Benjamin, 213 
 
 Kendal, Mrs., 8, 10, 11, 201-6 
 Kipling, Rudyard, 73 
 Knowles, Sir James, 122-28 
 Knowles, Sheridan, 9 
 
 Lacy, Walter, 195-6 
 Landor, Walter Savage, 64 
 Landrol, 21 
 Langtry, Mrs., 84, 85 
 Lea, Miss Marion, 149 
 Lecky, W. E., 71 
 Leech, Joseph, 10-11 
 Legros, 188-191 
 Leighton, Lord, 127-133 
 Legouve, Ernest, 23 
 
INDEX 
 
 229 
 
 Lewes, George Henry, 82 
 Liddon, Canon, 220 
 Lindsay, Lady, 71 
 Linton, Sir James, 104 
 Liszt, 44 
 
 Livens, H. M., 133 
 Locker, Frederick, 74-77 
 Lcihr, Marie, 12 
 Lovelace, the late Lord, 71 
 Lowell, James Russell, 90, 91 
 
 Macready, W. C, 142 
 Manners, Lady Marjorie, 89 
 Manners, Lady Victoria, 89 
 Marley, Brinsley, 89 
 Maurier, George du, 102-3 
 Mayo, Miss, 58 
 Meilhac, 32 
 Melbourne, Lord, 87 
 Merritt, Mrs., 91 
 Millais, Sir J. E., 133, 134 
 Morris, Sir Lewis, 71 
 Morris, William, 67-69 
 Mudford, W. H., 121-22 
 Murray, Miss Alma, 151 
 
 Orchardson, Sir W. Q., 137-39 
 Orr, Mrs. Sutherland, 58 
 
 Parker, Rev. Joseph, 215 
 Pater, Walter, 156-165 
 Petit, Helene, 152 
 Phelps, Samuel, 141-42 
 Pierson, Blanche, 21 
 Pinero, Sir A. W., 204 
 Poynter, Sir Edward, 85-126 
 Plessy, Mme. Arnould, 21. See 
 Arnould-Plessy and refer- 
 ences there 
 
 Prout, Ebenezer, 120 
 Prout, Samuel, 105 
 
 Rachel, Mile., 23-24 
 Rawlinson, W. G., 67 
 Rejane, Mme., 31 
 Richmond, Sir William, 45 
 Roberts, Canon Page, 216-17 
 Robertson, Mr. and Mrs., 8-10 
 Rogers, Samuel, 95 
 Rothschild, Lord, 209 
 Rutland, John, Duke of, 87-89 
 
 Salaman, Malcolm, 183 
 
 Samson, 23 
 
 Sand, Mme. George, 25 
 
 Sarcey, Francisque, 45-46 
 
 Sargent, John, 145 
 
 Saville, Kate, 6 
 
 Seton, Lady, 95 
 
 Sharp, William, 162 
 
 Silvestre, Armand, 27 
 
 Siddons, Mrs., 81 
 
 Smith, Miss Egerton, 58 
 
 Smith, George Murray, 57 
 
 Smith, Till Adam, 195 
 
 Sothern, 140 
 
 Southwell, late Bishop of, 218- 
 
 220 
 Spielmann, M. H., 130 
 Stanley, Dean, 214 
 Stephens, Mrs., 8 
 Stephens, F. G., 105 
 Stevens, Alfred, 190-91 
 Stirling, Mrs., 194-95 
 Symonds, John Addington/'44, 
 
 156 
 Symons, Arthur, 79 
 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 
 
 64-66 
 
230 
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 Taglioni, Mme., 171 
 Taylor, Tom, 6 
 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 47-51 
 Tennyson, Lord, 50 
 Tennyson, Frederick, 56 
 Terry, Mr. and Mrs., 7 
 Terry, Ellen, 7, 144, 170 
 Terry, Kate, 4-6 
 Terry, Marion, 145-47 
 Theuriet, Andre, 25 
 Thiers, Monsieur, 45 
 Townsend, Meredith, 115-18 
 Traill, H. D., 205 
 Tree, Sir Herbert, 69 
 Turner, J. M. W., 80 
 
 Vaughan, Henry, 79-82 
 Vezin, Hermann, 11 
 
 Waller, Lewis, 70 
 
 Ward, Mr. and Mrs. Humphry, 
 
 158 
 Watts, G. F., 85 
 Watts-Dunton, Theodore, 65 
 Watson, William, 72 
 Wemyss, Lord, 89 
 Whitman, Walt, 109-110 
 Whistler, J. McNeill, 182-84 
 AFilberforce, Bishop, 213 
 Wilde, Lady, 150 
 Wood, General Sir Evelyn, 154 
 Woodford, Bishop, 213 
 Wordsworth, 97-98 
 Woolner, Thomas, 56 
 Wright, Rev. David, 221-23 
 Wyndham, Sir Charles, 147 
 Wynne, Mrs., 166 
 
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